O YOU’RE LEFEKSZIK WITH ETHAN?”

This is my greeting the next morning when Iris and Rose come into the bakery. I don’t know why I’m surprised. Word does get around in this town.

“Hi, Iris. Hi, Rose.” I pause. “If by that tangled up word, you mean am I—” I pause “—dating Ethan, then the answer is yes. How did you know?”

“Saw your mother-in-law at the Starbucks,” Iris says, gesturing with her cup. My mother enters now, also clutching the trademark earth-friendly cup.

“Should everyone be going to Starbucks?” I ask, trying to keep the edge from my voice. “They’re our competition, remember?”

“Have you had the hot chocolate there?” Rose says. “I thought I died and went to heaven!”

“You’re all traitors,” I mutter. “If you’d let me set up a café, we could sell hot chocolate, too, and—”

“So how is it?” Iris wants to know. “Do you compare them constantly?”

“No, as a matter of fact, I—”

“I thought that was against the law,” Rose muses in her singsong voice. “Iris, you told me it was against the law.”

“So? How long has this been going on?” Iris demands, reapplying her Coral Glow with surgical precision.

“I’d rather not discuss it,” I say as the bell rings over the door. Thank God. Captain Bob. “Hi, Bob! What can I get for you?”

“Captain Bob, is it against the law to marry your brother-in-law?” Rose asks him.

“I—um…hello, there, ladies.” His bloodshot eyes find my mother. “Good morning, Daisy. You look lovely today.”

“Bob. Thank you.” My mother gives him an imperious look and goes into her office, closing the door behind her.

“Why do men love the women who abuse them?” I ask Captain Bob.

“Self-hatred,” he answers. “What’s this about the brother-in-law?”

“I’m dating Ethan.”

His bushy eyebrows raise in surprise. “Jimmy’s brother?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” He studies the tray of gooey danishes Rose is shoving into the display case. “Can I have a cherry danish? And how’s that going? With Ethan, I mean.”

“Uh…fine. Just fine,” I answer. The bakery fills with our paltry assortment of morning regulars.

“I always thought Ethan was so decent,” Rose comments as she counts out Mr. Maxwell’s hard roll allotment.

“He is decent, Rose. You know that,” I plead.

“He and Lucy,” my aunt explains to our customer. “She’s…er…dating…her dead husband’s brother.”

“Wouldn’t that be incest?” Mr. Maxwell says, frowning.

“It’s not incest!” I yelp. “He’s not my brother. He’s—”

“Lucy! Check the bread!” Iris calls.

I shove through the kitchen doors and yank open the oven. Jeepers! My internal timer has failed me for the first time ever, and the bread is nut brown, not golden. Dang it. Four dozen loaves, unsellable. Unbelievable. Jorge pats my shoulder as he comes in, shrugging out of his coat, and I sigh, then head for the proofer, hoping I have enough dough to make up for it.

Around ten, I prepare to go home for my nap. Iris and Rose are dying to interrogate me…little comments have been dropped all morning, and I could really use a little quiet time.

“See you in a few hours, Mom,” I say, glancing in the tiny office.

“Okay, sweetheart,” she says, barely looking up from her computer screen, where a game of solitaire is in progress. My mother is the only Black Widow who hasn’t weighed in on the subject of my love life, and I’m suddenly hungry for some maternal advice.

“Have you got a sec?” I ask, leaning in her doorway. I’m exhausted…didn’t sleep well for obvious reasons. All night, I tossed and turned and irritated Fat Mikey.

“Sure,” she says, closing the lid of her laptop.

Mom’s office is barely big enough for her desk, let alone the guest chair that’s wedged into the corner. It takes a little wrestling, but I manage to close the door for a heart-to-heart.

“So. Ethan and I are, um…together,” I say.

“I gathered,” she answers.

“Did you see Marie this morning, too?”

“I did,” Mom says. “She was quite upset.”

I cringe, hoping my mother-in-law wasn’t compelled to detail all that she saw but knowing better.

“Caught you and Ethan on the couch, I understand.”

“Yep,” I say, feeling my face ignite. I take a breath. “So what do you think?”

Mom cocks her head. “About what?”

“About Ethan and me,” I say a little crossly.

She shrugs. “Do what you feel you have to, honey.”

“I could really use some advice, Mom.”

She purses her lips and glances at a framed picture of Emma, a new addition to her desk. “I know you must want a baby,” she offers.

“Sure. A family of my own, all that.” I nod, glad she’s on the right track.

