It started raining when she was at the dry cleaners. By noon it was a full-on rainstorm. The streets were a cauldron of boiling water. There was nothing new in that.
The weather this time of year was predictable. From now until early May it would be gray skies and raindrops. Sunlight in the coming months would be a rare and unexpected gift that couldn’t be counted on and wouldn’t last. Those who couldn’t stand the continual shadow world of misty gray would find themselves waking in the middle of the night, restless, unable to sleep through the sound of rain on the roof.
She pulled up to the restaurant fifteen minutes late.
Lauren stood on the sidewalk beneath the restaurant’s green and white awning. There was an old blue backpack on the sidewalk at her feet.
Angie rolled down the window. “Sorry I’m late.”
“I’d thought you’d forgotten.”
Angie wondered if anyone kept the promises made to this girl, or if, in fact, any promises were ever made.
“Get in,” she said, opening the passenger door.
“Are you sure?”
Angie smiled. “Believe me, Lauren. I’m always sure. Livvy is covering my shift. Now get in.”
Lauren did as she was told, shutting the door hard. Rain hammered the car, made it shake and rattle.
They drove in silence. The metronomic thwop-thwop-thwop of the wipers was so loud it didn’t make sense to talk.
When they reached the cottage, Angie parked close to the front door.
Angie turned to Lauren. “Do you think we should call your mom? Maybe she’d like to join us.”
Lauren laughed. It was a bitter, humorless sound. “I don’t think so.” She seemed to realize how harsh she’d sounded. She smiled and shrugged. “She’s not one for dances.”
Angie didn’t go down the road of those words. She was this girl’s boss; that was all. She was loaning a dress to Lauren. Just that.
“Okay. Let’s go inside and see what I have.”
Lauren launched herself sideways, threw her arms around Angie. Her smile was so big it swallowed her face, made her look about eleven years old. “Thank you, Angie. Oh, thank you.”
Lauren hadn’t grown up on make-believe. Unlike most of her friends, she’d spent her childhood hours watching television shows that featured shoot-outs and hookers and women in jeopardy. Real life, as her mother so often pointed out. There had been no cartoons in the Ribido apartment, no Disney specials. By the tender age of seven, Lauren knew that Prince Charming was a crock. When she lay in her narrow twin bed in her apartment that smelled vaguely of cigarettes and beer, she didn’t dream of being Cinderella or Snow White. She’d never seen the point in the princess-swept-off-her-feet fantasy.
Until tonight.
Angie Malone had opened a door for Lauren on this night, and the view from its porch was staggering. It was a world that seemed bathed in sunlight and possibility.
First had come the dress. No, first had come the house.
“My papa built this place,” Angie had said. “When I was a kid, we spent summers out here.”
The house was tucked in among towering trees. The music of the distant surf filled the air.
A wraparound porch outlined the shingled, two-story cottage. Wicker rocking chairs were positioned carefully here and there; one could imagine sitting there, sipping hot cocoa on a day like today, watching the silver-tipped ocean below.
When Lauren saw the cottage, she stopped. This was the kind of home she’d always dreamed of.
“Lauren?” Angie had said, looking back at her.
Just looking at this home sparked a well of wanting.
“Sorry,” Lauren said, lurching forward.
Inside, the house was every bit as perfect as the exterior had implied. Big overstuffed denim sofas faced each other in front of a river rock fireplace. An old green trunk was the coffee table.
The kitchen was small and cheery, with butter yellow cabinets and a picture window that looked past the porch to a rose garden. Huge fir trees ringed the property, made it feel worlds away from any neighbor.
“It’s beautiful,” Lauren whispered.
“Thanks. We like it. So,” Angie said, bending down to light a fire. “What look do you want to go for?”
“Huh?”
Angie turned to face her. “Sexy? Innocent? Princess? What do you want to be tonight?”
“Any dress is okay.”
“You need serious help in the girlfriend department. Perhaps even send-an-aid-car help. Come on.” She walked past Lauren and headed up the narrow staircase. The steps creaked along the way.
Lauren rushed up behind her. They followed a slim hallway into an airy, lived-in-looking bedroom with a high-peaked white ceiling and whitewashed wood floors. A big four-poster bed dominated the room; on either side banged-up tables held reading lamps and piles of paperbacks.
Angie went to the walk-in closet and pulled the light cord. A single bulb hung overhead, casting a swinging beam of light onto rows of clothing.
“Let’s see here. I brought only a few of my gowns. I was actually going to try selling them on eBay.” She moved down to one end of the closet, where several yellow-beige Nordstrom garment bags hung smashed together.