The Next Best Thing Read Online Free PDF

and found a beautiful cemetery with wide expanses of shade, and we actually had a picnic amid the granite stones and sad stories from long ago. But this one, where so many of my menfolk lie…this one I just can’t go in. Aside from the funeral, I’ve never been to Jimmy’s grave. I’m not proud of this. It makes me feel like a bad widow, but I just can’t seem to walk down that path, go through those gates.
    It’s okay, I rationalize. I get my cardio workout this way. I reach the intersection of Bridge and Main Streets, ring my bicycle bell and then cross, cruising into the bakery parking lot. My sister’s car is here. Oh, goody!
    Jorge comes out as I head in. “Did you see the baby?” I ask. He grins and nods. “Isn’t she pretty?”
    He nods again, his dark eyes crinkling.
    “See you later, Jorge.” He’ll be back for the afternoon deliveries.
    “Hi, Cory!” I say, gently twisting past the Black Widows to see the baby. “Oh. Oh, wow. Oh, Corinne.” I saw Emma yesterday at my sister’s house, but the thrill has yet to fade. The baby is sleeping in my sister’s arms, pink and white skin, eyelids so new and transparent I can see the veins. Her lips purse adorably as she sucks in her sleep.
    “She has eyelashes!” I exclaim softly.
    “Not so close, Lucy,” Corinne murmurs, fishing a travel bottle of Purell out of her pocket. “You have germs.”
    I glance at my sister. Her eyes are wet. “You okay, Cor?” I ask.
    “I’m great,” she whispers. “It’s Chris I’m worried about. He woke up twice last night when the baby cried. He needs his sleep.”
    “Well, so do you,” I point out, obediently slathering my hands.
    “He needs it more.” Corinne tucks the blanket more firmly around Emma. “He can’t get worn-out. He might get sick.”
    My aunt Iris bustles over, wearing her customary man’s flannel shirt. She holds her hands out for inspection. “Completely sterilized, Corinne, honey. Let me hold the baby. You sit.”
    “ I’ll hold the baby,” my mother states, gliding over like a queen. Today she’s wearing red patent-leather shoes with three-inch heels and a red and white silk dress (Mom doesn’t do any baking—strictly management). She sets down a cup of coffee and some cookies for Corinne and holds out her arms. Corinne, looking tense, reluctantly passes the baby to our mom.
    Mom’s face softens with love as she gazes at her only grandchild. “Oh, you are just perfect. Yes, you are. Lucy, take care of Mr. Dombrowski.”
    “Hi, Mr. D.,” I say to the ninety-seven-year-old man who comes in to the bakery every afternoon.
    “Good day, my dear,” he murmurs, peering at our display case. “Now, that one’s interesting. What would you call that?”
    “That’s a cherry tart,” I say, suppressing a little shudder. Iris makes those by glopping a spoonful of canned cherry filling onto some frozen pastry. Not quite what I would do. No, I’d go for some of those beautiful Paonia cherries from Colorado—there’s a market in Providence that has them flown in. A little lemon curd, some heavy cream, cinnamon, maybe a splash of balsamic vinegar to break up the sweetness, though maybe with the lemon, I wouldn’t need—
    “And this? What’s this, dear?”
    “That one’s apricot.” Also from a can, but I don’t mention that. It’s odd—my aunts are incredible bakers, but they save those efforts for our family gatherings. For the non-Hungarian, not-related-by-blood population, cannedis plenty good enough. Frozen (and refrozen, and re-refrozen) is just fine for the masses, who wouldn’t know good barak zserbo if it bit them.
    Mr. Dombrowski shuffles along the case, surveying every single thing we have in there. He never buys anything other than a cheese danish, but the sweet old man doesn’t have a lot to do. Coming in to buy his danish—half of which he’ll eat with his tea, half with tomorrow’s breakfast—gives a little structure to his day. He creeps along, murmuring,