Authors: Kristin Hannah
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.”
“We … uh … didn’t technically expel Lauren. I merely suggested that girls could be cruel to a girl in her kind of trouble.” She frowned. “I didn’t know about your husband.” She started looking through Lauren’s file.
Angie looked at Lauren. “You worried about the girls being mean to you?”
Lauren shook her head. If she had a voice, she couldn’t find it.
Angie turned back to the counselor. “It was kind of you to think of Lauren’s feelings on this, but as you can see, she’s a tough kid.”
Mrs. Detlas slowly closed Lauren’s folder. Then she said, “I suppose she could finish the semester here and
take the finals. There’s only six weeks left in the term, and Christmas break cuts in the middle of it. She could take her finals in January and graduate early, but I really believe—”
Angie stood up. “Thank you, Mrs. Detlas. Lauren will graduate from Fircrest, which is as it should be.”
“You’re welcome,” Mrs. Detlas said, obviously irritated.
“I’m sure you’ll make every effort to help her. And I’ll be sure and tell my uncle how well it all turned out for Lauren.”
“Your uncle?”
“Oh, did I forget to mention that?” She looked right at the counselor. “Cardinal Lanza is my mother’s brother.”
Mrs. Detlas seemed to shrink into her chair. “Oh” was how she answered, but it could hardly be heard at all.
“Let’s go, Lauren,” Angie said, heading for the door.
Lauren stumbled along beside her. “That was
amazing,
” she said when they got outside.
“And fun. The old bat needed a wake-up call.”
“How did you know what to say?”
“Life, honey. It all comes in handy.”
Lauren smiled. She felt great. Better than great. No one had ever fought for her like that, and the effort strengthened her, made her feel invincible. With Angie on her side, she could do anything.
Even attend classes when she knew people would be staring and talking.
Angie grinned. “I just hope there is a Cardinal Lanza.”
At that, they both burst into laughter.
Angie stood at the corner, watching Lauren walk across campus. She held herself back from shouting: “Bye, honey. Have a good day at school. I’ll be here at
six to pick you up.” She was still young enough to know that such a scene would be the height of uncool. And poor Lauren didn’t need any extra attention to come her way. Pregnant in private school was tough enough. A geek wannabe mother might push her over the edge.
Lauren paused at the big building’s double door. Turning slightly, she waved at Angie, then disappeared inside.
Angie’s chest felt tight. “You little witches better be nice to my girl,” she said. Closing her eyes, she said a prayer for Lauren, then she got into the car.
As she was driving home, trying not to imagine the firestorm of gossip at Fircrest Academy, she considered going back, parking by the flagpole, just in case. What if Lauren came out crying, broken by the kinds of petty cruelty that only teenage girls could inflict? She would need Angie …
“No,” she said aloud, taking charge of her negative fantasies. Lauren had to get through this day on her own. There was no other way. The road she’d found herself on was dark and scary; there was no way out except straight through.
The bleating ring of her cell phone saved her. She dug into her purse and found it, answering on the third ring.
“Angie?”
She hadn’t realized until just then, when she drew in a sharp breath, that she’d been waiting for this. “Hey, Con,” she said, trying to sound casual. To be safe, she pulled off to the side of the road. Her heart was going a mile a minute.
“I’ve been thinking about the other night.”
Me, too.
“We need to talk.” “That’s been true for years,” she said. “Do you want
to come down to the cottage?” The minute the invitation slipped out, she thought:
Lauren.
He would not be happy about the situation.
“Not today, I’m busy,” he said. “Maybe …” His voice trailed into the dark woods of uncertainty. He was reconsidering; she could tell.
“It’s Monday. The restaurant’s closed. I could come up and buy you lunch.”
“Lunch?”
“It’s a meal. Often characterized by sandwiches and soups.” Her joke fell flat. “Come on, Con. You need to eat lunch.”
“How about Al Boccalino?”
“I can be there by eleven-thirty.” She flicked her turn signal and eased back onto the road.
“See you then. Bye,” he said.
“Bye.” Angie wanted to smile, but all she could think about was the girl living under her roof. Conlan would not take this news well.
She made it to downtown Seattle in record time, parked the car, and headed for the restaurant.
Their restaurant.
At least, it had been once.
She was four blocks away when it started to pour. Raindrops the size of golf balls battered the sidewalk in front of her, formed rushing silver rivers along the curb. She popped open her umbrella and headed for Pioneer Square. In the park, dozens of homeless people huddled in pods, passing cigarettes back and forth, trying to keep dry.
Finally she reached Yesler. The viaduct—that arching concrete overpass that dared a big earthquake to crumble it—held the rain at bay.
She ducked into the restaurant. Al Boccalino was
empty this early in the day. The working lunch crowd wouldn’t be here for another hour at least.
Carlos, the owner of the restaurant, came around the corner. Seeing her, he smiled.
“Mrs. Malone. It’s good to see you again.”
“You, too.” She handed him her coat and umbrella and followed him into the small, Tuscan-inspired trattoria. Immediately, she smelled the pungent combination of garlic and thyme that reminded her of home.
“You should bring your mama back some time,” Carlos said with a smile.
Angie laughed. The one time she had brought her parents here, Mama had spent the whole night in the kitchen, chastising the chef for cutting tomatoes for marinara.
Crush them,
she’d muttered.
That is why God gave us hands.
“Sure, Carlos,” she said, her smile fading when she saw Conlan.
He rose at her entrance.
Carlos helped her into her seat, gave them each a menu, and then disappeared.
“It feels strange to be here again,” Angie said.
“I know. I haven’t been here since our anniversary.”
She frowned. “I thought your apartment was right around the corner.”
