The minute she got out of the car, Lauren heard the first sound of Christmas: Bells. Every church in town was pealing its bells. Somewhere nearby a horse-drawn carriage was moving along; she could hear the clip-clop of the hooves and the jangling of harness bells.
In the town square, dozens—maybe hundreds—of tourists were milling about, moving from one store to the next, collecting in front of the booths that sold everything from hot cocoa to rum cake to candy canes. The Rotary Club was roasting chestnuts by the flagpole.
“Angela!” Maria’s voice rang out above the crowd.
The next thing Lauren knew, she was swept into the DeSaria family. Everyone was talking at once, telling jokes, holding hands. They moved from booth to booth, eating every morsel that was offered and buying bags of whatever they couldn’t eat on the spot. Lauren saw dozens of school friends moving through the crowd with their families. For once she felt as if she were a part of things instead of on the outside, looking in.
“It’s time,” Mira said at last. As if on cue, the family stopped. In fact, the whole town seemed to freeze.
The lights went out. Darkness clicked into place. Suddenly the stars overhead were stunning. An air of anticipation moved through the crowd. Angie took Lauren’s hand in hers, squeezed it gently.
The Christmas lights came on. Hundreds of thousands of them, all at once.
Lauren gasped.
Magic.
“Pretty cool, huh?” Angie said.
“Yeah.” Lauren’s throat felt tight.
They spent another hour in the square, and then walked to church for midnight mass, which in this day and age took place at ten. Lauren almost started to cry when she entered the church with Angie at her side. It was just like her little girl’s dream; she could easily pretend that Angie was her mother. After the service, the DeSarias split up, each going their separate ways.
Angie and Lauren walked through the crowd, pointing out things to each other along the way. By the time they reached the car, it had started to snow. They drove home slowly. The flakes were huge and airy. They fell lazily to earth.
Lauren couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a white Christmas. Rain was much more the holiday norm.
On Miracle Mile Road, the snow was sticking. It coated the tree limbs and dusted the roadside. The yard lay hidden beneath a blanket of sparkling white.
“I wonder if we’ll be able to go sledding tomorrow,” she said, bouncing up and down in her seat. She knew she was acting like a little kid but she couldn’t help it. “Or maybe we could make snow angels. I saw that on television once. Hey, who’s that?”
He was standing at the front door of Angie’s house in a wedge of golden light. A veil of falling snow obscured his face.
The car stopped.
Lauren peered through the windshield.
He stepped down from the porch, came closer.
And suddenly Lauren knew. The man in the worn Levi’s and black leather jacket was Conlan. She turned to Angie, whose eyes looked huge in her pale face.
“Is that him?”
Angie nodded. “That’s my Conlan.”
“Wow” was all Lauren could say. He looked like Pierce Brosnan. She got out of the car.
He came toward her, his shoes crunching on the gravel driveway. “You must be Lauren.”
His voice was low and rumbly, as if maybe he’d smoked or drank too much when he was young.
Lauren fought the urge to flinch. He had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen and they seemed to penetrate her to the bone. He seemed angry with her. “I am.”
“Conlan,” Angie said breathlessly, coming up beside him.
He didn’t look at Angie. His gaze was steady on Lauren. “I came to meet you.”
TWENTY-SIX
He was trying to keep his distance from Lauren; Angie could tell. He wore his reporter detachment like a suit of armor, as if a few patches of hammered together metal could protect a man’s heart. He sat stiffly upright at the head of the table, shuffling cards. They’d been playing Hearts for the last hour, talking almost the whole time, although Angie wouldn’t characterize it as conversation. An interrogation was more apt.
“And you’ve applied to colleges?” Conlan asked as he dealt the next hand. He didn’t look at Lauren. It was, Angie knew, an old reporter’s trick. Don’t look; they’ll think it’s a casual question, one you don’t care about.
“Yes,” Lauren answered without looking up from her cards.
“Where?”
“USC. Pepperdine. Stanford. Berkeley. UW. UCLA.”
“Do you still think college is an option?”
The reference to the baby made Angie look up sharply from her cards.
Lauren’s gaze was surprisingly direct. It was clear that she’d decided enough was enough. “I’m going to college.”
“It’ll be hard,” he said, pulling out cards to pass.
“I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Malone,” Lauren said, her voice taking on strength, “but life is always hard. I got a scholarship to Fircrest because I never gave up. I’ll get a scholarship to college for the same reason. Whatever I have to do, I’ll do.”
“Do you have any relatives to help?”
“Angie is helping me.”
“What about your own family?”