Drugs, Maria would say, shaking her head. So sad. No doubt she’d blame it all on Lauren’s red hair.
If she told the truth—that she’d had to cough up back-due rent—Maria and Angie would give each other that startled Oh, she’s poor/how pathetic look. Lauren had seen that look a hundred times in her life, from teachers and school counselors and neighbors.
She went to the window, stared out at the foggy night.
There were moments that mattered, that changed your life. Was a homecoming dance one of those memories that should be acquired at all costs? Would she be … lessened somehow by a failure to attend? Perhaps she should go in a vintage dress and pretend it was a fashion statement, an airy disregard for convention, instead of a response to her penniless life. They all knew she was on scholarship anyway. No one would say anything. But Lauren would know. All night she’d feel a little broken inside. Was the dance worth that?
These were questions a girl should ask her mother.
“Ha,” Lauren said without a trace of humor.
As usual, she had to follow her own counsel. There were two choices. She could make up a lie … or she could ask Angie for help.
Angie sat at the stainless steel counter. Notes and papers were spread out in front of her.
Mama stood with her back to the sink, her arms crossed. It didn’t take an expert to read her body language. Her eyes were narrowed and her mouth was a needle-thin line of displeasure.
Angie proceeded with the utmost caution. “I’ve spoken with Scott Forman at the theater. He’s ready to give us a fifty percent discount on tickets if we include him in our ads.”
Mama sniffed. “The movies are terrible these days. So much violence. It will upset people’s stomachs.”
“They’ll be eating before the movie.”
“Exactly.”
Angie pressed forward. Business had really picked up since the inception of the coat drive. It was time to implement the rest of her plan. “Do you think it’s a good idea?”
Mama shrugged. “We will see, I suppose.”
“And the advertising—you think that’s smart?”
“How much does it cost?”
Angie laid out the pricing sheets. Mama glanced at them but didn’t move from her place at the sink. “Too much.”
“I’ll see if I can negotiate better pricing.” She gently moved her notepad, revealing a menu from Cassiopeia’s, the four-star Italian restaurant in Vancouver. “Do you have any suggestions for wine night?”
Mama sniffed. “We could talk to Victoria and Casey McClellan. They own that winery in Walla Walla. What’s it called—Seven Hills? And Randy Finley up at Mount Baker Vineyards makes good wines. Maybe they would give us a good rate to feature their wines. Randy loves my osso bucco.”
“That’s a great idea, Mama.” Angie made some more notes on her list. When she finished, she nudged the Cassiopeia’s menu.
Mama craned her neck forward and tilted her head. “What’s that?”
“What?” Angie bit back a smile. “Now, about the fresh fish. We—”
“Angela Rose, why do you have that menu?”
Angie feigned surprise. “This? I was just interested in our competition.”
Mama waved her hand airily. “They have never even been to the old country, those people.”
“Their pricing is interesting.”
Mama looked at her. “How so?”
“The entrées start at $14.95 and go up from there.” Angie paused, shaking her head. “It’s sad that so many people equate high prices with quality.”
“Give me that.” Mama snatched the menu from the table and whipped it open. “Herbed pancakes with wild mushroom butter and pan-fried whitefish—for $21.95. This is not Italian. My mama, God rest her soul, made a tonno al cartoccio—tuna baked in parchment—that melted in your mouth.”
“Terry has tuna on sale this week, Mama. Ahi, too. And his calamari steaks were beautiful.”
“You are remembering your papa’s favorite. Calamari ripieni. It takes the very best tomatoes.”
“Johnny from the farmer’s market promises me red heaven.”
“Calamari and ahi are expensive.”
“We could try it for a night or two—an advertised special. If it doesn’t work, we can forget about it.”
There was a knock at the door.
Angie swore under her breath. Mama was close to agreeing. Any little change could send them back to square one.
Lauren walked into the kitchen, clutching her neatly folded apron.
“Good night, Lauren,” Angie said. “Lock up on your way out.”
Lauren didn’t move. She looked confused somehow, uncertain.
“Thank you, Lauren,” Mama said. “Have a nice evening.”
Lauren didn’t move.
“What is it?” Angie asked.
“I … uh …” Lauren frowned. “I can work tomorrow night after all.”
“Great,” Angie said, going back to her notes. “See you at five.”
The minute Lauren left, Angie returned to the discussion. “So, Mama, what do you think about upping the prices a little and adding a daily fish special?”