David tightened his hold on her hand. He smiled down at her. Believe, that smile said.
She wanted to.
“This is my son, David Ryerson Haynes,” Mrs. Haynes was saying now.
Of the Ryerson-Haynes Paper Company.
She hadn’t added that, of course. It would have been tacky and wholly unnecessary.
“And this is Lauren Ribido,” David said, squeezing Lauren’s hand. “She’d be a real asset to Stanford’s student body.”
The recruiter smiled at David. “So, David,” he said. “You’re interested in following in your family’s footsteps. Good for you. At Stanford, we pride ourselves on …”
Lauren stood there, holding David’s hand so tightly her fingers started to ache. She waited patiently for the recruiter to turn his attention to her.
He never did.
The bus jerked to a stop at the corner. Lauren grabbed her backpack off the floor and hurried to the front of the bus.
“Have a nice night,” Luella, the bus driver, said.
Lauren waved and headed down Main Street. Here, in the tourist hub of downtown West End, everything was sparkling and beautiful. Years ago, when the timber and commercial fishing industries had hit hard times, the town fathers had decided to play up the Victorian cuteness of the town. Half of downtown’s buildings had already fit the bill; the other half were hurriedly remodeled. A statewide advertising campaign was started (for a solid year the city government paid for nothing else—not roads or schools or services), and West End, “Victorian getaway on the coast,” was born.
The campaign worked. Tourists drifted in, drawn by the bed-and-breakfasts, the sand castle competitions, the kite flying, and the sport fishing. It became a destination instead of a detour on the road from Seattle to Portland.
But the veneer went only so deep, and like all towns, West End had its forgotten places, its corners that remained unseen by visitors and unvisited by locals. That part of town, the place where people lived in apartments without decorations or security. Lauren’s part of town.
She turned off Main Street and kept walking.
With each step, the neighborhood deteriorated; the world became darker, more rundown. There were no Victorian-inspired curliques on the buildings here, no advertisements for quaint bed-and-breakfasts or seaplane rides. This was where the old-timers lived, men who’d once worked in the timber mills or on the fishing boats. The people who’d missed the tide of change and been washed into the dark, muddy marshlands. Here, the only bright lights were neon signs that advertised booze.
Lauren walked briskly, looking straight ahead. She noticed every nuance of change, every shadow that seemed new, every noise and movement, but she wasn’t afraid. This street had been her home turf for more than six years. Though most of her neighbors were down on their luck, they knew how to take care of one another, and little Lauren Ribido belonged here.
Home was a narrow, six-story apartment building that sat dead center on a lot overgrown with blackberry bushes and salal. The stucco exterior was grayed with dirt and debris. Light shone from behind several windows, giving the place its only sign of life.
Lauren hiked up the creaking steps, pushed through the front door (the lock had been broken five times last year; the property manager, Mrs. Mauk, refused to fix it again), and headed for the tired steps that led to her apartment on the fourth floor.
As she crept past the manager’s door, she held her breath. She was almost to the stairs when she heard the door open, heard:
“Lauren? Is that you?”
Damn it.
She turned around, trying to smile. “Hello, Mrs. Mauk.”
Mrs. Mauk—Call me Dolores, honey—stepped into the shadowy hallway. Light from the open doorway made her look pale, almost sinister, but her toothy smile was bright. As always, she wore a navy blue kerchief over her graying hair and a floral housedress. There was a rumpled look to her, as if she’d just been unfolded from an old suitcase. Her shoulders were hunched by a lifetime of disappointment. It was a common stance in this neighborhood. “I went to the salon today.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Your mom didn’t show for work.”
“She’s sick.”
Mrs. Mauk clucked sympathetically. “New boyfriend again, huh?”
Lauren couldn’t answer.
“Maybe this time it’ll be love. Anyhow, you’re overdue on the rent. I need it by Friday.”
“Okay.” Lauren couldn’t hold on to her smile.
Mrs. Mauk gave her The Look. “You can’t be warm enough in that coat,” she said, frowning. “You tell your mom—”
“I will. Bye.” She ran for the stairs and went up to the fourth floor.
Their door was ajar. Light spilled between the crack, slanted butterlike across the linoleum hallway.
Lauren wasn’t worried. Her mom rarely remembered to shut the front door, and when she did remember to close it, she never locked it. Lost her keys too often; that was the excuse.