“You know, single women can adopt from Guatemala these days. I read an article—”

“Is that your way of saying you don’t approve, Mom?” I interrupt.

“Well, no,” she hedges. “I just…if you want to be with Ethan, do it. But if you’re looking for a sperm donor—”

“Mom!”

“So? You asked, I answered. Do what you want, honey.” She gives me an assessing look. “I can’t believe you wear that in public,” she murmurs, taking in my yoga pants and sweatshirt.

“I’m a baker, Mom,” I answer, standing up stiffly. “Even Coco Chanel would dress down for baking.”

“There’s dressing down, and then there’s hobo,” she murmurs.

I think of the cashmere sweaters in my closet. The secret shoes and expensive lingerie. The mahogany boots that cost me a week’s pay. The credit card bill that shocked even me last month.

“See you later,” I say. Mom smiles sweetly and with that, I leave, mother-daughter bonding complete. Forget the nap. Time for a little trip to Nordstrom’s.

“SO YOU’RE WITH ETHAN, HUH?” Ash’s black-painted lower lip wobbles, but she puts on a good front, jamming her nail-bitten hands into her pockets and raising those painfully overplucked eyebrows as if she’s really interested.

“Um…yeah.” I’m not sure what else to say.

“I guess that explains why he was always here. Shit, I’m so stupid. Should’ve guessed.” She tries to give a tough-girl smile, but her lips don’t quite make it. Ash shifts, her sooty hair swinging listlessly against her pale face. “So, like, how long has this been going on, anyway?”

“A while,” I admit.

“That’s great. He’s great. So are you. Good for you both.” A tear slips out and runs down her face, leaving a sooty smear.

“I’m sorry, honey,” I whisper. “I know you—”

“Don’t pity me, Lucy, for Christ’s sake! You can be with…I’m not…I gotta run.” She turns and walks down to her door, her chains rattling, her enormous, heavy shoes thudding. I hear a little squeak, and my own eyes fill. She’s crying. Dang it, dang it, dang it! If only kids weren’t so cruel, if Ash had a nice boy who was brave enough to see under that black paint and chains…

I’m about to face more music—Bunny’s has its last baseball game of the season. And guess who our opponent is? International Foods, of course, due to their freak win over Nugey’s Hardware. Doral-Anne’s pitching put them over the top, dang it all.

The urge to hide in my apartment has never been greater. Ethan and I are now common knowledge. Parker heard it at nursery school and left a cheery message—“Hey, heard you and Ethan came out of the closet! Good for you, girlfriend!” Bill at the post office expressed the commonly held and quite erroneous idea that Ethan and I fell under the porno/incest umbrella. When I stopped by the library today, the entire four-person staff fell abruptly silent, smiling awkwardly as I returned my books and DVDs.

At the ball field, the Black Widows sit in a row in the exact center of the bleachers, a plaid blanket across their laps. They’re right next to Parker and Nicky, who are there with the Mirabellis. Nicky’s sitting on Gianni’s lap, tickling his grandfather on the chin.

The Mirabellis catch sight of me. Marie gives an awkward wave, and Gianni gives me a stiff nod. Parker waves, too, and I hope she’ll do something to ease things a bit. Tricky, though, since Gianni and Marie really want Ethan with her…

“Hi, Lucy.” It’s my sister, holding Emma, who’s bundled up in the cutest little fleece hoodie.

“Hi!” I say, giving her a hug. “Hi, Emma! How are you, sweetie? I missed you.” I give my niece a kiss, breathing in the smell of her shampoo. She grasps my finger and smiles, then spits up a little. “How are things, Cory?”

“Things are pretty good,” she says, wiping the baby’s face. “A little nerve-racking, but good. In fact, I was wondering if, um…if Christopher could play on Bunny’s team. Next year.”

I glance at the sidelines, where Chris is pulling on his umpire’s mask. “Really, Corinne? You’d let him risk his life through baseball?”

She gives me an uncertain smile. “Baby steps, you know?”

“He’s not wearing the Kevlar vest, is he?”

“He’s not.” She bites her lip.

“Good for you, Cory. And yes, of course he can play!” I kiss Emma’s little fist. “Maybe you and Chris would like to go out sometime. Leave the baby with me for a few hours.”

Corinne pales, but to her credit, nods her head. “Sure. Thanks, Lucy. That would be…lovely.” She pauses. “I heard about you and Ethan.”

I swallow. “Yep.”

