Angie spun around at the sound of her mother’s voice.
Mama stood behind the sofa, staring at her, obviously trying to smile. She was dressed in a ratty old flannel nightgown, one Papa had given her years ago. She crossed the room and snapped off the stereo.
“What are you doing here, Mama?”
Mama sat down on the sofa and patted the cushion. “I knew you would have a hard night.”
Angie sat down beside her, close enough to lean against her mother’s steady side. “How did you know?”
Mama put an arm around her. “The girl,” she said at last.
Angie couldn’t believe she hadn’t figured it out. Of course. “I’ll need to keep my distance from her, won’t I?”
“You’ve never been good at that.”
“No.”
Mama tightened her hold. “Just be careful. Your heart is soft.”
“It feels as if it’s in pieces sometimes.”
Mama made a sound, a little sigh. “We keep breathing in times like that. There’s nothing else.”
Angie nodded. “I know.”
After that, they got out a deck of cards and played gin rummy long into the night. By the time they fell asleep side by side on the sofa, curled up beneath a quilt Mama had made years ago, Angie had found her strength again.
NINE
Lauren showed up for work fifteen minutes early. She wore her best pair of black jeans and a white cotton blouse that she’d gotten Mrs. Mauk to iron for her.
She knocked on the door and waited for an answer. When none came, she cautiously opened the door and peered inside.
The restaurant was dark. Tables sat in shadows. “Hello?” She closed the door behind her.
A woman came around the corner, moving fast, her hands coiled in the stained white apron that covered her clothing. She saw Lauren and stopped.
Lauren felt like a bug trapped in a child’s hand. That was how this woman stared at her, narrow-eyed and frowning. Old-fashioned eyeglasses made her eyes appear huge.
“You are the new girl?”
She nodded, feeling a slow blush creep up her cheeks. “I’m Lauren Ribido.” She stepped forward, held her hand out. They shook hands. The woman’s grip was stronger than Lauren had expected.
“I am Maria DeSaria. Is this your first job?”
“No. I’ve been working for years. When I was little—fifth and sixth grade—I picked strawberries and raspberries at the Magruder farm. I’ve been working at Rite Aid since it opened last summer.”
“Berries? I thought that was mostly migrant workers.”
“It is. Mostly. The pay was okay for a kid.”
Maria tilted her head to one side, frowning as she studied Lauren. “Are you a troubled girl? Runaway, drugs? That sort of thing?”
“No. I have a 3.9 grade point at Fircrest Academy. I’ve never been in any kind of trouble.”
“Fircrest. Hmm. Are you Catholic?”
“Yes,” Lauren answered with a nervous frown. It was a dangerous thing to admit these days. So much trouble in the church. She forced herself to stand perfectly straight. No fidgeting.
“Well. That’s good, even if you do have red hair.”
Lauren had no idea what to say to that, so she remained silent.
“Have you waitressed before?” Maria asked at last.
“Yes.”
“So when I tell you to set up the tables and wipe down the menus, you know what I mean.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“The silverware is in that chest,” Maria said. “Not that it’s real silver,” she added quickly.
“Okay.”
They stared at each other. Lauren felt like that bug again.
“Well. Get started,” Maria said.
Lauren ran for the chest and pulled open the top drawer. Silverware rattled at the ferocity of the movement. She winced, knowing that already she’d done something wrong.
She glanced worriedly back at Maria, who stood there, frowning, watching Lauren fumble through the drawer.
It was not going to be easy to please that woman, Lauren thought. Not easy at all.
By the end of her shift Lauren knew two things: She needed to wear tennis shoes to work, and earning enough money for back rent and a decent dress wasn’t going to happen at DeSaria’s.
Still, she liked the place. The food was wonderful. She worked as hard as she could, trying to find jobs that needed to be done before someone—namely Maria—told her what to do. Now she was refilling all the olive oil decanters.
“You know,” Angie said, coming up behind her, “this could be a great restaurant if people actually showed up. Here.” She handed Lauren a dessert plate that held a piece of tiramisu. “Join me.”
They sat down at the table by the fireplace. The flames flickered and snapped.