Angie read the instructions for making ricotta gnocchi for at least the fourth time. She did not consider herself a stupid woman, but she couldn’t figure out how the hell she was supposed to use the tines of a fork to form the gnocchis.
“Forget it.” She rolled the dough into a rope and cut it in small pieces. She’d decided to learn to cook; that didn’t mean she wanted to make it her life’s work. “Good enough.”
She then stirred the sauce. The pungent aroma of sizzling garlic and onion and simmering tomatoes filled the cottage. Not as good as Mama’s, of course; you couldn’t get that homemade aroma from a store-bought sauce. She only hoped that none of her family stopped by.
At least she was cooking.
It was supposed to be therapeutic. That was what her sisters always said. Angie had been desperate enough to give it a try, but now she knew. All that mixing and chopping and scraping hadn’t helped at all.
I won’t live through it all again. The highs, the lows, the obsessions.
Maybe she shouldn’t have told Conlan about Lauren. Not yet anyway. Maybe she should have let their love take hold first.
No.
That would have been like the old days, with her in a lonely wilderness that bordered his but didn’t cross over. Though he didn’t see the nuances of her change, she did.
Honesty had been her only choice.
Once or twice today she’d meandered down the road of regret, almost wishing she hadn’t invited Lauren home with her, but in truth, she couldn’t really go there. She was glad to be helping the girl.
She washed a bunch of fresh basil leaves and began to chop them. They stuck to the knife and formed a green glob. She cut what was left into slices with her scissors.
The front door opened. Lauren walked into the house. She was soaking wet.
Angie glanced at the clock. “You’re early. I was supposed to pick you up—”
“I thought I’d save you the trouble.” Lauren peeled out of her coat and hung it up on the iron coat rack, then she kicked off her shoes. They thunked against the wall.
“Put your shoes away neatly, please,” Angie said automatically, channeling her mother. At the realization, she laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“I am. I sounded just like my mother for a second there.” She tossed the basil in the sauce, stirred it once with a wooden spoon and covered the pot. “So,” she said, setting the spoon down. “I thought you were going to stay after school with David.”
Lauren looked miserable. “Yeah. Well.”
“I’ll tell you what. Go put on some dry clothes and we’ll have some hot cocoa and talk.”
“You’re busy.”
“I’m cooking. Which probably means we’ll have to go out for dinner, so you might as well get dressed.”
At last, a smile. “Okay.”
Angie turned the heat on the stove to low, then made a pot of homemade hot cocoa. It was one of the few things she made well. By the time she was finished and had taken a seat in the living room, Lauren was coming down the stairs.
“Thanks,” Lauren said, taking a cup of cocoa, sitting in the big leather chair by the window.
“I take it your day didn’t go well,” Angie said, trying to keep her voice gentle.
Lauren shrugged. “I feel … older than all my friends.”
“I guess I can see that.”
“They’re worrying about Civil War battle dates, and I’m worrying about how to pay for day care while I go to college. Not a lot in common there.” She looked up. “David said he might buy me a ring.”
“Is that a proposal?”
It was exactly the wrong thing to say. Poor Lauren’s face crumbled. “I didn’t think so.”
“Oh, honey, don’t be too hard on him. Even grown men can’t handle impending fatherhood. David probably feels like he’s been dropped out of an airplane and the ground is rushing up to meet him. He knows he’s going to hit hard. Just because he’s scared doesn’t mean he loves you less.”
“I don’t know if I could take that. Him not loving me, I mean.”
“I know what you mean.”
Lauren looked up sharply. She wiped her eyes and sniffed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I don’t want you to be sad, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“You still love your ex. I can tell by the way you talk about him.”
“I’m that obvious, huh?” Angie looked down at her hands, then said slowly, “I saw him today.” She didn’t know what made her share that secret. The need to talk about it, maybe.
“Really? Is he still in love with you, too?”
Angie could hear the hope in Lauren’s voice and she understood the girl’s need to believe that a burned-out love could be rekindled. What woman didn’t want to believe that? “I don’t know. There’s a lot of water under our bridge.”
“He wouldn’t like me living here.”
The perceptiveness of the observation surprised Angie. “Why do you say that?”