“Angie, we’ve had this conversation a dozen times. I don’t even know where to start. David spoke to all of her friends. No one has heard from her. The guy at the bus station doesn’t remember selling her a ticket. Her old apartment has been re-rented; the landlady practically hung up on me when I asked about Lauren. The admissions director at USC said she canceled her scholarship. I have no idea where she’d go.”
Angie hit the button on the food processor. The whirring sound filled the kitchen. She stared down into the crumbly mixture, trying to think of something new to say.
There was nothing. In the past twenty-four hours she and Conlan had said everything that could be said on the subject. Lauren had simply vanished. It wasn’t difficult to do in this busy, overcrowded world.
Angie unlocked the bowl and poured the topping over the blueberry mixture. Her sisters swore that cooking was therapeutic. This was her third blueberry cobbler. Any more therapy and she’d probably scream.
He came up behind her, put his arm around her, and kissed the curve of her neck. She sighed and leaned back against him.
“I can’t stand the thought of her alone. And don’t tell me she’s not alone. She’s a kid. She needs someone to take care of her.”
“She’s a mother now,” he said gently. “The kid part gets lost in all that.”
She turned into his arms, put her hands on his chest. His heart beat beneath her palm, nice and steady and even. Whenever in the past few hours she’d felt dizzy or lost or unsteady, she’d gone to him, touched him, and let him be her anchor.
He kissed her. With his lips against hers, he whispered, “She knows you love her. She’ll be back.”
Angie could hear in his voice how much he wanted to believe that. “No,” she said. “She won’t be back. You know why?”
“Why?”
“She’s going to think I could never forgive her. Her mother didn’t teach her the things that matter. She doesn’t realize she’s forgiven her mom—or would the second she showed up. She doesn’t know how durable love can be, only how easily it gets broken.”
“You know what’s amazing? You never mention the baby.”
“A part of me knew she couldn’t do it.” She sighed. “I wish I’d told her that. Maybe then she wouldn’t have run off in the middle of the night.”
“You told her what really mattered. And she heard you. I guarantee it.”
“I don’t think so, Con.”
“I know so. When she had the baby, you told Lauren you loved her and you were proud of her. Someday, when she stops hating herself for what she had to do, she’ll remember that. And she’ll be back. Maybe her mother didn’t teach her about love, but you did. Sooner or later, she’ll figure that out.”
He could always do it; say just the right thing she needed to hear. “Have I told you how much I love you, Conlan Malone?”
“You’ve told me.” He glanced over at the oven. “How long does that thing bake?”
She wanted to smile. “Fifty minutes.”
“That’s definitely enough time to show me. Maybe even twice.”
Angie kissed her sleeping husband and rolled out of bed, careful not to disturb him. Dressing in gray sweats, she left the room.
It was so quiet downstairs. She’d forgotten that. The silence.
A teenager made so much noise …
“Where are you?” she whispered out loud, hugging herself. The world out there was so damned big and Lauren was so young. A dozen bad ends came to her, flashed through her mind like images in a horror film.
She headed toward the kitchen for a cup of coffee. She was halfway there when she saw the box. It was in the hallway, tucked in close to the wall. Conlan must have got it out of the laundry yesterday morning before they’d gone to the hospital.
Yesterday: when everything had been different.
She knew she should turn away from it, pretend she hadn’t seen it. But that was the way of her former self, and no good came of not looking.
She went to the box, knelt beside it, and opened it up.
The Winnie-the-Pooh lamp lay on top, cradled in a pink cotton blanket.
Angie pulled it out, held it. The amazing thing was that she didn’t cry, didn’t ache for the lost baby for whom this lamp had been bought. Instead, she carried it to the kitchen and set it on the table.
“There,” she said. “It’s waiting for you, Lauren. Come home and pick it up.”
Her only answer was silence. Now and then the old house creaked and in the distance the ocean grumbled and whooshed, but here, in this house that had gone from three inhabitants to two, it was still.
She walked out to the porch, stared down at the ocean. She was so intent on the water that it took her a moment to see the girl standing in the trees.
Angie ran down the steps and across the wet grass, almost falling twice.
Lauren stood there, unsmiling, her eyes swollen and red. She tried to smile. Failed.
Angie wanted to throw her arms around Lauren, but something stopped her. There was a look in the girl’s eyes that was harrowing. Her mouth trembled.
“We were so worried about you,” Angie said, moving a step closer.