Authors: Kristin Hannah
The steps creaked beneath her weight. She looked back and saw the wet footprints trailing behind her.
Great. Now she’d have to clean the floor on her way out.
She stopped at the closed bedroom door and knocked just in case, although there was no way Angie was still asleep at ten-thirty in the morning.
She opened the door.
The room was dark. Heavy floral-print drapery blocked the windows.
Lauren felt around for a light switch, found it, and flicked it up. Light burst from the overhead fixture.
She hurried toward the closet and put the dress away, then stepped back into the bedroom.
Angie was sitting up in bed, frowning at her in a bleary-eyed, confused way. “Lauren?”
Embarrassment rooted her to the spot. Her cheeks burned. “I—uh—I’m sorry. I knocked. I thought—”
Angie gave her a tired smile. Her eyes were swollen and rimmed in red, as if she’d been crying. Tiny pink lines crisscrossed the upper ridge of her cheeks. Her long dark hair was a mess. All in all, she didn’t look good. “It’s fine, kiddo.”
“I should leave.”
“No!” Then, more softly: “I’d like it if you stayed.” She lifted her chin to indicate the foot of the huge four-poster bed. “Sit.”
“I’m all wet.”
Angie shrugged. “Wet dries.”
Lauren looked down at her bare feet. The skin was almost scarlet colored; the blue veins seemed pronounced. She climbed up onto the bed, stretched her legs out, and leaned against the footboard.
Angie tossed her a huge chenille pillow, then tucked an unbelievably soft blanket around her feet. “Tell me about last night.”
The question released something in Lauren. For the first time all day her chest didn’t ache. She wanted to launch into every romantic detail but something stopped her. It was the sadness in Angie’s eyes. “You’ve been crying,” Lauren said matter-of-factly.
“I’m old. This is how I look in the morning.”
“First of all, it’s ten-thirty. Practically afternoon. Secondly, I know about crying in your sleep.”
Angie dropped her head back against the headboard and stared up at the white tongue-in-groove planked ceiling. It was a while before she spoke. “Sometimes
I have bad days. Not often, but … you know … sometimes.” She sighed again, then looked at Lauren. “Sometimes your life just doesn’t turn out the way you dreamed it would. You’re too young to know about that. It doesn’t matter, anyway.”
“You think I’m too young to understand disappointment?”
Angie looked at her for a long, quiet moment, then said, “No. I don’t. But some things aren’t helped by talking. So tell me about the dance. I’ve been dying for details.”
Lauren wished she knew Angie better. If she did, she’d know whether to drop the subject or keep it up. What mattered was saying the right thing to this sad, wonderful woman.
“Please,” Angie said.
“The dance was perfect,” Lauren finally said. “Everyone said I looked great.”
“You did,” Angie said, smiling now. It was the real thing, too, not that fake I’m-okay smile of before.
It made Lauren feel good, as if she’d given Angie something. “The decorations were cool, too. The theme was Winter Wonderland, and there was fake snow everywhere and mirrors that looked like frozen ponds. Oh, and Brad Gaggiany brought this fifth of rum. It was gone in, like, a minute.”
Angie frowned. “Oh, good.”
Lauren wished she hadn’t revealed that. She’d gotten wrapped up in the pseudo-girlfriend moment. She’d forgotten she was speaking to an adult. Truthfully, she didn’t have enough experience with it. She
never
talked to her mom about school events. “I hardly drank at all,” she lied quickly.
“I’m glad to hear that. Drinking can make a girl do things she shouldn’t.”
Lauren heard the gentleness of Angie’s advice. She couldn’t help thinking about her own mother and how she would have launched right now into her own regrets, chief among them being motherhood.
“And guess what?” Lauren couldn’t wait for Angie to guess. She said, “I was homecoming queen.”
Angie smiled and clapped her hands. “That is
so
cool. Start talking, missy. I want to know
everything.
