Read Online The Next Best Thing by Kristan Higgins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kristan Higgins
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offerings it holds. Tuna salad, no celery…perfect. I pop two slices of the fresh bread into the toaster, then open a bottle of coffee milk and wait.
While I love the bakery and love working with my aunts, I can’t help wishing Bunny’s was different. More tables, more refined pastries than just danish and doughnuts. If we sold biscotti, for example. (“Biscotti? That’s Italian,” my aunts said the last time I broached the subject. “We’re not the Italians.”) If we sold cakes by the slice—not Rose’s wedding cakes, but the kind that people might actually like to eat. Coconut lime, for example. Sour cream pecan. Chocolate with mocha frosting and a hazelnut filling. If we sold coffee and cappuccino, even, heaven protect us, lattes.
“Lucy, honey, can you get Grinelda some more coffee?” Aunt Rose calls.
“Sure,” I answer. My toast is still browning. I grab the pot and sugar bowl and, heading into the front, note that my mother is wiping her eyes. “How’s Dad?” I can’t help asking.
“He thinks Emma is just beautiful,” Mom answers. “It’s amazing, Grinelda. You have such a gift.”
“Such a gift,” I murmur with a dubious glance at the gypsy, who is chewing on another cookie. An eleven-by-seventeen-inch piece of paper is taped to Bunny’s front door…the door through which Grinelda entered. Daisy Is A Grandmother!!! the sign says, right above the picture of my niece. Emma Jane Duvall, September 8, 7 lbs. 3 oz.
The readings are over. My aunts wander back to the kitchen to get a box for Grinelda’s loot as my mother fills themedium in on Corinne’s nursing issues. As I pour Grinelda some more coffee, she cuts her pale blue eyes to me.
“I have a message for you, too,” she says, a chunk of sugar cookie falling from her mouth onto her sequined lap.
“That’s okay, Grinelda. I’m fine,” I answer.
“He wants you to check the toast. Your husband.” She pops the fallen cookie bit back into her mouth and regards me impassively. My mother quivers with attention.
“Lucy! Your toast is about to burn back here, honey!” Iris calls.
Mom’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. “Oh. My. God!”
“Thanks, Iris,” I call.
“What else?” my mother breathes, reaching out to clutch Grinelda’s age-spotted hand.
“Check the toast. That’s his message,” she says, taking a slurp of coffee.
“Got it. Thanks.” I look up at the ceiling. “Thanks, Jimmy! My sandwich would’ve been ruined without your divine intervention.”
“A cynic. That’s what she is,” Rose says, hurrying to pat Grinelda’s shoulder. “She’ll come around.” Rose looks outside. Across the street, the chrysanthemums planted around the statue of James Mackerly glow with good health. “Oh, my word,” she whispers. “Yellow flowers next to red! Oh, Larry!”
I RACE FOR SECOND, SLIDE AT THE LAST second, and bang! I’m in.
“Safe!” calls Sal, the umpire at second.
My teammates cheer. “Of course I’m safe, Ethan,” I say to my brother-in-law, who missed the tag. “You’re no match for my incredible speed.”
“Apparently not,” he murmurs, a smile curling up thecorners of his mouth. Something tugs in my stomach, and I look over at third base. May need to steal that, too.
“Nice try, Ethan!” Ash calls from the stands.
“Thanks, Ash!” he says, tossing her a little salute. She blushes so fiercely we can practically feel the heat. Poor Ash…she really needs friends her own age.
Just about every able-bodied adult under the age of seventy plays on the Mackerly Softball League, and every one of the six downtown businesses sponsors a team. So does International Food Products, Ethan’s company, the team Bunny’s Bakery is playing tonight.
Not only am I the organizer of our little baseball club, spending hours and hours each winter on team assignments, scheduling, equipment maintenance and so on, but I’m one of the league’s best players, I’m proud to say. My batting average
While I love the bakery and love working with my aunts, I can’t help wishing Bunny’s was different. More tables, more refined pastries than just danish and doughnuts. If we sold biscotti, for example. (“Biscotti? That’s Italian,” my aunts said the last time I broached the subject. “We’re not the Italians.”) If we sold cakes by the slice—not Rose’s wedding cakes, but the kind that people might actually like to eat. Coconut lime, for example. Sour cream pecan. Chocolate with mocha frosting and a hazelnut filling. If we sold coffee and cappuccino, even, heaven protect us, lattes.
“Lucy, honey, can you get Grinelda some more coffee?” Aunt Rose calls.
“Sure,” I answer. My toast is still browning. I grab the pot and sugar bowl and, heading into the front, note that my mother is wiping her eyes. “How’s Dad?” I can’t help asking.
“He thinks Emma is just beautiful,” Mom answers. “It’s amazing, Grinelda. You have such a gift.”
“Such a gift,” I murmur with a dubious glance at the gypsy, who is chewing on another cookie. An eleven-by-seventeen-inch piece of paper is taped to Bunny’s front door…the door through which Grinelda entered. Daisy Is A Grandmother!!! the sign says, right above the picture of my niece. Emma Jane Duvall, September 8, 7 lbs. 3 oz.
The readings are over. My aunts wander back to the kitchen to get a box for Grinelda’s loot as my mother fills themedium in on Corinne’s nursing issues. As I pour Grinelda some more coffee, she cuts her pale blue eyes to me.
“I have a message for you, too,” she says, a chunk of sugar cookie falling from her mouth onto her sequined lap.
“That’s okay, Grinelda. I’m fine,” I answer.
“He wants you to check the toast. Your husband.” She pops the fallen cookie bit back into her mouth and regards me impassively. My mother quivers with attention.
“Lucy! Your toast is about to burn back here, honey!” Iris calls.
Mom’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. “Oh. My. God!”
“Thanks, Iris,” I call.
“What else?” my mother breathes, reaching out to clutch Grinelda’s age-spotted hand.
“Check the toast. That’s his message,” she says, taking a slurp of coffee.
“Got it. Thanks.” I look up at the ceiling. “Thanks, Jimmy! My sandwich would’ve been ruined without your divine intervention.”
“A cynic. That’s what she is,” Rose says, hurrying to pat Grinelda’s shoulder. “She’ll come around.” Rose looks outside. Across the street, the chrysanthemums planted around the statue of James Mackerly glow with good health. “Oh, my word,” she whispers. “Yellow flowers next to red! Oh, Larry!”
I RACE FOR SECOND, SLIDE AT THE LAST second, and bang! I’m in.
“Safe!” calls Sal, the umpire at second.
My teammates cheer. “Of course I’m safe, Ethan,” I say to my brother-in-law, who missed the tag. “You’re no match for my incredible speed.”
“Apparently not,” he murmurs, a smile curling up thecorners of his mouth. Something tugs in my stomach, and I look over at third base. May need to steal that, too.
“Nice try, Ethan!” Ash calls from the stands.
“Thanks, Ash!” he says, tossing her a little salute. She blushes so fiercely we can practically feel the heat. Poor Ash…she really needs friends her own age.
Just about every able-bodied adult under the age of seventy plays on the Mackerly Softball League, and every one of the six downtown businesses sponsors a team. So does International Food Products, Ethan’s company, the team Bunny’s Bakery is playing tonight.
Not only am I the organizer of our little baseball club, spending hours and hours each winter on team assignments, scheduling, equipment maintenance and so on, but I’m one of the league’s best players, I’m proud to say. My batting average
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