Something was wrong.
The ashtrays on the coffee table were empty. No half filled glasses lined the kitchen counter. The ratty old purple afghan that usually draped over the back of the sofa was gone.
Gone.
No way. Even Mom wouldn’t—
She heard an engine start up outside; it was the throaty, unmistakable growl of a Harley Davidson motorcycle.
Lauren rushed to the window and whipped the flimsy curtain aside.
There, down on the street below, Mom sat behind Jake on the motorcycle. She was looking up at Lauren.
Lauren touched her fingertips to the glass. “No.”
Slowly, as if it hurt to move, her mother waved goodbye.
The motorcycle roared down the street, turned the corner, and disappeared from view.
Lauren stood there a long time, looking down at the empty street, waiting for them to come back.
When she finally turned away she saw the note on the coffee table.
That was when she knew.
She picked it up, opened it. A single word had been written in bold, blue ink.
There it was, the whole of their mother-daughter relationship reduced to a single word.
Sorry.
And the Boss sang on: Baby, we were born to run …
TWENTY-ONE
Angie dialed Lauren’s home number for the third time.
“Still no answer?” Mama asked, coming out of the kitchen.
Angie went to the window and stared out. “No. It’s not like her to miss work. I’m worried.”
“Girls of that age screw up sometimes. I’m sure it is nothing.”
“Maybe I should stop by her house …”
“A boss doesn’t just show up. She missed a night of work. So what? Probably she’s out drinking beers with her boyfriend.”
“You are hardly comforting me, Mama.”
Mama came up beside her. “She’ll be at work tomorrow. You’ll see. Why don’t you come home with me? We’ll have wine.”
“I’ll take a rain check, Mama. I want to get a Christmas tree.” She leaned against her mother. “In fact, I’m going to leave early, if that’s okay.”
“Papa … would be happy to see his cottage decorated again.”
Angie heard the crack in her mother’s voice and she understood. Mama was facing her first Christmas without Papa. She put her arm around her mother’s narrow waist, drew her close. “I’ll tell you what, Mama. On Wednesday, let’s make a day of it. We can go shopping and have lunch, then come home and decorate the tree. You can teach me how to make tortellini.”
“Tortellini is too difficult for you. We begin slowly. With tapenade, maybe. You can use a blender, yes?”
“Very funny.”
Mama’s smile softened. “Thank you,” she said.
They stood there a moment longer, holding each other as they stared out at the night. Finally, Angie said goodbye, grabbed her coat and left the restaurant.
The town square was a beehive of activity on this cold and cloudy night. Dozens of die-hard tourists milled about, oohing and aahing over the thousands of white lights strung throughout the town. At the end of the street a group of carolers in red and green velvet Victorian clothing sang “Silent Night.” More tourists and a few locals huddled around them, listening. You could recognize the locals by their lack of shopping bags. A horse-drawn carriage rumbled down the brick-paved street, bells jangling. The first tree lighting ceremony of the year had obviously been a success; next Saturday’s would be even bigger. Tourists would arrive by the bus-load; the locals would grumble that their town had turned into Disneyland and they would stay away at all costs. The restaurant would be packed all week.
By the time she reached the Christmas Shoppe, it had begun to snow. She flipped her hood up and hurried across the street, ducking into the store.
It was a Christmas wonderland, with trees and ornaments and lights everywhere. Angie came to a stop. Directly in front of her was a thin, noble fir tree, spangled with silver and gold ornaments. Each one was stunningly unique. Angels and Santas and multicolored glass balls.
It reminded her of the collection Conlan had started for her, all those years ago, with a tiny ornament from Holland that read: Our First Christmas. Every year since, he’d given her a new one.
“Hey, Angie,” said a lilting female voice.
Angie looked up, wiped her eyes, just as the shop’s owner, Tillie, came out from behind the cash register. She was dressed as Mrs. Claus in a red dress that had been old when Angie was a kid.
“I hear you’ve shaken it up at DeSaria’s,” Tillie said. “Rumor is your mom is so proud, she’s about to bust.”
Angie tried to smile. Life in West End had always been like this. No bit of business was ever too small to keep track of—especially if it was someone else’s. “She’s having fun with the new recipes, that’s for sure.”
“Who would have thought? I’d best get over there. Maybe after the holidays. So. What can I help you find?”
Angie looked around. “I need a few ornaments.”
Tillie nodded. “I heard about your divorce. I’m sorry.”