She pushed open the door and went into the small store. A bell tinkled overhead at her entrance. The sound took her back in time, and for a moment she was a pencil-thin cheerleader with Brillo-pad black hair, following her sisters into the only clothing store in town.
Now, of course, there were several stores, even a J.C. Penney department store out on the highway, but back then, the Clothes Line had been the place for Jordache jeans and leg warmers.
“That cannot be Angie DeSaria.”
The familiar voice pulled Angie out of her reverie. She heard a flurry of footsteps (rubber-soled shoes on linoleum) and started smiling.
Mrs. Costanza made her way through the rounders of clothing, bobbing and weaving with a finesse that Evander Holyfield would envy. At first, all that was visible of her was a pile of teased, dyed-black hair. Then thin, drawn-on black eyebrows and finally her cherry-red smile.
“Hey, Miz Costanza,” Angie said to the woman who’d fitted her for her first bra and sold her her every pair of shoes for seventeen years.
“I cannot believe it’s you.” She clapped her hands together, palm to palm to protect her long, heart-spangled fingernails. “I heard you were in town, of course, but I figured you would buy your clothes in the big city. Let me look at you.” She latched on to Angie’s shoulder and spun her around. “Jeans by Roberto Cavalli. A good Italian boy. This is good. But your shoes aren’t sensible for walking in town. You’ll need new ones. And I hear you’re working at the restaurant. You’ll need shoes for that.”
Angie couldn’t contain her smile. “You’re right, as always.”
Mrs. Costanza touched her cheek. “Your mama is so happy to have you home. It has been a bad year.”
Angie’s smile faltered. “For all of us.”
“He was a good man. The best.”
For a moment they fell silent, staring at each other, both of them thinking about her father. Finally, Angie said, “Before you sell me a pair of comfortable shoes, I’m interested in the coat in the window.”
“That coat is awfully young for you, Angela. I know in the city—”
“It’s not for me. It’s for … a friend.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “It is what all the girls want this year. Come.”
An hour later, Angie left the Clothes Line with two winter coats, two pair of angora gloves, a pair of non–name brand tennis shoes, and a pair of black flats for work. Her first stop was the packaging store in town, where she boxed up the coats.
She intended to drop them off at Help-Your-Neighbor. She really did.
But somehow she found herself parked on the girl’s street, staring up at the dilapidated apartment building.
She gathered up the box and headed for the front door. Her heels caught in cracks in the paved walkway, threw her off balance. She imagined that she looked like Quasimodo, lurching forward. If anyone were watching, which, frankly, the blank, dark windows denied.
The main door was unlocked; indeed, it hung off one hinge. She opened it, stepped into a gloomy darkness. There was a bank of mailboxes to her left, with numbers on them. The only name listed was that of the manager’s: Dolores Mauk, 1A.
Angie was across the hall from 1A. Hefting the box under her arm, she went to the door and knocked. When no one answered, she tried again.
“I’m comin’,” someone said.
The door opened. A middle-aged woman with a hard face and soft eyes stood there. She wore a floral housedress and Converse high-top tennis shoes. A red kerchief covered most of her hair.
“Are you Ms. Mauk?” Angie asked, feeling suddenly conspicuous. She felt the woman’s wariness.
“I am. Whaddaya want?”
“This package. It’s for Lauren Ribido.”
“Lauren,” the woman said, her mouth softening into a smile. “She’s a good girl.” Then she frowned again. “You don’t look like a delivery person.” Mrs. Mauk’s gaze slid pointedly down to Angie’s shoes, then back up.
“It’s a winter coat,” Angie said. In the silence that followed, Angie felt compelled to explain. “I was at Help-Your-Neighbor when she—Lauren—came in, asking for a coat for her mother. I thought … why not get two? So here I am. I could leave the box with you. Would that be okay?”
“You’d best. They aren’t home now.”
Angie handed her the box. She had just started to turn away when the woman asked her name.
“Angela Malone. Used to be DeSaria.” She always added that in town. Everyone, it seemed, knew her family.
“From the restaurant?”
Angie smiled. “That’s me.”
“My daughter used to love that place.”
Used to. That was the problem with the restaurant. People had forgotten about it. “Bring her by again. I’ll make sure she gets the royal treatment.” Angie knew instantly that she’d said something wrong.
“Thanks,” Ms. Mauk said in a husky voice. “I’ll do that.”
And the door shut.