Kristan Higgins - The Next Best Thing

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.

“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.