HE TASTE OF MACKERLY IS NOT ONLY A FUN evening, it also raises funds for the town’s emergency services program. In addition to the food vendors, there’s face painting, games and a tank where citizens will have the chance to dunk town notables, including the mayor, Father Adhyatman and Lenny. (Right now, Father A. is taunting Reverend Covers for throwing like a Protestant, whatever that means.) Kids get hair weaves and henna tattoos, and Grinelda usually does readings (twenty dollars for fifteen minutes; I don’t know how she does it).

The town green, which makes up the northern edge of Ellington Park and borders Main Street, is dotted with tents—Lenny’s, Gianni’s, Starbucks, Bunny’s, Eva’s Catering, Cakes by Kim. A band plays on a little stage near the entrance to the cemetery. The trees glow with color—this weekend is really the last of our glorious foliage. Teenagers huddle in groups, giggling and texting and flipping their hair. I hope Ash will have a few friends here tonight, I think with a pang. I told her she could hang out with me, but I’m not really her favorite person these days. I don’t seem to be anybody’s favorite person, in fact.

The crowning glory of the evening is Stuffie—an enormous, papier-mâché stuffed clam. Tradition dictates that Stuffie be driven slowly around the park three times—the streets are closed off to all but the pickup truck pulling our mascot. After the final pass, Stuffie will be towed to the center of the park and, for reasons unclear to many, will then be ignited as the townsfolk cheer. It’s rather primal, but Stuffie is an undeniable hit.

I’d skipped the Taste of Mackerly after Jimmy died, fleeing to Provincetown for the weekend, leaving the Black Widows to run Bunny’s paltry booth so I could avoid the well-meaning assurances that I’d meet someone else and the hit-and-run glances of the pitying. But I’ve come to love this event. After all, I love Mackerly, and this is one of her finest moments.

Our booth looks especially pretty this year. We’re right on the edge of Main Street, a prime location. Our tent is a cute little yellow-and white-striped number, and underneath, I’ve covered a large table with a brightly embroidered Hungarian tablecloth. Earlier this afternoon, I wound flower lights around the tent poles and through the bars that support the tent ceiling. Two clumps of helium-filled balloons are tied in front—red, green and white, the colors of Hungary. I put out a few vases, arrange some zinnias and late roses, hung out a banner that says Bunny’s Bakery—The Finest In Hungarian Pastries. After I begged for the opportunity to bring some homemade goodies, Iris finally compromised and agreed to make some authentic pastries in addition to the pumpkin cookies. “I’ll do it,” she said. “You have your hands full with those Mirabellis.”

She was right, of course. Yesterday, I drove Gianni to his cardiologist, took Marie to buy some new shoes and a coat. Haven’t seen Ethan for a day or two, though.

“I didn’t bother with pastries,” Iris announces as she and Rose pull up in the Crown Vic they share. “And no one wants to admit they eat prune anymore, so I didn’t make the lekvar kifli.”

“You didn’t? But you made mezeskalacs, right?” I ask. Mezeskalacs are honey cakes, spiced with ginger and nutmeg, perfect for the fall, and something only a Hungarian bakery could supply. Hauling out a bakery box from Iris’s backseat, I peer anxiously within.

Dang it! There’s nothing except those awful tooth-chipping cookies. Knowing Iris, these may well be the same cookies from last year. “Iris, I thought we agreed you’d make some other things, too!” Slightly panicked, I look in the back seat for another box. Nothing. “We don’t have anything else? Why didn’t you call me, Iris? I would’ve made something!”

“I didn’t have time,” Iris announces breezily, applying a coat of Coral Glow. “I was very busy last night.”

“Busy doing what?” I ask.

“For your information, The Tudors was on, Miss Nosy-Pants. And stop worrying! Everyone loves these cookies.” She gives me a peck on the cheek, then says, “Help your Aunt Rose with that cake.”

Rose is struggling to get a wedding cake out of the trunk of the car…well, a plastic cake model covered in spackle-type frosting. It’s a display, meant to charm soon-to-be brides, but unfortunately, this one looks rather dated. It’s not bad…just a little plain, a few easy roses on the top and nothing else. In this era of ornate weddings, we could’ve used a little pizzazz.

“Pretty cake,” I lie, grabbing the edge of the foil-covered tray.

