She scooted under the bed and found the earring … and something else. Tucked way in the back was a long, narrow wooden box. It looked so much like the floorboards, you’d have to be this close to see it.
Lauren grabbed the box and dragged it out from underneath the bed. Opening it, she found a heap of old black-and-white family photographs. Most of them featured three little girls in pretty dresses gathered around a dark, well-dressed man with a smile that lit up his whole face. He was tall and almost elegantly thin, with eyes that closed into slits when he laughed. And he was laughing in most of the pictures. He reminded Lauren of that actor from the old days—the one who always fell in love with Grace Kelly.
Mr. DeSaria.
Absurdly, Lauren thought of him as Papa. She looked through the pictures, saw the images of a childhood she’d dreamed of: family road trips to the Grand Canyon and Disneyland; days spent at the Grays Harbor County Fair, eating cotton candy and riding the roller coaster; evenings at this very cottage, roasting marshmallows at a bonfire near the water’s edge.
A knock pounded at the door. “It’s six-thirty, Lauren. Rise and shine.”
“I’m up.” She pushed the box back under the bed, then made her bed and picked up her room. When she left it and closed the door behind her, there was no visible evidence that she’d even been there.
Downstairs, she found Angie in the kitchen. “Good morning,” Angie said, scooping scrambled eggs from a frying pan to a plate. “You’re just in time.”
“You made me breakfast?”
“Was that okay? Do you mind?”
“Are you kidding? It’s great.”
Angie smiled again. “Good. You’ll need to eat well in the next few months.”
They stared at each other in a sudden, awkward silence. The distant hum of the ocean seemed to grow louder. Lauren couldn’t help touching her stomach.
Angie winced. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”
“I’m pregnant. There’s no point pretending I’m not.”
“No.”
Lauren couldn’t think of anything else to say. She went to the table and sat down, scooting in close. “Breakfast smells great.”
Angie handed her a plate with a couple of scrambled eggs, two pieces of cinnamon toast, and some cantaloupe slices on it. “That’s about the only thing I can cook.”
“Thank you,” Lauren said softly, looking up.
Angie sat down across from her. “You’re welcome.” Finally, she smiled. “So, how did you sleep?”
“Good. I’ll have to get used to the quiet.”
“Yeah. When I moved to Seattle, it took me forever to get used to the noise.”
“Do you miss the city?”
Angie looked surprised by the question, as if maybe she hadn’t thought of it before. “I don’t, actually. I’ve been sleeping amazingly well lately; that must mean something.”
“It’s the sea air.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your mama told me that if a girl grows up smelling sea air, she can never really breathe inland.”
Angie laughed. “That sounds like my mother. But Seattle is hardly inland.”
“Your mother thinks everything except West End is inland.”
They talked a bit more about this and that, then Angie stood up. “You do the dishes. I’ll shower and meet you in ten minutes, then we’ll go to school.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m driving you, of course. The restaurant is closed today, so carpool is no problem. Hey, by the way, I thought Fircrest had a uniform.”
“They do.”
“Why are you in civilian clothes?”
Lauren felt the heat on her cheeks. “They took back my scholarship. Uniforms don’t come in elephant sizes, I guess.”
“Are you telling me they kicked you out of school because you’re pregnant?”
“It’s no big deal.” She hoped her voice didn’t betray how she really felt.
“The hell you say.”
“I don’t know—”
“Do the dishes, Lauren, and put on your uniform. We’re paying Fircrest Academy a little visit.”
An hour later, they were in the counselor’s office. Lauren stood with her back to the wall, trying to disappear into the rough, white stucco.
Angie sat in a chair, facing Mrs. Detlas, who was behind her desk, with her hands clasped together on the metal surface.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs. Ribido,” Mrs. Detlas said. “I guess there has been some miscommunication about Lauren’s future here at Fircrest.”
Lauren drew in a sharp breath and looked at Angie, who smiled.
“I’m here to discuss … my daughter’s future,” Angie said, crossing one leg over the other.
“I see. Well, you’ll need to discuss that with the counselor at West End. You see—”
“What I see,” Angie said evenly, “is a lawsuit. Or perhaps a headline: Catholic school expels poor, perfect student for being pregnant. I know about headlines because my ex-husband is a reporter for the Seattle Times. You know, he was saying just the other night that the big city papers could use a good small town scandal.”