She hesitates. “He’s always been good to you. He’s wonderful.”

“Yes,” I agree. “That’s definitely true.” I glance around for Ethan…he’s not here yet. I can’t tell if I’m relieved or anxious.

“Well, have a good game,” she says, making Emma wave to me. I wave back, then watch as Corrine stops to say something to Chris. He grins and kisses her, then waves to me.

“I hear you’re doing Ethan Mirabelli,” Charley Spirito says glumly, tapping his bat against his cleats.

I turn to my right-fielder. “Hello, Charley,” I say brightly. “I sure hope we win today, don’t you?”

“Fine, fine,” he grumbles. “It’s just that I thought there was something special between us, Luce.”

I try to remember what might have given him that impression, but mercifully, Chris calls for the game to start.

Today, I find that I’m eager for the season to be over. That the idea of the approaching winter, the shorter days and biting wind, seem cozy to me, with hours spent at my kitchen table, formulating and finalizing my bread recipes for NatureMade. Ethan and I will spend time together like a regular couple. I’ll put on some of my beautiful clothes, and we’ll go out for dinner somewhere nice in Federal Hill.

It’s really time to move on.

“Batter up!”

That would be me. Unfortunately Doral-Anne Driscoll is pitching for International. And there’s still no sign of Ethan.

Doral-Anne stretches so that her shoulders pop, and we are all treated to a glimpse of the snake tattoo on her belly, as she has hacked off the bottom four inches of her shirt. Looking down from the mound, Doral-Anne squints at me, sneers, then spits. I believe I hear my mother muffle a scream.

Knowing her fastball is deadly, I swing at the first pitch a full second before I think I should, and am rewarded with a solid thud of bat against ball. The bleachers cheer—good to have all my relations here—and I take off for first. The ball drops into shallow right, and I’m safe.

“Nice hit, Lucy,” Tommy Malloy says.

“Thanks,” I pant.

“Hey, I hear you and Ethan are giving it a whirl.”

“Yep,” I say.

“Good luck with that,” Tommy says, leaning forward, his hands on his knees, as Charley takes a practice swing. “Though I thought he and Parker were engaged.”

“Nope,” I answer.

“Ah, well. To each his own, I guess,” Tommy says dubiously. Then Charley gets hit by a pitch, so I’m off to second.

By the seventh inning Bunny’s is ahead, 8-2, and I personally have been on base three times already and scored twice. Doral-Anne is definitely off her game. She looks savage as Katie Rose Tinker takes her Mr. Microphone from a plastic case and taps on it to ensure she’ll be heard. Last year, I gave her fourth-grade class a tour of the bakery (any hard feelings about chipping her tooth on the pumpkin cookie gone in the face of eating cupcakes warm from the oven).

Katie Rose warbles her way through “God Bless America,” with all the squealy enthusiasm of Mariah Carey as we all stand, hats over our hearts, waiting for the torture to end. “…God bless America…my home…swee-eeeeet…ho-wo-wome!” Her youthful voice jumps almost an octave, and if she’s a couple of notes short of being in key, the crowd gives her a standing ovation for her enthusiasm.

And that’s when Ethan appears. The crowd grows immediately quiet, sits right back down and turns their attention to us.

“Hey, guys,” he calls to his team. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Hey, Ethan,” a few voices chorus.

Well, this is it. I walk over to him, take his face in my hands and kiss him firmly on the mouth. There will be no wondering about if we’re together anymore.

Silence falls over the ballpark.

“Hi,” I say when I’m done.

“Ouch,” he murmurs. Perhaps I was a little too emphatic. But his lovely mouth turns up in that mischievous, curling smile, and he kisses me quickly (and gently), then trots off to second base.

My face burns, but I feign normalcy and take care not to look over at the bleachers, where my in-laws may or may not be engaged in heart attacks. Carly Espinosa, our catcher, gives me a slap on the bottom. “I always thought Ethan was hot.” She grins.

And in the ninth inning, when I decide to steal second, what do you know?

“Safe!” Chris shouts.

“Was that for real?” I ask Ethan. “Or was that the return of my incredible speed?”

“Oh, the incredible speed, definitely,” he grins.

The final score is Bunny’s 11, International 4. My team is once again Mackerly champions.

“Nicely done,” Ethan says, giving me a brief hug. It’s no more or less than anything he’s done in the past, but it feels different, with the eyes of the town on us.

“Going to Lenny’s, Lucy?” Carly calls.