“Oh, this old thing?” Rose answers, peeking around the cake at me. “It’s from a few years ago.” She pauses to blow on the top of the cake, causing a puff of dust to swirl up into my face. “I thought about doing another one, but…”

“The Tudors?” I suggest, coughing a little.

She smiles. “Yes! Do you watch it, too?”

“I don’t, Rose,” I answer.

My mother pulls up in her MiniCooper, looking like Katharine Hepburn about to go out for martinis—wide-legged winter-white pants, a red boatneck sweater, double rope of pearls and patent leather red pumps. “Hello!” she calls merrily, her cheeks pink, skin glowing.

“Hi, Mom. Did you bring the drinks?” I ask. The beverages are Mom’s annual contribution, and I’m hoping for hot cocoa, even if it’s from a mix.

“I thought we’d serve Hi-C,” Mom says, pointing to an industrial-size jug of the sugary drink. “Get that, will you, sweetheart?”

“Great,” I mutter. We have Hi-C and inedible cookies. Starbucks will have cake and brownies, cookies and tarts, not to mention all those dang coffee varieties.

“I hope the Starbucks will be selling that hot chocolate,” Aunt Rose says merrily, echoing my thoughts. “It’s like heroin! I can’t get enough! Oh, look, there are the Mirabellis! Hello!”

Gianni’s Ristorante Italiano is back under previous management. It took Gianni about twelve hours to get things back the way they were, and the cousin’s husband’s brother is now working as a prep chef as Gianni growls and barks, as happy as he gets.

“Hi, guys,” I say, blushing. One doesn’t quickly forget that one’s in-laws caught one in the act.

“How youse girls doing?” Gianni asks the Black Widows, giving me a nod. It’s something.

Marie, at least, is willing to hug me and pat my cheek. “You look so beautiful, Lucy!”

My mother smiles smugly. It’s true…I’m wearing real clothes today. A long, chocolatey brown skirt that stops about three inches from those gorgeous mahogany boots, which are making their debut today. A dark red cashmere sweater. Gold necklace, hoop earrings, even a little eye shadow and lip gloss.

“What are you selling over there?” Rose peeps. “It smells wonderful!”

Gianni’s, Marie tells us, is serving bruschetta (with my bread, ironically, the one good thing that comes out of Bunny’s), bowls of minestrone soup, which is nice, since it’s cool this afternoon and getting colder as the sun sets. Gnocchi with vodka sauce (Jimmy’s recipe…apparently, the cousin’s husband’s brother had changed it and Gianni near stroked out when he was informed). And yes, Marie’s famous tiramisu. I can’t imagine anyone wanting our concrete-textured, clove-saturated pumpkin cookies painted with that garish, tasteless orange frosting when Marie’s tiramisu is available.

“So how is it, being back?” Iris asks Gianni. Both being the bossy type, they’ve always had a grudging respect for the other.

“Not bad. We’re back in our house. Sold the condo in Arizona for ten grand more than we paid for it, our house was still on the market, I says to Marie, I says, ‘Why not? We know what we’re getting!’ So Ethan called the movers and we’ll be back in our own house next week. Like we never left.”

“Is Ethan here?” my mother asks. Marie, who is chatting up my aunts, falls abruptly silent.

“Oh, he’s here, all right,” Gianni grumbles. “With that del cazzo milkshake.”

Right. International Foods is the biggest sponsor of the Taste of Mackerly. They pay for all the tent rentals, the lights, the liquor permit and the extra cops to control traffic. In addition, Ethan’s listed in the big donors section of the program, and it’s already been announced that we’ve raised enough for new air packs for the firefighters as well as a new radio system. But that kind of generosity doesn’t matter to Gianni, who still views Instead as a personal fork stuck in his heart by that no-good second son of his.

“What do you think of him and Lucy?” Iris asks, never one for subtlety. Gianni’s impressive eyebrows lower.

Marie darts a glance my way. “Well…it’s…”

“Nonny!”

Saved by a four-year-old! Nicky comes charging over, crashing into Marie’s legs. “Well, hello, little man!” she exclaims, trying to pick him up. Unfortunately Marie is five-foot-nothing, and Nicky had a recent growth spurt.

“Come here, you,” Gianni says, his face softening with adoration. He picks up his grandson and kisses him loudly on the cheek, then chuckles and ruffles Nicky’s hair.

“I ate a worm,” Nicky announces, holding up a bag of gummy strings.