“It is.”
That silence descended again. They looked at each other.
Carlos appeared at the table, holding a bottle of champagne. “My favorite couple together again. Is good.” He filled each fluted glass with glittering, bubbling liquid. He looked at Conlan. “You let me decide your lunch menu, yes?”
“Of course,” Conlan answered, still looking at Angie.
She felt exposed by that look, vulnerable. She reached for her glass, needing something in her hand.
I want to tell you about this girl I met.
“Conlan,” she said just as Carlos reappeared by the table, holding a plate of caprese salad. By the time they’d oohed and aahed over the food, Angie had lost her nerve. She finished her glass of champagne and poured a second.
She’s really great. She’s living with me. Oh, and did I mention she’s pregnant?
Conlan leaned forward, put his elbows on the table. “This morning I got a call from my agent. I’ve been offered a book contract.” He paused, then said, “And the only person I wanted to tell was you. What do you think that means?”
She knew how much it had cost him to admit that. She wanted to reach for him, take his hand in hers, and tell him that she still loved him, that she’d always loved him and always would, but it was too soon for that. Instead, she said, “I think it means we loved each other for a long time.”
“Most of my life.”
She touched her glass to his. The brittle clinking was the sound of beginnings. She knew she should tell him about Lauren now, but she couldn’t do it. This moment felt magical somehow, full of possibility. “Tell me everything.”
He launched into the story of a local man who had been convicted of raping and killing several elderly women in the late nineties. Conlan had done an investigative piece on the story and been hooked. He’d come to believe the man was innocent, and DNA tests had just proven it. “It’s a Cinderella deal,” he said. “They’re giving me a decent amount of money to write this book and another one.”
He was still talking about the story an hour later when they finished their dessert and paid the bill.
Angie got to her feet, noticing that she was more than a little tipsy.
Conlan stood beside her, steadied her with his touch.
She stared up at him. His face, creased now in a smile, made her want to cry. “I’m so proud of you, Conlan.”
His smile faded. “This can’t be good.”
“What can’t? I—”
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, right there in the restaurant, in front of everyone. It wasn’t one of those you-could-be-my-grandma kisses, either. Oh, no.
“Wow,” she said when it was over. She realized she was swaying slightly. She tried to remain still. It was difficult; her heart was pounding. She wanted him with a ferocity that surprised her. “But we need to talk,” she said, trying to think straight.
“Later,” he said in a gravelly, desperate voice. Taking her hand, he pulled her toward the door. “We’re going to my place.”
She gave in. It was impossible not to. “Can we run?”
“Definitely.”
Outside, Angie was surprised to see that it was still light. Then she remembered: It had been a lunch date. They ran through the rain down Yesler Street, turned on Jackson.
Conlan jammed his key in the lock.
Angie pressed up against his back and put her arms around him. She moved her hands down to his waistband.
“Damn,” he muttered, trying another key.
The lock clicked open.
He pushed through the door and dragged her toward the elevator. When the doors opened, they tumbled inside, still kissing.
Angie was on fire. She touched him everywhere, kissed him until she felt dizzy.
She couldn’t breathe.
The doors opened. He swept her into his arms and carried her down the hall. In minutes—seconds—they were in his bedroom.
Conlan placed her gently on the bed. She lay there, feeling dazed with the kind of desire she’d forgotten about. “Take off your clothes,” she said in a husky voice, propping herself onto her elbows. He knelt at the foot of the bed, between her legs. “I can’t stay away from you,” he whispered. There was both wonder and disappointment in his voice.
She knew there would be a price for this moment.
Right now, she didn’t care.
Naked, Angie stood at the window of her husband’s—ex-husband’s—apartment, staring out at Elliott Bay. Rain gave the world a blurry, distant countenance. Cars rumbled north and south on the viaduct. The windowpanes rattled ever so softly from all that traffic, made a sound like the chattering of teeth.
If this were a movie moment, she’d be smoking a cigarette and frowning while a montage of images from their failed marriage and newborn reconciliation flashed across the screen. The last image, as the movie returned to the present, would be Lauren’s face.
“You look worried,” Conlan said.
How well he knew her. Even when she stood in profile, with her back slanted toward him, he could tell. Probably it was in her stance. He always said she tilted her chin up and crossed her arms when she was upset.
She didn’t turn to face him. In the window, a ghostly image of her face, blurred by rain, gazed back at her. “I wouldn’t say worried. Thoughtful, maybe.”
The bed springs creaked. He must be sitting up. “Ange?”
Finally, she went to the bed and sat down beside him. He touched her arm, kissed the swell of her breast.
“What is it?”
“I need to tell you something,” she said.
He drew back. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“There’s this girl.”
“Oh?”
“She’s a good girl. Perfect grades. Hardworking.”
“And she’s relevant to us how?”
“I hired her in September. She works at the restaurant about twenty hours a week. You know, after school, weekends. Mama hates to admit it, but she’s the best waitress they’ve ever had.”
Conlan eyed her. “What’s her tragic flaw?”
“There isn’t one.”
“Angie Malone, I know you. Now what the hell are we really talking about here? And don’t tell me it’s a girl who is a great waitress.”
“Her mother abandoned her.”
“Abandoned?”
“Just walked out one day.”
His gaze was steady. “Tell me you found her a place to live—”
“Gave her a place.”
Conlan blew out a heavy breath. “She’s living with you at the cottage?”
“Yes.”
Disappointment stamped itself on his face—in his blue eyes, in his frowning mouth. “So you have a teenager living in the house.”
“It’s not like that. Not like before, anyway. I’m just helping her out until …”
“Until what?”
Angie sighed and covered her eyes with her hand. “Until the baby is born.”