Authors: Kristin Hannah
When Mira returned from carpool, Angie was standing on her front porch.
“You’re up bright and early,” Mira said, walking up the path. “And you sorta look like shit.”
“You should talk. Does everyone wear ripped sweatpants and rubber shoes for carpool?”
“Most of us. Come on in.” Smiling, she led Angie into the house, which smelled of coffee and pancakes. Picking up toys along the way, she went to the kitchen and poured two cups of coffee. “Okay,” she said, settling into a plaid, overstuffed chair in the cluttered family room. “Why are you here and why do you look like a
Survivor
contestant?”
“Very funny.” Angie plopped into a chair. “I was up most of the night, working.”
“Working, huh?” Mira sipped her coffee and eyed Angie over the chipped rim.
Angie handed her sister a notebook. “Here’s what I want to do.”
Mira set down her mug and opened the notebook. Surprise widened her eyes as she read.
Angie launched into it. “In addition to the coat promotion, I’ve planned for wine night on Tuesdays, where all bottles would be half off; date night on Thursdays, where dinner would come with two movie tickets; and happy hour on Fridays and Saturdays. We could open the restaurant at three o’clock and serve drinks and free hors d’oeuvres until five o’clock. You know: antipasti, bruschetta, that kind of thing. My research indicates that a few happy hours a week could almost double our weekly gross. We’re wasting our liquor license by using it for a drink here and there. And how’s this:
Rediscover Romance at DeSaria’s.
It’s my ad tagline. I thought we could hand out roses to all the couples who come in.”
“Holy shit,” Mira muttered.
Angie knew what that meant: Her sister had come to the Big Item. The menu change. “I want us to double the prices and cut half the items on the current menu. We need to do more with fresh fish and seasonal vegetables.”
“Holy shit,” Mira said again, looking up. “Papa would have loved all this, Ange.”
“I know. It’s Mama I’m worried about.”
Mira laughed. “As we used to say,
duh.
”
“How do I pitch these ideas to her?”
“From a distance, preferably wearing body armor.”
“Funny.”
“Okay, princess. There are two ways to get around Mama. The first and most obvious is to use Papa. Ultimately, she’s always done anything to make him happy.”
“Unfortunately, she’s the one he’s talking to.”
“Yeah, so you’ll need plan B. Make her think it’s her idea. I did that when I wanted to go see Wings at the Kingdome. It took almost a month, but she finally decided I wouldn’t be American enough if I didn’t go with my friends.”
“How do I do that?”
“It starts with asking for advice.”
Lauren stood in the center of the dining room, staring down at the collection of salt and pepper shakers she’d gathered together.
All night she’d been trying to figure out how to ask Angie for an advance on her first paycheck. Or to borrow a dress.
Either way she’d look like a real loser. Not to mention that the DeSarias might wonder what had happened to her tip money.
Drugs,
Maria would say, shaking her head.
So sad.
No doubt she’d blame it all on Lauren’s red hair.
If she told the truth—that she’d had to cough up back-due rent—Maria and Angie would give each other that startled
Oh, she’s poor/how pathetic
look. Lauren had seen that look a hundred times in her life, from teachers and school counselors and neighbors.
She went to the window, stared out at the foggy night.
There were moments that mattered, that changed your life. Was a homecoming dance one of those memories that should be acquired at all costs? Would she be … lessened somehow by a failure to attend? Perhaps she should go in a vintage dress and pretend it was a fashion statement, an airy disregard for convention, instead of a response to her penniless life. They all knew
she was on scholarship anyway. No one would say anything. But Lauren would
know.
All night she’d feel a little broken inside. Was the dance worth that?
These were questions a girl should ask her mother.
“Ha,” Lauren said without a trace of humor.
As usual, she had to follow her own counsel. There were two choices. She could make up a lie … or she could ask Angie for help.
Angie sat at the stainless steel counter. Notes and papers were spread out in front of her.
Mama stood with her back to the sink, her arms crossed. It didn’t take an expert to read her body language. Her eyes were narrowed and her mouth was a needle-thin line of displeasure.
Angie proceeded with the utmost caution. “I’ve spoken with Scott Forman at the theater. He’s ready to give us a fifty percent discount on tickets if we include him in our ads.”
