The Next Best Thing. Kristan Higgins

dating. Okay with you, honey?”

      I wait for an answer. Since his death, there have been signs. At least I think so. In the first year or so after his death, dimes would turn up in odd places, for example. Sometimes I’d catch a whiff of his smell—garlic, red wine and rosemary…he was head chef at Gianni’s, the restaurant owned by his parents. Once in a while, I dream about him. But today, on the issue of my love life, there’s nothing.

      The back door opens, and my aunts and mom come in. “The cemetery was beautiful!” Iris announces. “Beautiful! Although if I catch those mowers cutting it so close to my Pete’s grave, I will strangle them with my bare hands.”

      “I know it. I told the committee the same thing,” Rose cheeps. “Last year, they mowed right over the geraniums I planted for Larry. I thought I’d cry!”

      “You did cry,” Iris reminds her.

      Mom comes over to me in a cloud of Chanel No. 5. “That baby sure is beautiful, isn’t she?” she says, smiling.

      I grin up at her. “She sure is. Congratulations, Grammy.”

      “Mmm. Grammy. I like the sound of that,” she says smugly.

      Iris nods in agreement—she’s already a grandmother, courtesy of the two kids her son, Neddy, and his ex—wife produced. Rose, meanwhile, pouts.

      It’s not fair,” she says. “You’re so much younger, Daisy. I should’ve been a grandmother first.” Rose and Iris are well into their seventies; my mother is sixty—five, and Rose’s only son has failed to reproduce (which is probably a good thing, given Stevie’s propensity for stupid acts).

      “Oh, Stevie will get some girl pregnant, don’t worry,” my mom says mildly. “I wonder, though, if he manages to find someone who’d marry him, if she’d die young, too.” Then, aware perhaps that this is a sensitive subject, the Black Widows turn as one to look at me.

      You see, in my generation, the Black Widow curse has only struck me (so far). My sister lives in constant fear that Chris will die young, but so far, so good. Iris’s daughter, Anne, is gay, and for some reason, the Black Widows are confident that Laura, Anne’s partner of fifteen years, will be spared due to sexual orientation. Neddy’s ex—wife is also deemed safe. Both Ned and Stevie are healthy, though Stevie’s on the dim side (he once ate poison ivy on a dare. When he was twenty—two). The biological men in our family are spared…it’s just the husbands who seem to meet an early death. My grandfather, my great—uncles, my own dad, my aunts’ husbands…all died young.

      Also, no Black Widow has ever remarried. The late husbands became saints, the wives became proud widows. The idea of finding another man is traditionally scoffed at, as in, “Bah! What do I need a man for? I already had my Larry/Pete/Robbie. He was the Love of My Life.”

      Back before I was a widow, I thought that maybe the Black Widows almost liked being alone. That they were independent women, proud of how they’d coped. Maybe their disdain of remarrying was more a statement about their own security, independence, power, even. When I became a widow myself, I understood. It’s fairly impossible to imagine falling in love again when your husband’s life ends decades before you expect it.

      The back door opens again. “Friday night happy hour has arrived!” calls a familiar voice.

      “Ethan!” the Black Widows chorus, flattered and feigning surprise over his arrival.

      “I hear from my sources that it’s a girl,” he says. “Congratulations, ladies.”

      Ethan Mirabelli, my late husband’s younger brother, comes in through the back door, an insulated bag in hand. He kisses each Black Widow, with an extra—long hug and some murmured words for my mother, who beams and pats him on the cheek. Then Ethan glances at me. “Hey, Luce. Congratulations on being an auntie again.”

      “Thanks, Ethan,” I answer, smiling. “I guess it’s not quite a cousin for Nicky, but close enough, right?” Nicky is Ethan’s son. Then I wince, realizing I may have just hit a sore spot. Nicky’s cousins would have to have been Jimmy’s kids…Jimmy’s and mine.

      “Absolutely,” he answers, letting me off the hook.

      “And how is Nicky?” asks Aunt Iris.

      “He’s handsome, brilliant and has a way with the ladies. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Nicky is four, but everything Ethan says is true. My brother—in—law smiles at me, then unpacks his bag, something he found God knows where—a minibar, complete with martini shaker, small knife, shot glass and a few bottles of alcohol. “I thought French martinis today, girls,” he says, pouring the vodka. “They’re pink, in honor of the baby. I can only hope she’s as gorgeous as the rest of the Black women.”

      As expected, the Black Widows coo and giggle in response. Ethan has them wrapped around his little finger.

      “Is it too early for drinking?” Rose asks in her sweet voice, glancing at the clock and holding out her glass. Four—thirty. No earlier than any Friday.

      “You don’t have to have one,” Ethan says, just as he’s about to pour the martini into her glass.

      “Don’t be fresh,” Rose says, swatting his hand. “Fill ‘er up.” He grins and obeys. “Ethan,” Rose continues, “what I want to know is, how could you get that nice girl pregnant?”

      Ethan lifts an eyebrow in his trademark bad—boy look. “Want to step into the office? I’ll be happy to show you.”

      Aunt Rose whoops with mock horror and sincere appreciation. “What I mean is, why didn’t you marry her? That nice Parker?” Like they haven’t heard this a million times.

      Ethan winks at me. “I asked, if you remember. She wouldn’t have me. She knew I was secretly in love with the Black Widows and my heart would never be hers.” He turns to me. “Here you go, Lucy.”

      “Thanks, Eth,” I say.

      Friday afternoon cocktail hour is a tradition here at the bakery. Ethan, who travels throughout the country for his work, comes home to Mackerly each weekend to see his son…and to check on me, I admit. Since Jimmy died, Ethan’s been very loyal. A great friend. But he starts most weekends off by coming to the bakery for happy hour and flirting with my mother and aunts, and they think he pretty much walks on water.

      “So how’s the baby?” Ethan asks the Black Widows, then sits back and grins as they regale him with her loveliness.

      I take a token sip from my glass, listening and smiling. Though they’ve all been widows most of their lives, the Black Widows are more full of life than most people I know.

      Then I glance at my watch and set my drink aside. “I have to make the bread run to Gianni’s, guys. Ethan, want to come?”

      “Hell, no,” he answers with great cheer. “Why on earth would I visit my parents when I can drink with these Hungarian beauties instead?”

      More tuts, more feigned disapproval at Ethan’s casual dismissal of his parents, more deep appreciation and secret consent from the Black Widows.

      “Does being a gigolo pay well?” I ask.

      Ethan laughs. “Maybe I’ll see you later, Luce.” We both live in the Boatworks, an old sailboat factory turned condominiums.

      I go in the back and load up the bread for Gianni’s delivery. Much of it is still warm. My breathing slows, my movements gentle and efficient with practice as I bag each loaf, setting it in the large bakery box. The scent of fresh bread is what heaven must smell like, comforting and homey. When the box is full, I heft it up, push open the back door and head outside to the street and bright sunshine.

      To my consternation, Starbucks, which is located just around the corner from Bunny’s, is full, even at this hour. Bunny’s could use some of those customers, I think. For years, I’ve been urging the Black Widows, each of whom owns thirty percent of the bakery, to shift our