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My mouth falls open in surprise, but before I can do anything, Charley is lying on the field, clutching his face.
“Fuck, Ethan! You hit me!”
“Get up,” Ethan growls.
“Ethan,” I say, putting my hand on his arm. He shakes it off.
“Get up.” He stands over Charley, waiting.
I grab Ethan’s arm a little harder this time. “Ethan, he’s not gonna fight you. You know that. Leave him alone.” Charley, whose eye is rapidly swelling, shoots me a watery and grateful glance. Ethan did some boxing for a while, one of his many hobbies that involve physical harm to his person. Charley, though he’s the middle school gym teacher and seems as physically fit as the next guy, would be an idiot to fight Ethan Mirabelli. And though it could be said that Charley is indeed an idiot, he’s not that dumb.
“Lucy, I’m sorry for what I said,” Charley announces loudly enough for all to hear. “I’m a fuck—up, and that was a shitty thing to say. Okay?”
“Thank you for the beautiful apology, Charley,” I say just as loudly, turning to Ethan. His jaw is tight, his eyes hot. “Good enough, Ethan?”
“Good enough,” he mutters, then goes to his dugout.
Paulie Smith is our closer and makes short work of International’s final three batters. I wonder if he has a date…but no, there’s his wife. My teammates and I touch knuckles and pack up our gear, exchanging insults and compliments in our dugout.
“You coming to Lenny’s, Lucy?” Carly Espinosa, our catcher, asks, slinging her bag over her shoulder, then wincing as it hits her in the leg.
“Um, no, I have something I need to do,” I say.
“See you around, then,” she answers, sauntering after the rest of the team as they head toward the park.
I walk over to the other dugout, where Ethan stuffs his gear into his bag with considerable force. His temper, though rarely unsheathed, takes a while to fade.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says, not meeting my eyes.
I sit on the bench next to him. “Charley’s a dope, that’s all,” I say.
“Yup.” He shoves his glove into the bag, then sits for a second, staring at the concrete floor of the dugout. “So what kind of guy are you looking for, anyway, Lucy?” he asks.
I take a quick breath. “I don’t know. Someone decent. Someone who’d be good to me.” Someone who won’t die young. “You want to grab dinner, Ethan? I’m heading over to see your folks.”
“Have you told them about your plan yet?” he asks knowingly. I haven’t, and a little moral support would be appreciated.
“Um, no, not yet. I figured I would tonight.” Please come.
Ethan tightens the drawstring on his bag and gives me a sidelong glance. “Sorry. I’m having dinner with Parker and Nicky.” He reaches out, ruffles my hair and is gone, leaving me to sit in the dugout alone. He stops and says something to Ash, who is lingering, hoping for just this interaction.
“Have fun,” I call belatedly. Dinner with the nuclear family. How nice.
I wonder for a minute if, now that he’s in Mackerly all the time now, Parker and he will get together. If their fondness for each other will blossom into something deeper. If they’ll end up married after all this time. I kind of hope so. They’re both great people, and they already have Nicky, who’s about as wonderful a child as a child can be. Ethan says something to Ash, earning a smile, then continues toward home.
My sentiments about Ethan and Parker are echoed by my mother—in—law an hour later as we sit in the owners’ booth at Gianni’s.
“That Ethan,” Marie begins, her traditional opening when talking about her younger son. “He’s working in Providence at that horrible company, he’s here, he makes a decent living. He should marry that Parker. Be a father to Nicky.”
“He is a father to Nicky,” I say mildly, looking at the mural of Venice above our table. “A wonderful father.”
“A full—time father,” Gianni corrects. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he adds as Kelly serves our dinner. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, where’s the parsley? Ivan, for the love of God!” Gianni lurches up from the table to go yell at his latest chef, which has happened roughly every six minutes since I’ve been here, and probably happens more often when I’m not.
My father—in—law had bypass surgery last year, and he just can’t take the stress of running the kitchen himself. That being said, he goes through chefs like tissues. No one, of course, was as good as Jimmy. No one knew the family recipes, the traditions. No one could ever fill Jimmy’s shoes, either as a son or a chef. And so Gianni suffers, his knees increasingly stiff, his temper increasingly short.
“Eat, sweetheart. You’re too thin.” Marie, who is wider than she is tall, spears a tortellini from her own plate and holds it out for me. I eat it obediently, smiling. Marie always loved two things about me—I adored her son, and I ate well. I’m not thin, let me assure you, but to an Italian family who owns a restaurant, I look like I just staggered back from forty days in the desert.
Gianni returns from the kitchen, his face flushed, blood pressure up, no doubt, and sits heavily. “Eat, sweetheart,” he urges me, shoving my plate closer.
“It’s wonderful,” I say, and it is…eggplant rolatini, one of my favorites. The sauce is a little too acidic, granted, not like when Ethan made it last month at his place. For a vice president of a company whose sole purpose is to get people to avoid eating, Ethan is a fantastic cook. I wonder if he has to hide this fact from his bosses.