Mama sniffed. “The movies are terrible these days. So much violence. It will upset people’s stomachs.”
“They’ll be eating before the movie.”
“Exactly.”
Angie pressed forward. Business had really picked up since the inception of the coat drive. It was time to implement the rest of her plan. “Do you think it’s a good idea?”
Mama shrugged. “We will see, I suppose.”
“And the advertising—you think that’s smart?”
“How much does it cost?”
Angie laid out the pricing sheets. Mama glanced at them but didn’t move from her place at the sink. “Too much.”
“I’ll see if I can negotiate better pricing.” She gently moved her notepad, revealing a menu from Cassiopeia’s,
the four-star Italian restaurant in Vancouver. “Do you have any suggestions for wine night?”
Mama sniffed. “We could talk to Victoria and Casey McClellan. They own that winery in Walla Walla. What’s it called—Seven Hills? And Randy Finley up at Mount Baker Vineyards makes good wines. Maybe they would give us a good rate to feature their wines. Randy loves my osso bucco.”
“That’s a great idea, Mama.” Angie made some more notes on her list. When she finished, she nudged the Cassiopeia’s menu.
Mama craned her neck forward and tilted her head. “What’s that?”
“What?” Angie bit back a smile. “Now, about the fresh fish. We—”
“Angela Rose, why do you have that menu?”
Angie feigned surprise. “This? I was just interested in our competition.”
Mama waved her hand airily. “They have never even been to the old country, those people.”
“Their pricing is interesting.”
Mama looked at her. “How so?”
“The entrées start at $14.95 and go up from there.” Angie paused, shaking her head. “It’s sad that so many people equate high prices with quality.”
“Give me that.” Mama snatched the menu from the table and whipped it open. “Herbed pancakes with wild mushroom butter and pan-fried whitefish—for $21.95. This is not Italian. My mama, God rest her soul, made a
tonno al cartoccio
—tuna baked in parchment—that melted in your mouth.”
“Terry has tuna on sale this week, Mama. Ahi, too. And his calamari steaks were beautiful.”
“You are remembering your papa’s favorite.
Calamari ripieni.
It takes the very best tomatoes.”
“Johnny from the farmer’s market promises me red heaven.”
“Calamari and ahi are expensive.”
“We could try it for a night or two—an advertised special. If it doesn’t work, we can forget about it.”
There was a knock at the door.
Angie swore under her breath. Mama was close to agreeing. Any little change could send them back to square one.
Lauren walked into the kitchen, clutching her neatly folded apron.
“Good night, Lauren,” Angie said. “Lock up on your way out.”
Lauren didn’t move. She looked confused somehow, uncertain.
“Thank you, Lauren,” Mama said. “Have a nice evening.”
Lauren didn’t move.
“What is it?” Angie asked.
“I … uh …” Lauren frowned. “I can work tomorrow night after all.”
“Great,” Angie said, going back to her notes. “See you at five.”
The minute Lauren left, Angie returned to the discussion. “So, Mama, what do you think about upping the prices a little and adding a daily fish special?”
“I think my daughter is trying to change the menu that has been good enough for DeSaria’s for years.”
“Small changes, Mama. The kind that take us forward in time.” She paused, loading the big gun. “Papa would have approved.”
“He loved my
calamari ripieni,
it’s true.” Mama pushed away from the sink and sat down beside Angie. “I remember when your papa bought me the Cadillac. He was so proud of that car.”
“But you wouldn’t drive it.”
Mama smiled. “Your papa thought I was crazy, ignoring that beautiful car. So one day he sold my Buick and left the new car keys on the table, along with a note that read:
Meet me for lunch. I’ll bring the wine.
” She smiled. “He knew I had to be pushed into change.”
“I don’t want to push too hard.”
“Yes, you do.” Mama sighed. “Your whole life has been about pushing, Angela, getting what you want.” She touched Angie’s cheek. “Your papa loved that about you, and he’d be so proud of you right now.”
Suddenly, Angie wasn’t thinking about the menu at all. She was thinking about her father and all the things that she missed about him; the way he hefted her on his shoulders to watch the Thanksgiving Day parade, the way he said prayers with her at night and told silly, meaningless jokes at the breakfast table.
