The Trouble with Valentine’s (23 page)

Meet

Kelly
Hunter
ON WRITING AND READING …

What do you love most about being a writer?

I’m never bored. There’s always something to think about and work on.

What do you like least about being a writer?

There’s always something to think about and work on.

Do you have a favourite locale or setting for your novels? What is it and why is it your favourite?

I don’t really have a favourite setting or locale, though I do like setting fish-out-of-water stories in South East Asia. I’ve lived and worked there many times before and feel comfortable writing about the locations and the customs. I like to take my readers on a journey. I love armchair travelling!

What are your five all-time favourite books (with authors)?

WELCOME TO TEMPTATION by Jenny Crusie

NO PLACE LIKE HOME by Barbara Samuel

THE CHESAPEAKE BAY SERIES by Nora Roberts

TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD by Harper lee

THE PALADIN by CJ Cherryh

What one specific piece of advice would you give a would-be writer trying to kick-start a career?

Learn—join a writing organisation, an online group, buy how-to books, attend workshops and conferences. Write. Don’t give up.

ON ROMANCE …

Describe the ultimate romantic meal.

You mean one I don’t have to cook or clean up the remains of afterwards? In that case, I’ll have a table set with matching silverware, stiff linen napkins and glassware that hums long after you ting it. I’ll have old-fashioned quantities of modern French food, served on fine white china and washed down with chilled white wine. As for music, Yo Yo Ma will be tucked in a corner, sawing away on his milliondollar cello and Nigel Kennedy will drop by for a quick stint on his violin. The room will be lit by candles, of course, and I’ll look years younger than I really am. My husband will be my dinner companion (yes, I’ve decided to let him join me) and he’ll make fascinating conversation whilst looking impossibly sexy (he’s actually pretty reliable in this regard). We’ll slow dance between courses and at the end of the evening he’ll tell me he’s pregnant.

What is your all-time favourite romantic movie?

Mulan
(it’s a Disney animated film).

What is your all-time favourite romantic song or composition?

Jimi Hendrix’s ‘Little Wing’.

What is the most romantic gesture or gift you have received?

A pair of Belted Galloway calves turning up at the back door on Valentine’s Day with pink ribbons around their necks. Moo.

How do you keep the romance alive in your relationship?

We laugh a lot. Give a lot.

What tip would you give your readers to make their lives more romantic?

It’s all in your mind!

Where is the most romantic place you’ve ever travelled?

Istanbul was very romantic, but then, I was madly in love …

ALL ABOUT ME …

Besides writing, what other talent would you most like to have?

Er, concert pianist? Without the all-encompassing practice that goes with it.

Who is someone you admire and why?

My mother. She’s the most giving person I know.

Do you have a good luck charm or superstition?

Nope.

Share one of your favourite indulgences with us.

Steaming, bubbling spa baths.

What quality do you most admire in a man?

Oooh. Tough one. You mean I can only choose one? Loyalty.

What is the one thing you’ve always wanted to do, but never had the courage to try?

Skydive. I’m afraid of heights.

If you weren’t a writer, what would you be?

Richer.

Sad the story’s over? Don’t worry, we’ve got lots of other fantastic books coming up!

Turn the page for an exclusive extract from

THE NEXT BEST THING

from bestselling author Kristin Higgins, available in April 2013.

“Um, listen, Ethan, we need to talk,” I say, cringing a little.

“Sure. Let me grab another one of these. They’re incredible.” He goes back into the kitchen, and I hear the fridge open again. “Actually I have something to tell you, too.” He returns to the living room “But ladies first.” Sitting in the easy chair, he smiles at me.

Ethan looks nothing like his brother, which is both a comfort and a sorrow. Unlike Jimmy, Ethan is a bit … well, average. Nice-looking, but kind of unremarkable. Medium brown eyes, somewhat disheveled brown hair, average height, average weight. Kind of a vanilla type of guy. He has a neat little beard, the kind so many baseball players favor—three days of stubble, basically, which gives him an attractive edginess, but he’s … well, he’s Ethan. He looks a bit like an elf in some ways—not the squeaky North Pole elves, but like a cool elf, a Tolkien elf, mischievous eyebrows and sly grin.

He regards me patiently. I swallow. Swallow again. It’s a nervous habit of mine. Fat Mikey jumps into Ethan’s lap and head butts him until Ethan obliges the bossy animal by scratching his chin. Ethan rescued him from the pound a few years back, saying no one would take the ugly beast, and gave him to me. Fat Mikey has never forgotten just who sprung him from prison, and now favors Ethan with a rusty purr.

I clear my throat. “Well, listen. You know, ever since Jimmy died, you’ve been, just … well. Incredible. Such a good friend, Ethan.” It’s true. I don’t have the words to voice my gratitude.

