Babies, that smile of Mama’s said, grow as naturally as green buds in springtime. Angie sighed.
For years, she had used this camera all the time, documenting every moment of her life. She was there, year after year, snapping pictures at family gatherings—birthday parties, baby showers, preschool graduations. Somewhere along the way, it had begun to cause her pain, this looking through the viewfinder at a life she wanted desperately but couldn’t have. One by one, she’d stopped photographing her nieces and nephews. It simply hurt too much to see her loss in color. She knew it was selfish of her, and childish, too, but some lines couldn’t be crossed. By the time little Dani had been born—only five years ago now; it felt like a lifetime—Angie had put the camera away for good.
She grabbed the camera, refilled the film, and went downstairs.
Lauren stood at the fireplace with her back to the flames. The golden glow wreathed her, gave her pale, freckled skin a bronze sheen. The shell pink gown was a little too big on her, and a little too long, but neither flaw was noticeable. With her hair coiled into a French twist and held back by the butterfly clip, she looked like a princess.
“You look beautiful,” Angie said, coming into the room. She was embarrassed by how much emotion she suddenly felt. It was a little thing—helping a teenage girl get ready for a school dance; nothing, really—so why did she feel so much?
“I know,” Lauren said. There was wonder in her voice. Surprise.
Angie needed the distance of a viewfinder suddenly. She started snapping photographs. She kept taking them, one after another, until Lauren laughed and said: “Wait! Save some film for David.”
Angie felt like an idiot. “You’re right. Have a seat. I’ll get us tea while we wait.” She went into the kitchen.
“He said he’d be here at seven o’clock. We’re going to the club for dinner.”
In the kitchen, Angie made two cups of tea, then carried them into the living room. “The club, huh? Pretty hoity-toity.”
Lauren giggled. She looked impossibly young just then, perched as she was on the very edge of the sofa. Obviously she was afraid to wrinkle her gown. She sipped her tea with extreme care, holding the cup with two hands.
Angie felt a surge of emotion; she was afraid of what the world could do to a girl like this, one who seemed sometimes to be too alone.
“You’re looking at me weird. Am I holding the cup wrong?” Lauren asked.
“No.” Angie quickly took another photograph. As she lowered the camera back to her lap, she met Lauren’s starry-eyed gaze. How could a mother not want to experience this moment? “I guess you’ve gone to lots of school dances,” she said. That was probably the answer.
“Yeah. Most of them.” Lauren didn’t seem to really be listening, though. Her voice sounded distracted. Finally, she set down her teacup and said, “Can I ask you something?”
“Generally that’s a question one should say no to. Often hell no.”
“Really. Can I?”
“Fire away.” Angie leaned back into the sofa’s denim pillows.
“Why did you do all this for me tonight?”
“I like you, Lauren. That’s all. I wanted to help.”
“I think it’s because you feel sorry for me.”
Angie sighed. She knew she couldn’t deflect the question. Lauren wanted a real answer. “That was part of it, maybe. Mostly, though … I know how it feels not to get what you want.”
“You?”
Angie swallowed hard. A part of her wished she hadn’t opened this particular door—and yet it had felt so natural to speak. Though now that she’d begun, she didn’t know quite how to move forward. “I don’t have children,” she said.
“Why not?”
Angie actually appreciated the directness of the question. Women her own age tended to recognize the land mine in this conversation and walk gingerly around it. “The doctors don’t know, exactly. I’ve been pregnant three times but …” She thought of Sophia and closed her eyes for a second, then went on. “No luck.”
“So you liked helping me get ready?” There was a wistfulness in Lauren’s voice that matched Angie’s own emotions.
“I did,” she answered softly. She was about to say something else when the doorbell rang.
“It’s David,” Lauren said, popping to her feet, running for the door.
“Stop!” Angie called out.
“What?”
“A lady is called when the date arrives. Go upstairs. I’ll answer the door.”
“Really?” Lauren’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“Go.”
As soon as Lauren was upstairs, Angie went to the front door and opened it.
David stood on the small porch. In a flawlessly cut black tuxedo with a white shirt and silver tie, he was every teenage girl’s dream.
“You must be David. I’ve seen you drive up to the restaurant. I’m Angie Malone.”
He shook her hand so hard she swore she felt the bones clamp together. “David Ryerson Haynes,” he said, smiling nervously, looking past her.
Angie stepped back, ushered him inside. “Of the timber family?”