“So,” Mama said, her eyes misty, too. “We will try a few specials this week and then we will see.”
“It’ll work, Mama. You’ll see. Business will really pick up when the ads start. We’re the front page of the entertainment section on Sunday.”
“Already more people are coming. I must admit that. It’s a good thing you hired that girl. She’s been a good waitress,” Mama said. “When you hired her—a redhead—I was sure we were in for trouble, and when you told me about the poor thing needing a dress, I thought—”
“Oh,
no.
” Angie shot to her feet. “The dance.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Tomorrow night is homecoming. That’s why Lauren was hanging around in the kitchen. She wanted to remind me that she needed tomorrow night off.”
“Then why did she say she’d work?”
“I don’t know.” Angie fished her car keys out of her
pocket and grabbed her coat off the hook by the door. “Bye, Mama. See you tomorrow.”
Angie hurried from the restaurant. Outside, a light rain was falling.
She looked up and down the street.
No Lauren.
She ran to the parking lot and got in her car, heading north on Driftwood. There wasn’t another car on the road. She was about to turn onto the highway when she noticed the bus stop.
Light from a nearby streetlamp spilled down, giving everything a soft, amber glow. Even from this distance, she could see Lauren’s copper-red hair.
She pulled up in front of her.
Lauren looked up slowly. Her eyes were red and swollen.
“Oh,” she said, snapping upright when she saw Angie.
Angie hit the window button. The glass slid downward. Cold air immediately whooshed into the car. She leaned toward the passenger side. “Get in.”
Lauren pointed behind her. “My bus is here. But thanks.”
“Tomorrow is the dance, right?” Angie said. “That’s what you were trying to tell me in the kitchen.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m not going.”
“Why not?”
Lauren looked away. “I don’t feel like it.”
Angie glanced down at the girl’s old, too-worn shoes. “I offered to loan you a dress, remember?”
Lauren nodded.
“Do you need one?”
“Yes.” The answer was barely audible.
“Okay. You be at the restaurant at three o’clock. Have you made arrangements to get dressed at a friend’s house?”
Lauren shook her head.
“Would you like to get ready at my house? It might be fun.”
“Really? I’d love that.”
“Okay. Call David and tell him to pick you up at my house, 7998 Miracle Mile Road. It’s the first driveway after the bridge.”
The bus pulled up behind them and honked.
It wasn’t until much later, when Angie walked into her dark, empty house, that she wondered whether she’d made a mistake.
Getting a girl ready for a dance was a mother’s job.
The next morning Angie hit the ground running. At seven o’clock she and Mama met with suppliers and delivery men. By ten they’d ordered most of the week’s food, checked the vegetables and fruits for freshness, made out the payroll checks, deposited money in the restaurant’s account, and dropped the tablecloths off at the laundry. When Mama went off to do her own errands, Angie headed for the printers, where she had flyers and coupons made for wine night and date night. Then she dropped off the first batch of donated coats to Help-Your-Neighbor.
It started raining when she was at the dry cleaners. By noon it was a full-on rainstorm. The streets were a cauldron of boiling water. There was nothing new in that.
The weather this time of year was predictable. From now until early May it would be gray skies and raindrops. Sunlight in the coming months would be a rare and unexpected gift that couldn’t be counted on and wouldn’t last. Those who couldn’t stand the continual shadow world of misty gray would find themselves waking in the middle of the night, restless, unable to sleep through the sound of rain on the roof.
She pulled up to the restaurant fifteen minutes late.
Lauren stood on the sidewalk beneath the restaurant’s green and white awning. There was an old blue backpack on the sidewalk at her feet.
Angie rolled down the window. “Sorry I’m late.”
“I’d thought you’d forgotten.”
Angie wondered if anyone kept the promises made to this girl, or if, in fact, any promises were ever made.
“Get in,” she said, opening the passenger door.
“Are you sure?”
Angie smiled. “Believe me, Lauren. I’m always sure. Livvy is covering my shift. Now get in.”
Lauren did as she was told, shutting the door hard. Rain hammered the car, made it shake and rattle.
They drove in silence. The metronomic thwop-thwop-thwop of the wipers was so loud it didn’t make sense to talk.