His mouth pulls up on one side. “Well. You’ve been great, too.”

I force a smile. “Right. Um … well, here’s the thing, Ethan. You know that Corinne had a baby, of course. And it got me thinking that, well …” I clear my throat. “Well, I’d like to have a baby, too.” Gah! This isn’t coming out the way I want it to.

His right eyebrow raises. “Really.”

“Yeah. I’ve always wanted kids. You know. So, um …” Why am I so nervous? It’s just Ethan. He’ll understand. “So I guess I’m ready to … start dating. I want to get married again. Have a family.”

Ethan leans forward, causing Fat Mikey to jump off his lap. “I see,” he says.

I look at the floor for a second. “Right.” Risking a peek at Ethan, I add, “So we should probably stop sleeping together.”

E
THAN BLINKS
. H
IS EXPRESSION
doesn’t change. “Okay,” he says after a beat.

I open my mouth to brook his argument, then realize he hasn’t made one. “Okay. Great,” I mumble.

Ethan sits back and looks toward the kitchen. “So seeing your new niece really got to you, huh?”

“Yes. I guess so. I mean, I’ve always wanted … well, you know. Husband, kids, all that. I’ve been thinking about it lately, and then today—” I opt not to describe my whisker. “I guess it’s time.”

“So is this theoretical, or do you have someone in mind?” he asks. Fat Mikey lets out a squeaky meow, then lifts his leg and starts licking.

I clear my throat. “It’s theoretical. I just … I just figured we should make a clean break of it first, you know? Can’t have a friend with privileges if I’m trying to find a husband.” A nervous bleat of laughter bursts from my throat.

Ethan starts to say something, then seems to change his mind. “Sure. Most boyfriends wouldn’t like to find out that you’ve got a standing arrangement with someone else.” His tone is mild.

“Right,” I say after a pause.

“Is that door still sticking?” He nods to the slider, which leads to the tiny balcony.

“Don’t worry about it,” I mutter. My face feels hot.

“Oh, hell, Luce, don’t worry. I’ll fix it. You’re still my sister-in-law.” For a second, he just stares at the glass door.

“Are you mad?” I whisper.

“Nah.” He stands up, then comes over to me and drops a kiss on the top of my head. “I will, of course, miss the smokin’ sex, but you’re probably right. I’ll drop in tomorrow to fix the door.”

That’s it?
“Okay. Um, thanks, Ethan.”

And with that, he’s gone, and I have to say, it feels odd. Empty and quiet.

I’d thought he might have been a little more … well … I don’t know what. After all, we’ve been sleeping together for two years. Granted, he travels all week, and on the weekends when he had Nicky, obviously we didn’t do anything, but still. I guess I didn’t expect him to be so … blasé.

“What are we complaining about?” I ask myself out loud. “It couldn’t have gone any better.” Fat Mikey rubs against my ankles as if in agreement, and I reach down to pet his silky fur.

The evening stretches in front of me. I have seven hours until I head for the bakery. A normal person would go to bed, but my schedule is erratic at best. Another thing Ethan and I have in common: the man only sleeps four or five hours a night. I wonder if we’ll still play Scrabble or Guitar Hero late at night, now that we’re not … well, we were never really a
couple.
Just friends, and sort of relatives, linked forever by Jimmy. And lovers, though my mind bounces away from that word.
Friends with privileges
sounds much more benign.

In the first year after Jimmy died, Ethan had been one of the few people whose company I could stand. My friends—well, it was hard for both them and me. I’d married and buried a husband when most of my peers weren’t even thinking about a serious relationship. A lot of them just sort of … faded away, not knowing what to say or do for a woman widowed at twenty-four after eight months and six days of marriage.

Corinne ached for me, but seeing her eyes well up every time she saw me didn’t do much for my emotional state. My mom had a grim resignation to Jimmy’s death, almost a
been there, done that, own that crappy T-shirt
attitude as she patted my hand and shook her head. My aunts, forget it. To them, it was my destiny …
Poor Lucy, well, at least she got it over with.
Not that they were heartless enough to say that, but there was sort of a maudlin welcome feeling when I was around them, as if my widowhood was simply a fact of life. As for Gianni and Marie, I could hardly bear to be around them. Jimmy was their firstborn son, the chef in their restaurant, the heir apparent, the crown prince, and of course, the Mirabellis were absolutely ruined. Though we saw each other often, it was agony for all three of us.

But Ethan … maybe because we were almost the same age, maybe because we’d been pals at Johnson & Wales before he fixed me up with Jimmy, but whatever the reason, he was the only one who didn’t make me feel worse.

