“You will not fire Rosa.” Mama tossed down her dishrag. It hit the counter like a gauntlet.
“I would never do that.”
Mama relaxed a tiny bit. “Good.”
“Come with me,” Angie said, reaching out for Mama’s hand.
Together they walked out of the kitchen. In the shadow behind the archway, Angie paused. “You see that girl?”
“She ordered the lasagna,” Mama said. “Looks like she loved it.”
“I want … I’m going to hire her to work nights and weekends.”
“She’s too young.”
“I’m hiring her. And she’s not too young. Livvy and Mira were waitressing at a much earlier age.”
Mama shifted and frowned, studying the girl. “She doesn’t look Italian.”
“She isn’t.”
Mama drew in a sharp breath and pulled Angie deeper into the shadows. “Now look here—”
“Do you want me to help you in the restaurant?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then let me help.”
“Rosa will feel slighted.”
“Honestly, Mama, I think she’ll be glad. Last night she bumped into the walls twice. She’s tired. She’ll welcome the help.”
“High school girls never work out. Ask your papa.”
“We can’t ask Papa. This is for you and me to decide.”
Mama seemed to deflate at the reminder about Papa. The wrinkles in her cheeks deepened. She bit down on her lower lip and peered around the corner again. “Her hair is a mess.”
“It’s raining out. I think she’s been looking for work. The way you did, remember, in Chicago, when you and Papa were first married.”
The memory seemed to soften Mama. “Her shoes have holes in them, and her blouse is too small. Poor thing. Still.” She frowned. “The last redhead who worked here stole a whole night’s receipts.”
“She’s not going to steal from us.”
Mama pulled away from the wall and walked down the hallway toward the kitchen. She was talking, whispering, the whole time, gesturing wildly.
If Angie closed her eyes, she might have seen her father there, standing firm, smiling gently at his wife’s theatrics even as he disagreed with her.
Mama spun around and came back to Angie. “He always thought you were the smart one. Fine. Hire this girl but don’t let her use the register.”
Angie almost laughed at that, it was so absurd. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Mama turned on her heel and left the restaurant.
Angie glanced out the window. Mama was marching down the street, arguing with a man who wasn’t there.
“Thanks, Papa,” Angie said, smiling as she walked through the now empty restaurant.
Lauren looked up at her. “That was delicious,” she said, sounding nervous. She folded her napkin carefully and set it on the table.
“My mother can really cook.” Angie sat down across from the girl. “Are you a responsible employee?”
“Completely.”
“We can count on you to show up on time?”
Lauren nodded. Her dark eyes were earnest. “Always.”
Angie smiled. This was the best she’d felt in months. “Okay, then. You can start tomorrow night. Say five to ten. Is that okay?”
“It’s great.”
Angie reached across the table and shook Lauren’s warm hand. “Welcome to the family.”
“Thanks.” Lauren got quickly to her feet. “I’d better go home now.”
Angie would have sworn she saw tears in the girl’s brown eyes, but before she could comment on it, Lauren was gone. It wasn’t until later, when Angie was closing out the register, that it dawned on her.
Lauren had bolted at the word family.
When Angie got home, the cottage was quiet and dark, and in all those shadows lay loneliness.
She closed the door behind her and stood there, listening to the sound of her own breathing. It was a sound she’d grown used to, and yet here, in this house that had been loud in her youth, it wounded her. When she couldn’t stand it anymore, she tossed her purse on the entry table and went to the old RCA stereo in the living room. She pushed a cassette into the tape player and turned the system on.
Tony Bennett’s voice floated through the speakers, filling the room with music and memories. This was her papa’s favorite tape; the one he’d made himself. Every song began late, sometimes as much as a whole stanza. Whenever he’d heard one he loved, he’d jump up from his chair and run for the stereo, yelling, “I love this one!”
She wanted to smile at the memory, but that lightness wasn’t in her. In fact, it felt far away. “I hired a new waitress tonight, Papa. She’s a high school girl. You can imagine Mama’s reaction to that. Oh, and she has red hair.”
She went to the window and stared outside. Moonlight dusted the waves and glistened along the dark blue sea. The next song came on. Bette Midler’s “Wind Beneath My Wings.”
It had played at his funeral.
The music swirled around her, threatened to pull her under.
“It is easy to talk to him, isn’t it? Especially here.”