“It’s not as good as Jimmy’s,” Marie declares, putting her fork down with an abrupt clatter.
“Of course not,” I murmur, patting her hand and swallowing. Now or never. “Listen, speaking of Jimmy…” My in—laws regard me somberly from across the table, waiting. “Well,” I begin, “um…you know that my sister had a baby, of course.”
“Did she get our eggplant?” Gianni asks.
“Oh, yes, she did. And it was wonderful. She was so grateful.”
“She called, dummy, remember? You talked to her yesterday.” Marie elbows her husband in the side.
“Anyway,” I attempt.
“She’s nursing, I hear,” Marie interrupts.
“Um, yes. Anyway—”
“Should I send veal next time? You know what they say about new mothers and red meat,” Gianni says thoughtfully.
“Actually…well, Corinne doesn’t eat veal. But getting back to—”
“Not eat veal? But why?” Marie frowns.
Rather than launch into the story of Halo, a calf whose birth Corinne witnessed during a field trip in third grade and her resultant “no—beef” policy, I sit back and fold my hands on the table. “I need to tell you something,” I say firmly. My mother—in—law takes Gianni’s arm protectively. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately about Jimmy,” I say more quietly. “And I think I’m ready to…maybe…start dating.”
They don’t move a muscle.
I take a deep breath. “I want to get married again. Have kids. There will never be another Jimmy…he’ll always be my first love.” I swallow. “But I don’t want to grow old alone, either.”
“Of course not,” Gianni says, rubbing his chest, Italian sign language for Look what you’ve done to me. “You should be happy.”
“Of course,” Marie says, knotting her napkin in her hands. Then she bursts into tears. Gianni puts his arm around her, murmurs in Italian, and they’re so dang loving and so joined that I start crying, too.
“You deserve happiness,” Marie sobs.
“You’re a wonderful girl. You’ll always be like a daughter to us,” Gianni says, wiping his eyes.
“And you’ll always be my family,” I hiccup. “I love you both so much.”
Then we clutch hands and indulge in a good old—fashioned crying jag.
CHAPTER SIX
“TRUST ME, IT WORKS WONDERS.” Parker surveys me through narrowed green eyes.
“You can’t be more than a size six,” I say, looking at the…thing…in Parker’s hand. “I’ll never trust you.”
We’re in my room, and to my chagrin, I seem to have put on a few pounds recently. Too many Twinkies, too many Ho Hos, my substitute for the desserts I bake myself, which I can’t seem to eat. Corinne, nursing Emma, watches as Parker turns back to my closet, which is one of those fabulous California thingies—shelves, drawers, racks. The woiks.
“Why haven’t I ever seen you in any of this stuff?” Parker asks, taking out a pair stiletto heels. Oh, I remember those! My first pair of Stuart Weitzman shoes. So pretty. “Do you ever wear these?”
“Well…I’m a baker,” I say. “Those bad boys would kill me. But I like them, sure. I’m a woman, after all.”
“These all have tags on them!” Parker exclaims, falling upon my sweater section.
“Right,” I murmur.
“You shouldn’t spend money if you aren’t going to wear them,” Corinne lectures.
“Well, I don’t want to be like Mom,” I say in my own defense. My mother, after all, dresses more like Coco Chanel than a woman who works in a tiny bakery. But yes, I have a secret weakness for clothes, and looking in my closet, I see Corinne’s point. Clothes, shoes, belts and scarves bulge out toward the room as if imploring me to wear them. So many pretty colors, so much gorgeous fabric—the seductive smoothness of leather, the shimmering silk, the soft comfort of cashmere. Most of that stuff has never been worn. Which, yes, seems pretty dumb.
“Is this La Perla?” Parker demands, yanking a bra out of a drawer.
“Isn’t it the prettiest?” I ask.
Parker, whose trust fund could fund erase the government deficit, glances at the price tag and her eyes widen, and a faint tingle of panic runs through my joints. Okay. Maybe I have a little indulgence issue. Maybe I shouldn’t be spending Jimmy’s life insurance on, er, underwear. But hey! I’m a tragic widow. I deserve pretty underwear. And Nordstrom’s in Providence is so lovely, so soothing. The clerks are always delighted to see me.
Parker gently (reverently?) replaces the La Perla bra. “Okay, we’ll discuss this later. For now, try this. Trust me, it’ll work.”
“I don’t want to put it on. I’m scared,” I answer, grinning at my sister, who’s trying to detach her little parasite by sticking a finger in Emma’s mouth. She yanks up her shirt, exposing the unoccupied breast, and Parker and I flinch simultaneously. The…er…breast looks more like a missile than a mammary gland—rock—hard, the skin taut, white and veined. What really gets me is…poor Corinne…the cracked, engorged nipple, which looks from here to be the size of a dessert plate.
“How the hell did it crack? It can’t be good for you, bleeding nipples,” Parker says, reading my mind. “Let alone Emma. What if she drinks blood, like some little vampire baby?”