“That’s disgusting,” Gianni says. “Here, have a cookie. Want Poppy to buy you a cookie?”

Nicky looks at the pumpkin cookies spread out on our table. “Do I have to?”

“No, baby, you don’t,” I say with a sigh.

“Hi, guys,” Parker says, joining us. “Anyone have anything good to eat yet?”

“Not yet,” Marie says. “How about you?”

Parker’s cheeks stain with pink. “Um…not really.”

“You’ve been to Starbucks, haven’t you?” I ask.

“Busted,” she murmurs. “But only for that hot chocolate.”

“Isn’t it to die for?” Rose exclaims. “Marie, have you tried it yet?”

Indeed, a dozen people mingle in front of the Starbucks tent, despite the fact that the Taste of Mackerly doesn’t officially start until four, ten minutes from now. Ash, who used to boycott the chain store as a sign of solidarity, is waiting in line as well. Ouch.

Just then Ethan walks past Starbucks’ tent, a large box in his arms. He stops to say hi to Ash, and I watch as her face turns red. Ethan grins at something she says, and Ash smiles back, glowing. Ethan moves on, then pauses before crossing the street—Stuffie the Clam is making a practice run lap before his immolation. Ethan calls something to the driver of the pickup—Ed Langley of Ed’s Egg Farm, just before the bridge—then crosses the street. He pauses in front of his parked car to say something to Roxanne the surly waitress, and she laughs and pats his shoulder before crossing the street toward the green. Only Ethan could get a smile from Roxanne.

He’s so nice to everyone. That’s not news to me, but it feels awfully good to see in action just the same. I hope he’ll come by soon, so we can smooth out anything that needs smoothing. I miss him. I’ll tell him that.

I pull my gaze off Ethan, then freeze. Doral-Anne glares at me from ten yards away, Kate on one side, Leo on the other, the usual poison shooting from her eyes. Her daughter tugs her hand, and Doral-Anne looks down, puts her hand on Kate’s head and says something, her face softening into a smile. Well, well. A moment of maternal tenderness from the lady with the snake tattoo.

A bit flustered by the jealousy that’s reared its ugly head, I busy myself trying to arrange the cookies on our pretty table so they don’t look quite so hideous, but it’s no good. They’re just so…graceless. So tacky. If I ever had control of the bakery, I’d ban these for life.

“Can we have a bunch of these?” asks a boy of about twelve.

I look over my shoulder to see who he’s talking to—no one there—then back at the lad. “Are you talking to me, sweetie?”

“Yes. Could we have some cookies?”

“Really?” I ask, then give my head a little shake. “I mean, sure. Of course you can. How many?”

“Maybe ten?” he says.

“Wow,” I say. “You bet.” I bag ten cookies and hand them to the kid, who pays, thanks me and dashes off.

Iris gives me an arch look. “Guess they’re not as bad as you thought, are they?” she says, tutting.

“Can I have some, too?” another boy asks.

“Sure!” I tell him, then glance at Iris, who’s preening like a cat over a dead mouse. “Sorry, Iris. I underestimated their appeal.”

“Yes, you did,” she agrees.

“Lucy, we’re going to look around a little,” Rose cheeps. “If you don’t mind, of course. Want anything?”

Which means they’re off to visit their friends, probably get a hot chocolate from Starbucks. “I’m fine,” I say. “Take your time, enjoy yourselves.”

“See you around,” says Gianni, still holding Nick. “Parker, all right if we take the little guy with us?”

“Of course,” Parker says. “Bye, Nicky. Give Mommy a kiss.”

He obliges, then blows one to me. “Here’s yours, Aunt Wucy!”

“Charmer,” I call, pretending to catch his kiss. I blow one back, and he catches it dramatically, then presses it against his cheek, grinning.

“That boy is the image of his father.” I smile.

“Makes you want one, doesn’t it?” Parker asks. “A little Ethan?”

My smile drops a notch. “Mmm,” I say. Clearly the cookies need rearranging. Or the Hi-C needs, er, checking.

“What? Things aren’t going well?”

“His parents caught us on the couch the other night,” I mutter, my face burning.

“Oh, crap!” Parker crows with undisguised glee. “Were you doing it?”

“Close.”

She throws her head back, a melodic peal of laughter filling the air. “What did you do?”

“Covered up,” I say. “Quickly.”

