“Love shouldn’t be one of those things.”
Angie wished she could be that na?ve again, but innocence was one of the casualties of divorce. Maybe the first one. “I know,” she answered, leaning against her sister. She didn’t say what they both knew: that it happened every day.
Lauren got off the bus on Shorewood Street.
There it was in front of her: a bright, sprawling Safeway.
You know what makes a girl throw up for no reason, don’t you?
She flipped the hood of her sweatshirt up and tried to lose herself in the soft, cottony folds. Looking down to avoid eye contact with anyone, she marched into the store, snagged a red basket, and headed straight for the “feminine needs” aisle.
She didn’t bother pricing the tests; instead, she grabbed two boxes and tossed them in her basket, then ran to the magazine aisle, where she yanked a U.S. News & World Report out of the stack. The cover story was “How Colleges Compare.”
Perfect.
She tossed it on top of her pregnancy tests and made a beeline for the checkout.
An hour later she was home again, sitting on the edge of the bathtub. She’d locked the door, but there had been no need. The sounds that came from her mother’s bedroom were unmistakable: Mom wouldn’t be bothering Lauren right now.
She stared down at the box. The fine print was hard to read; her hands were trembling as she opened the box.
“Please God.” She didn’t voice the rest of her plea. He knew what she wanted.
Or, more precisely, what she most fervently did not want.
Angie stood at the hostess desk, making notes on the calendar. For the last twenty-four hours she’d worked from sunup to sundown. Anything was better than thinking about Conlan.
She looked up and saw Lauren standing by the fireplace, staring into the flames. The restaurant was full of customers, and yet there Lauren stood, doing nothing. Angie went to her, touched the girl’s shoulder.
Lauren turned, looking dazed. “What? Did you say something?”
“Are you okay?”
“Fine. Fine. I just needed something for table seven.” She frowned as if she couldn’t remember what she’d just said.
“Zabaglione.”
“Huh?”
“Table seven. Mr. and Mrs. Rex Mayberry. They’re waiting for zabaglione and cappuccino. And Bonnie Schmidt ordered a tiramisu.”
Lauren’s smile was pathetic. Her dark eyes remained dull, even sad. “That’s right.” She headed for the kitchen.
“Wait,” Angie said.
Lauren paused, looked back.
“Mama made some extra panna cotta. You know how quickly it goes bad. Stay a few minutes after work and have some with me.”
“I hardly need to eat fattening foods,” Lauren said, and walked away.
For the next few hours, Angie watched Lauren closely, noticing the paleness of her skin, the woodenness of her smile. Several times she tried to make Lauren laugh, all to no avail. Something was definitely wrong. Maybe it was David. Or maybe she’d been rejected by a college.
By the time Angie had ushered out the final guest, said good-bye to Mama, Mira, and Rosa, and closed out the register, she was really worried.
Lauren stood at the big picture window, staring out at the night, her arms crossed tightly against her chest. Across the street, volunteers were busily hanging turkeys and pilgrim hats from the streetlamps. Next, Angie knew, they’d string thousands of Christmas lights for the celebration that followed Thanksgiving. The annual tree lighting ceremony was an event to be remembered. Hundreds of tourists came to town for it. The first Saturday in December. Angie had rarely missed it, not even during her married years. Some family traditions were inviolable.
Angie came up behind Lauren. “It’s only a week until the first lighting celebration.”
“Yeah.”
She could see Lauren’s face in the window; the reflection was pale and indistinct. “Do you guys go to the ceremony every year?”
“You guys?” Lauren uncrossed her arms.
“You and your mom.”
Lauren made a sound that might have been a laugh. “Mommie Dearest isn’t one to stand in line on a cold night to watch lights turn on.”
A grown-up’s words, Angie realized; the explanation given to a child who longed to see the Christmas lights. Angie wanted to place a hand on the girl’s shoulder to let her know that she wasn’t alone, but such an intimacy felt unwelcome right now. “Maybe you’d like to come with me. I should say with us. The DeSarias descend on the town like locusts. We eat hot dogs and sip hot cocoa and buy roasted chestnuts from the Rotary booth. It’s hokey, I know, but—”
“No, thanks.”
Angie heard a defensive edge in the girl’s voice; beneath that, she heard heartache. She could also tell that Lauren was ready to bolt into the night, so she chose her words carefully. “What’s wrong, honey?”
At the word honey, Lauren seemed to shrink. She made a sound and spun away from the window. “See yah.”