“It’s fine,” Corinne says, though her forehead is dotted with sweat. “The air helps it heal. It’s not really bleeding anymore. Mostly healed. Very common. Don’t you remember?”
“Nicky was a formula baby,” Parker murmurs. Corinne’s eyes widen in horror, and to allay another lecture on What’s Best For Baby, I intervene.
“Okay. I’ll try it on. Spanx, huh?” I ask. “It looks evil.”
“Don’t be a sissy,” Parker says. “Honestly, you’re such a weenie, Lucy.”
“I think you’re perfect,” Corinne murmurs automatically.
“Help me get this on, then,” I say, bravely pulling the undergarment over one toe. My circulation is instantly impaired, and I wiggle my toes to make sure I still can. I tug. The Spanx doesn’t budge. “Jeez, Parker! It’s like putting on a garden hose.”
Parker comes over and grabs, yanking so hard I stagger back. “Work with me!” Parker laughs. We try again. The Spanx advances to my calf. Parker gives another savage tug, and I fall into the wall. Corinne laughs merrily, then gasps as Emma pops off.
“We need a couple of firemen, that’s all,” Parker grunts, frowning at the evil Spanx.
“I’d rather set fire to my kitchen,” I say. “This can’t be right, Parker. It doesn’t fit.”
“It does! Trust me, once it’s on, you’ll love how you look. The men will be salivating. You’ll definitely find someone tonight.”
My sister, both huge breasts now fully exposed, smiles. “So where are you two heading?” she asks.
I can’t answer, as Parker has managed to get the Spanx up to my midriff and all breathing is cut off. “A singles thing,” my friend answers.
Corinne shoots me a wary glance. “Singles thing? Oh, dear. Christopher might know someone. I’ll ask.” Emma fusses, and my sister, looking as if she’s about to be executed, shifts her to the other breast. Parker and I quickly avert our eyes as the baby, who apparently has razor blades in place of gums, latches on. Corinne whimpers, then assures the baby that she’s deeply loved.
One more savage yank, and the Spanx is in place. My left leg is asleep, as I imagine the femoral artery was cut off when the Spanx grabbed onto my thigh like a furious pit bull.
“How’s that?” Parker asks.
“Get it off me,” I wheeze. “I’m serious, Parker.”
“Chris, hi, honey!” Corinne squeaks from behind us. “How are you, hon?” She listens for a second, then shifts the phone away from her face. “He’s fine,” she informs us.
“I’ll stop the prayer vigil, then,” Parker murmurs, yanking the Spanx back down.
I dig in the back of the closet and find some jeans that aren’t too painful and vow to limit my Twinkie consumption to two per day.
“Okay, we’re off,” I say to my sister. “Lock up when you’re done.”
“Have a great time!” Corinne says, looking just a little lonely. “I’m sure you’ll have so much fun.”
If “fun” means feeling somewhat like I’m a prisoner of war, then yes, I guess you could say I’m having fun. Not to be a bad sport or anything. Parker may have been having fun in the more traditional sense of the word, but personally, I’m wondering when the Coalition of the Willing plans to free me.
“Yes!” The man in front of me smiles. A man who smells like Aunt Iris’s cellar, dank and moldering. His eye twitch doesn’t advance the cause, either, I’m afraid. Neither does that belch he just barely suppressed. Gah!
“No,” I say as gently as possible. “Thanks, though. I’m sure you’re very nice. But…no. It’s nothing personal. I’m a widow, see, it’s just—”
“Change!” Lemminglike, I step left, my need to make everyone happy mercifully cut off. The next man is extremely thin with a desperate, hungry look about his red—rimmed eyes. “Yes,” he says.
“No. Sorry. It’s not you. It’s me. I’m a widow. No one will ever measure up, you understand. Good luck, though.”
“Jesus Christ, Lucy,” Parker mutters next to me, then eyeballs the guy in front of her. “Yes.”
It cost seventy—five dollars to get into LoveLines tonight. Well, it cost Parker a hundred and fifty dollars to get in tonight, as she paid for my admission. For that sum, we stand in a line, shoulder to shoulder with about forty other women. Facing us is the men’s line. Every ten seconds, we take a step left. The idea is to see if there’s instant chemistry. Simply put, you look at each other and say only “yes” or “no.” If each of you says yes, you exchange cards and, in the next phase of LoveLines, meet for a ten—minute chat. If one or both of you says no, you simply move on.
I had no idea ten seconds could last so long. I quickly learn to hesitate as if torn, then drop my “no” at the last possible second, so as to minimize the hurt feelings.
So far, Parker has seventeen cards. I have none. “Stop saying no,” Parker hisses. “You’re standing there, arms crossed, big, sad eyes, looking like an orphan.”
“Prisoner of war, I was thinking.”
“I thought you wanted to find someone,” she says. “You don’t have to marry them, for God’s sake. Just say yes. The next guy is pretty cute. Say yes to him.”