In those first few black months, Ethan was a rock. He found this very apartment, right below his. He bought me a PlayStation and we spent far too many hours racing cars and shooting each other on the screen. He cooked for me, knowing I’d eat Sno-Balls and Ring Dings if left to my own devices, coming down with a pan of eggplant parmigiana, chicken marsala, meat loaf. We’d watch movies, and he didn’t care if I’d forgotten to shower for the past couple of days. If I cried in front of him, Ethan would patiently take me in his arms, stroke my hair and tell me that someday, we were both going to be okay and if I didn’t stop blubbering on his shirt, he was going to fit me with a shock collar and start using it.

Then he’d head out for another week of traveling and schmoozing, which seemed to be what he was paid so handsomely to do. He’d e-mail me dirty jokes, bring me tacky little souvenirs from whatever city he was in, send pictures of himself doing those stupid daredevil things he did—helicopter skiing in Utah, sail-surfing in Costa Rica. It was part of Ethan’s job to show the demographic of
Instead
’s consumers that eating a real meal was a waste of time when such fun awaited them. Which was ironic, given that Ethan loved to both eat and cook.

After the first six months or so, when I wasn’t quite so soggy, Ethan backed off a little, started doing the things normal guys do. For about two months, he dated Parker Welles, one of the rich summer folks, and to me, they seemed quite nice together. I liked Parker, who was irreverent and blunt, and assumed Ethan had found his match, so I was quite surprised when Ethan told me they’d broken up amicably. Then Parker found out she was pregnant, informed Ethan and politely declined his marriage proposal. She stayed in Mackerly, living in her father’s sprawling mansion out on Ocean View Avenue, where all the rich folks live, and gave birth to Nick. Why she passed on Ethan is a mystery—she’s told me time and again she thinks he’s a great guy, just not the one for her.

After Nicky came into the world, Ethan and I found ourselves hanging out once more. I guess the privileges part was bound to happen eventually, though neither of us planned on it. In fact, you could say that I was stunned the first time he—well. More on that later. I should think about something other than Ethan.

Looking around my apartment, I sigh. It’s a nice place—two bedrooms, a living room, big sunny kitchen with ample counter space for baking. Prints hang on the walls as well as a large photo of Jimmy and me on our wedding day. The furniture is comfortable, the TV state-of-the-art. My balcony overlooks a salt marsh. Jimmy and I were in the process of moving into a house when he died. Obviously I hadn’t wanted to live there without him, so I sold it and moved here, Ethan’s proximity a great comfort.

I had imagined that Ethan and I would spend more than ten minutes breaking up, and I find myself at a bit of a loss for what to do. It’s nine-thirty on a Friday night. Some nights, Ash, the Goth teen who lives down the hall, comes over to play video games or catch a movie, but there’s a high school dance tonight, and her mother forced her to go. I could go over the syllabus for the pastry class I teach at the community college, but I’d just be guilding the lily, since I planned that out last week. My gaze goes to the TV.

“Fat Mikey, would you like to see a pretty wedding?” I ask my cat, hefting him up for a nuzzle, which he tolerates gamely. “You would? Good boy.”

The DVD is already in. I know, I know, I shouldn’t watch it so much. But I do. Now, though, if I really am moving on, if I’m going to find someone else, I really do need to stop. I pause, think about scrubbing the kitchen floor instead, decide against it and hit Play.

I fast-forward through me getting ready, watching in amusement the jerky, sped-up movements of Corinne pinning the veil into my hair, my mother dabbing her eyes.

Bingo. Jimmy and Ethan standing on the altar of St. Bonaventure’s. Ethan, the best man, is cracking a joke, no doubt, because the brothers are laughing. And then Jimmy looks up and sees me coming down the aisle. His smile fades, his wide, generous mouth drops open a little and he looks almost shocked with love. Love for me.

I hit Pause, and Jimmy’s face freezes on the television screen. His eyes were so lovely, his lashes long and ridiculously pretty. A muscular physique despite cooking and eating all day, the longish blond hair that curled in the humidity, the way his eyes would half close when he looked at me …

I swallow, feeling that old, familiar tightness in my throat, as if there’s a pebble lodged in there. It started after Jimmy died—I’d actually asked my cousin Anne, who’s a doctor, to see if I had a tumor in there, but she said it was just a classic symptom of anxiety. And now it’s back, I suppose, because I’m about to, er … move on. Or something.

The last part of becoming fully alive again—because when Jimmy died, he took a huge part of me with him—would be to find someone new. I want to get married and have babies. I really do. I grew up without a dad, and I wouldn’t willingly take on single motherhood. And though I’ll always miss Jimmy, it’s time to move on. Finding another husband … it’s a good idea. Sure it is.