“But of course,” I answer.

“See you there,” Ethan murmurs, then moves off.

As my teammates trickle off the field, I give a brief statement to Mick Onegin, who covers town sports for the tiny local paper, saying how we all had a great time this season and were grateful to win against such impressive opponents. I see Ethan holding Nicky over by his dugout, talking to my aunts. No doubt they’re grilling him about the two of us. Well, he can hold his own with the Black Widows. More than hold his own, since they eat out of his hand.

I head back to my team’s dugout to make sure everything’s packed up. As usual, someone left a glove, a thermos containing gin, from the smell of it, and a cleat. Honestly, how does someone not notice their shoe is missing?

“Think you’re so hot, don’t you?” comes a voice.

I turn, unsurprised. “Hey, Doral-Anne. How’s it going?”

“I hurt my arm last week,” she states, eyeing me with disgust.

“Oh.” I pause. “That’s too bad. I noticed you didn’t have your usual stuff.”

“Did you, Lucy? You noticed? How honored I am.”

That’s it. I jam my fists into my hips and consider her. “Doral-Anne, honestly, what is your problem? We barely spoke in school, and to the best of my knowledge, I never ran over your dog or kicked your kid in the head. So why are you so dang nasty to me all the time?”

“Oh, am I supposed to feel sorry for you like the rest of this town does, Lucy? Didn’t I worship you enough?” Her voice pitches up in a nasty impression of an adult. ‘Poor Lucy Lang’s daddy died, so everyone be nice to her. Pick her for your team, make sure you ask her to sit next to you.’” She makes a disgusted sound. “Working at your little bakery, going off to your fancy school like you were some sort of princess.”

“I never acted liked that, Dor—”

“Then you waltz back into town and scoop up Jimmy Mirabelli. And I guess one Mirabelli boy wasn’t good enough for you, ’cuz now you’re fucking the other one.”

“You kiss your children with that mouth?” I ask, but my knees seem to be shaking.

“Don’t you talk about my kids,” she snarls. “And you wanna know something else, Princess?”

“Not really,” I answer.

“No, you like sticking your head in the sand, don’t you? Well, too fucking bad.” She leans in close enough for me to smell her gum. “Your St. Jimmy was sleeping with me when you first met him. He was gonna marry me.”

A hot wave of shock smashes into me so hard I can’t even breathe. My hands flutter, then clench into fists. “That is not true,” I choke out.

“Really? Why do you think I got fired? Jimmy didn’t want his precious little princess to be upset by an old girlfriend hanging around.”

I can’t seem to get any air into my lungs—my chest is paralyzed with shock. And hate. “You got fired because you took money from the cash register,” I manage to answer, my voice like ground glass.

“Yeah, well, those arrogant assholes had that coming. And I’ll tell you one more thing,” Doral-Anne says, wiping her hands on her pants. “You really deserved that faithless shit you married, but you don’t come close to deserving Ethan.”

I slap her so hard her head jerks back. My hand stings, my arm buzzes, then falls limply to my side. Doral-Anne’s face turns red, then white, my handprint clearly visible.

“Don’t you ever speak about my husband that way again, Doral-Anne. Do you understand me?” My heart pounds so hard and fast I can barely hear myself. I almost hope she’ll say something else so I can…I don’t know. Beat her up. Though, despite the red haze that colors my vision at this moment, I realize she’d probably cream me. Stomp on my carcass. Scalp me.

Surprisingly she backs down. “Truth hurts, doesn’t it?” she says quietly. And with that, she turns and walks out of the dugout, across the infield and into center field. Toward the cemetery, and God help me, if she does anything to Jimmy’s grave, I’ll…I’ll…

I’m hyperventilating. Sinking onto the bench, I can feel my heart flopping around like a convulsing tuna. My throat is tight, my vision graying…and images of the past flit before my eyes.

When Jimmy and I were first dating, I’d popped into the restaurant. Doral-Anne was there, all right, in the kitchen, talking to Jimmy. And Jimmy’s face had been…guilty. When he’d seen me, his gaze jacked back to Doral-Anne, and there was this strange, awkward moment. Then he’d just about pounced on me, hustling me out of there as fast as he could.

Another time…oh, God. I remember when he told me Doral-Anne had been fired, and to show a little solidarity, I’d told him I’d never liked her. I wondered aloud why someone would steal from a family that had been so good to her. And Jimmy had looked so miserable at that moment that I playfully accused him of being a softy. “If someone steals from you, sweetie, you have to fire them. Your dad did the right thing.”