“Holy shit,” Parker sighs happily. “How awful.” Then she notices my expression. “Everything else good, though? I thought you guys were doing okay.”

“Yeah, well. It’s fine. We have things to work out,” I say.

“Hello, ladies” comes a voice.

My face floods with heat. “Matt! Hi! How are you? Wow! Nice to see you. I didn’t know you were coming!” I’m babbling, I realize, but the shock of seeing him affects me, and Grinelda’s words come back to me in a rush. Check the toast. Check the bread. Check the bread man? “Matt, this is my friend, Parker Welles. Parker, Matt DeSalvo.”

“Great meeting you,” he says, shaking her hand so hard she winces. Jimmy had a crushing handshake, too.

“Nice to meet you, too,” she answers, cutting her eyes to me. “How do you know Lucy here?”

“He’s from NatureMade,” I explain hastily. “The bread man.”

“Oh, sure,” Parker says, giving Matt an assessing look. I wait for him to notice her—she’s rather incredibly beautiful, after all, but he just smiles and turns his eyes to me.

“How’s the decision-making process coming along?” he asks. “Any more questions about our offer?”

“Uh…I…I don’t think so,” I stammer. His presence really flusters me…so much like Jimmy, but not quite there. Sort of like how coffeecake made with nonfat sour cream lacks the richness of the real thing. How Coldplay doesn’t quite measure up to U2. Matt is rather like…Jimmy Lite.

“You know what?” Parker says. “I think I’ll catch up with my son. Nice meeting you, Matt. I’ll catch up with you later, Luce.”

“Nice meeting you, too,” Matt says as she leaves.

“She’s my friend,” I say rather stupidly.

“I see,” he replies. He really does have nice eyes. Not as nice as Jimmy’s, but pretty nice nonetheless.

“Um, about the offer, uh, I don’t have any questions. You answered them the other night.” Stop babbling, Lucy. “I’m just taking my time. Making sure it’s the right thing for me.”

“As you should,” Matt agrees. “Well, if there’s anything I can do, just say the word. I do need a decision by November First, though. I think I mentioned that.”

“Yes. You did,” I say. He smells good. “And honestly, I can’t think of a reason to say no. It’s a great offer, and I’ll give you a definite answer next week, how’s that?”

“That would be fantastic. We think your bread is the best, and that’s what NatureMade wants. The best.” He gives me a little wink, and a little buzz attraction wriggles in my stomach.

“Flatterer,” I say, unable to suppress a grin.

“So tell me about this Taste of Mackerly,” Matt says. “I’m probably hallucinating, but I think I saw a giant clam a few minutes ago.”

“Show that clam some respect,” I return. “We’re going to burn him later. These are his final hours.”

“I see.” He grins. “Anything else I should know?”

It’s easy to talk to him—he seems so…level. So uncomplicated, really, since there’s no sticky past or mishmash of feelings here. I point out Lenny’s as the place for stuffed clams as well as my in-laws’ booth for Italian, and he promises to check both out.

“Hello, hello, hello!” Rose coos from behind me. All three Black Widows hold Starbucks cups.

“Well, if it isn’t the toast man,” Iris says, giving me a wink that contorts her entire face. “And how are we all getting along today?”

“What a beautiful coat,” my mother murmurs, reaching out to touch the sleeve of Matt’s suede bomber jacket. “I always liked a man who knew how to dress.”

The Black Widows seem to have forgotten that I’m actually dating Ethan these days. My stomach starts to ache.

Matt accepts a cookie from Iris, who gives me yet another arch look.

“Careful with those,” I murmur to him. “The government is thinking of using them in Afghanistan.”

“Some boys were playing street hockey with them earlier,” he says, his voice low, and I burst into laughter. Poor Iris! Matt smiles down at me. He’s a hair shorter than Jimmy—well, maybe more than a hair. Taller than Ethan, though. Not that I’m comparing them.

“Lucy, that string of lights isn’t working,” Rose says, pointing to the ceiling of our little tent. She’s right—the cord’s come unplugged from the other string.

“I’ll get it,” Iris says, but the thought of my seventy-six-year-old aunt standing on a chair is not a happy one.

“No, no, I’ve got it, Iris. No problem.” I wrestle the folding chair out of her strong hands and stand it beneath the strand of lights. The ground is soft from last night’s rain, and the chair isn’t exactly stable.