Now I can see that Jimmy’s misery might’ve been something else. He dumped Doral-Anne for me, and she lashed out by stealing, and Jimmy…he knew exactly why she did it.

That time I met Doral-Anne at the gas station, just after Jimmy died, her stunning cruelty as she taunted me because I’d never have Jimmy’s baby…I wondered then, and many times since, what would make a person say something so hateful, so vicious, and suddenly, the answer is clear.

Revenge. Humiliation. A broken heart.

He was gonna marry me.

Oh, God. Oh, Jimmy.

My breath slams in and out of my chest, and if I don’t do something about it, I’m going to faint. Which would be totally okay right now, because fainting would be preferable to the thoughts that are ricocheting through my head like a barrage of bullets. I lean forward, dangle my head between my knees, staring at the wads of gum and sunflower seeds littering the cement floor of the dugout, my thoughts as ugly as the view.

“Lucy?”

My head jerks back, my vision swims, then clears. Ethan stands in the dimming light of the evening, frowning.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” he asks, kneeling in front of me.

“You’re getting gum on your pants,” I say distantly.

“Lucy.” He gives my shoulders a little shake. “What’s the matter, honey?”

I lean forward and rest my head on Ethan’s shoulder for a minute, feel his hand stroke the back of my head. “Lucy,” he whispers. “What happened?”

I raise my head and look in his eyes. “Did you know about Jimmy and Doral-Anne?” I ask.

He hesitates, and I have my answer. Rage gathers in a fireball.

“You knew?” I spit. “You knew, didn’t you?”

He sighs, looks down. And nods.

Something ugly and hot twists in my stomach. “She’s been gunning for me for years, and you never said anything?” My voice rises to a near shriek. “I don’t believe this! That woman hates me, has taken every chance she’s had to kick me when I was down, and you never said a word? What the hell, Jimmy?”

Ethan’s head jerks back, and his hands drop from my shoulders. “Ethan,” he says, his voice hard.

“What?”

“Ethan. You just called me Jimmy.”

The pebble in my throat feels more like a tumor, malevolent and strangling. “I’m a little upset right now, Ethan. Doral-Anne just informed me that she slept with Jimmy.”

“So?” His voice is oddly cool.

“So? So…so the Jimmy I knew would never have gone for someone like Doral-Anne.” My voice is breathy and furious.

“Why?”

“Because! Because she’s meaner than acid, and he was wonderful. She was not his type.”

Ethan stands up. “Right. You were his type. He dumped her and went for you. So what’s the problem?”

I splutter wordlessly. The problem? The problem is, I don’t want to picture Jimmy—my Jimmy—with a nasty little number like Doral-Anne of the snake tattoos. Picture him kissing her, or oh, God, undressing her! Gah! Could he honestly have mentioned marriage to her?

“Lucy,” Ethan says wearily, “Jimmy fell for you the second he laid eyes on you. And you fell for him.” His hands raise in frustration. “Why are you complaining? Doral-Anne’s had it rough—”

“Right. Poor misunderstood Doral-Anne.” I stand up as well, my legs shaking. “I’m going home. Tell the gang sorry I couldn’t make it.”

“Lucy—”

“Ethan, I really want to be alone. Okay?” And with that, I sling my baseball bag over my shoulder and head out of the park on my ridiculous path. Out of the park, around the cemetery. My throat thickens as I pass the point closest to my father’s grave. I could really use a dad at this moment. I wonder if Joe Torre would take a call from me.

He was gonna marry me.

How could I never have known that? Jimmy kept that from me. Gianni and Marie must’ve known, too.

And so did Ethan, all these years. He befriended Doral-Anne and he never bothered to tell me why. Well, I think fiercely, slashing my hand across my teary eyes, they say the wife is always the last to know.

An hour later, I’m sitting on my couch, Fat Mikey on one side, a box of Hostess Cupcakes on the other, three empty wrappers on the floor. I stare straight ahead, my mind empty except for memories. On the TV screen, Jimmy and I stare at each other, smiling, kissing, laughing. He chose “Angel” by Dave Matthews for our first dance. Wherever you are, I swear, you’ll be my angel. Of course, I was supposed to be the angel…in the romantic, I-can’t-believe-you’re-so-wonderful way. Jimmy was supposed to stay alive and adore me. He wasn’t supposed to leave me. And even though he didn’t know me then, he sure as hell wasn’t supposed to find Doral-Anne attractive. To sleep with her. To talk about marrying her.

At this moment in real time, Fat Mikey decides a wad of hair must be expelled from the far reaches of his intestinal track. He starts hacking, then squeaks as I heave him into my arms. “Come on, buddy, out on the balcony,” I grunt, opening the slider with my elbow. There. Made it. Fat Mikey shoots me a disgruntled look, aggravated that I prevented him from gacking on the couch, then returns his attention to the business at hand. I sigh and lean in the doorway, waiting for my cat. The potted ferns I bought last spring have withered from the cold, their leaves yellow and straggling. The long, gray winter is coming.

Then I straighten, goose bumps rising on my arms. There, on the wide railing of the balcony, something gleams, catching the light from the street.

A dime.

Without daring to breathe, I tiptoe over to the railing and touch the dime with one finger. Heads up, FDR quite youthful and virile.

“Jimmy?” I whisper. “Are you there?”

No voice speaks, no image shimmers in the corner. The night is still. A little breeze blows from the ocean, rustling the dead leaves of the ferns. From my dead husband, I hear nothing.

“I sure miss you,” I say, my throat tightening. I think about everything I wish I could ask him…what to do about Ethan, how to comfort his parents. If he ever loved Doral-Anne. If that matters. “I could really use some advice, Jim,” I add. “Not that ‘Check the toast’ wasn’t helpful.”

My cat kills the moment with an enormous gag. I wince, look down at the hairball. “You’ll clean that up, of course,” I tell my cat, who decides I’m adorable and butts his head against my shin. With a sigh, I pocket the dime and turn to go inside, then start in fright.

Ethan stands in my living room, staring at my wedding video, arms folded across his chest.

“Hey,” I say, closing the slider behind me.

“Hey,” he returns without looking away from the TV. I wonder if he just heard me talking to Jimmy. “Having a nice night, Lucy?”

I sigh. “Ethan…” Finally he looks at me, his eyebrows raised expectantly. Judgmentally, one might say.

Grabbing the remote off the couch where I left it, I hit the Off button, and the image of Anne and Laura dancing is cut short. Ethan remains where he is, arms still folded. “Ethan,” I state firmly, “I have to clean up a hairball.”

“Okay,” he says. “Don’t let me keep you.” He turns to leave.

“Ethan!” I bark. He stops, turns around, his face unreadable. “Look, I’m sorry I took your head off,” I say in a softer voice. “It’s just…hard, learning something about Jimmy that I—” My voice breaks a little. “That I didn’t expect. And I’ll be honest, Eth. I don’t like it that you knew all this time and never said anything. I figured you’d tell me something as big as that.”

“Why would I tell you, Lucy? You’d just be hurt and upset. Like you are now.” He stares at me, waiting. Always waiting.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, wondering if Ethan has other little pockets of decay on Jimmy. No. That’s not fair to Jimmy. He dated Doral-Anne, and as Ethan said, so what? It was before he met me. Doesn’t mean Jimmy was some sort of man-slut.

“So how are things with your parents?” I ask, not really wanting to hear the answer.

“They’re okay. Improving,” Ethan says. A vast distance seems to be spreading between us like a tar pit, eager to suck us down and mire us in the muck.

“And how are you doing, Ethan?” I ask, my voice horribly polite.

“I’m fine, Lucy,” he says gently.

I swallow, then swallow again around the pebble in my throat. “That’s good. Tell your folks I said hi.”

“Will do,” he says.

“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night, then.”

“Good night, Ethan.” The door closes softly behind him.

Then, feeling sick and too full of sugar and chocolate, I clean up the hairball.

When that lovely task is complete, I flop down on my couch. The night is still painfully young. I could watch more of my wedding video, but crap, there’s no point in that, is there? I can’t have Jimmy back, dimes or no dimes. I could call Ethan or go upstairs and try to smooth things over, but I just seem to be making things worse lately. Maybe we need a little space.

Too bad Grinelda’s not really psychic. Too bad I couldn’t talk to my dad, since Mom has abdicated the throne when it comes to parental guidance. I briefly consider jumping onto the online widows group I belonged to the first couple of years after Jimmy died and asking for advice, but I don’t really know what to say. I’ve moved on…sort of…and I love the man I’m with. I just can’t seem to make him very happy.

And so I find myself in the kitchen, baking until midnight. Bittersweet chocolate cake. Fittingly enough, it’s Ethan’s favorite.