“Let me help,” Matt says. He offers his hand, and I take it, standing warily on the chair. It wobbles, and Matt reaches up and puts his hands around my waist.

“Thanks,” I say, a little breathlessly. His hands are big. And warm.

The light is replugged. Matt helps me down, and I find that it’s a little hard to look at his face. Somewhere on the other side of the park, a police car gives a short blip.

“Nice to have a man around to help,” Rose sighs dreamily.

“Thank you,” I say again, glancing up at Matt.

“My pleasure,” Matt says. His voice is low and intimate.

My face flushes. I glance across the street, and guilt floods my heart.

Ethan is watching me, standing stock-still on the curb as people mill around behind him, getting ready for Stuffie’s triumphant circumnavigation of the park.

He looks like the last kid picked for a team. Forlorn, trying not to show it, and something cracks in my heart. He doesn’t look away, and neither do I. The police car blips again.

“Holy Mary” comes a voice behind me. Marie. “Oh, God. Oh, God, I have to sit.”

Without turning around, I know what’s happening. Marie and Gianni have returned and spotted Matt, and the resemblance to Jimmy has hit them hard. I glance back—yep, Gianni’s helping Marie to a bench, my mother flutters around them like a brightly colored bird, Iris’s hand is on Matt’s arm, explaining who the Mirabellis are. Matt glances at me, an apologetic half smile on his face, looking more like Jimmy than ever.

“Lucy, get some water,” Rose says, turning to me. “Your mother-in-law’s had a shock.”

I don’t move. The police siren chirps again, closer now. Turning back, I see that Ethan’s not there. “Ethan!” I shout. “Ethan!” There he is, a few yards up the sidewalk. Tommy Malloy stops him to say something, and Ethan nods. “Ethan!” I call again.

He hears me…the setting sun illuminates his face as he turns toward me. He’s waiting, and I know I need to say the right thing.

“I need you over here, babe,” I call. Loudly. There. Babe. Not a term that can be misconstrued. Babe is someone you’re sleeping with. You don’t call someone babe without good reason.

Tommy Malloy nudges Ethan’s arm and makes some comment, and Ethan, not taking his eyes off me, grins. Relief sings through me—I didn’t blow it after all. I smile back, warmth rising in my heart as I look at the man I love. Because yes, I do love Ethan, and it’s time he knew it.

Ethan waits a second—Ed’s driving Stuffie past just now—then, when the clam passes, starts into the street, each step bringing him closer to me. His eyes are on me, that smile still in place, and my heart swells.

Then one of the boys who bought the pumpkin cookies slaps a shot into the street. Another boy darts out in front of Ed Langley’s truck, hockey stick in hand, and smacks the makeshift puck into a storm drain. Ed stomps on the brakes—he’s only going about ten miles an hour—and yells at the kid, who runs into the crowd and disappears. No harm done. But Stuffie, unsettled by the lurching stop, sways, then slowly, inevitably tips into the street with a crash, right in front of an oncoming state police car.

Lights flashing, the cruiser swerves around the fallen Stuffie, then jerks back to correct course.

And hits Ethan.

Ethan tumbles through the air like a rag doll. My hand reaches out helplessly as he lands on the pavement with a sickening thud, ten feet in front of the cruiser.

He doesn’t move.

The images rain into my head like bullets. The cop car screeches to a halt, the officer already on his radio. Ethan is so still, but pandemonium explodes all around him. People are screaming, and Tommy Malloy races to Ethan’s side. Parker, too, emerges from the crowd, running to Ethan, her long hair wild around her face. He still hasn’t moved. Ed Langley’s out of his truck, his hand covering his mouth in horror. Roxanne the waitress is on her cell phone. Ash joins the crowd at Ethan’s side, her chains swinging as she crouches next to his body. His body. I look down the street and see Nicky’s eyes wide with terror, his mouth open in a scream, but I can’t hear him over the roaring in my ears. Doral-Anne picks him up. Ethan has not moved. There might be blood. I think there’s blood. Christopher, who was required to take a paramedic course before Corinne would agree to have children, materializes as well and puts his hand to Ethan’s head, then withdraws it. Yes. There’s blood.

“Oh, my God, who is that? What happened?” my mother gasps.

I turn to her. “Ethan got hit by a car,” I say, and then the grass is under my face, damp and cold, and welcome, because at least now I don’t have to watch Ethan die.