”
For the next hour, they talked about the dance. By eleven-thirty, when it was time to go to the restaurant, Angie was laughing again.
The phones had been ringing off the hook all day. It was the third Sunday in October, and in the tiny
West End Gazette,
a full-page ad had run on the front page of the so-called entertainment section.
Rediscover Romance @ DeSaria’s.
The ad had detailed the changes—date night, wine night, happy hour—and included a number of coupons. Fifty percent off a bottle of wine. Free dessert with purchase of an entrée. A two-for-one lunch special, Monday through Thursday.
People who had forgotten all about DeSaria’s were reminded of times gone by, of nights when they’d gone with their parents to the tiny trattoria on Driftwood Way. Most of them, it seemed, picked up the phone to make a reservation. For the first time in as many years as anyone at DeSaria’s could remember, they were booked solid. The coat donation box was full almost to overflowing. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to take this opportunity to help their neighbors.
“I do not understand,” Mama said as she washed the ahi steaks and laid them out on the waxed paper. “There is no way to know how many people will want fish tonight. It is a bad idea, Angela. Too expensive. We
should make more cannelloni and lasagna.” She’d said the same thing at least five times in the last hour.
Angie shot a wink at Mira, who was trying not to giggle. “If there were a nuclear war, we’d have enough lasagna in the freezer for the whole town, Mama.”
“Do not make fun of war, Angela. Chop the parsley finer, Mira. We do not want our guests to speak with a tree stuck between their front teeth. Smaller.”
Mira laughed and kept chopping the parsley.
Mama set out the parchment paper with exquisite care, then brushed olive oil on the surface. “Mira. Hand me the shallots.”
Angie backed quietly out of the kitchen and returned to the dining room.
Five-fifteen and already they were more than half full. Rosa and Lauren were busy taking orders and pouring water for the guests.
Angie went from table to table, greeting people in the way she remembered her father doing. He’d always snap to attention at every table, straightening napkins, pulling out chairs for the ladies, calling out for “More water!”
She saw people she hadn’t seen for years, and each person seemed to have a story to share about her father. She’d forgotten, in the focus of her own family’s loss, how big a hole his absence had left in the community. When she was certain that every table was being handled well, she went back into the kitchen.
Mama was a wreck, a whirling dervish of nerves. “Eight fish specials already, and I ruined the first batch. It cooks so fast. The parchment exploded.”
Mira was standing off to the side, chopping tomatoes. Clearly, she was trying to stay invisible.
Angie went to her mother, touched her shoulder. “Take a deep breath, Mama.”
Her mother stopped, puffed her chest out in a heaving sigh, then caved inward. “I am old,” she muttered. “Too old for—”
The door banged open. Livvy stood there, dressed in a knee-length pleated black skirt, a white blouse, and black boots. “Well, is it true? Did Mama change the menu?”
“Who called you?” Mira asked, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Mr. Tannen from the hardware store came into the cleaners. He’d heard it from Mr. Garcia, who works at the printers.”
Mama studiously ignored her daughters. Bending forward, she seasoned the fish steaks with salt and pepper, dotted the tops with fresh thyme and parsley and chopped cherry tomatoes. Then she sealed each parchment package and set them on a cookie sheet, which she placed in the oven.
“It’s true,” Livvy whispered. “What is it?”
“Tonno al cartoccio,”
Mama said with a sniff. “It is not a big deal. Over there I have halibut. I am making your Papa’s favorite
rombo alle capperi e pomodoro.
The tomatoes were very good this week.”
The oven beeper went off. Mama pulled the cookie sheet from the oven and dished up the plates. Tonight’s ahi special was served with marinated roasted bell peppers, grilled zucchini, and homemade polenta. “What are you all staring at?” Just then Lauren and Rosa came into the kitchen. Mama handed them plates. When the waitresses left, Mama said airily, “I’ve been thinking about changing the menu for years. Change is a good thing. Your papa—God rest his soul—always said I could do anything with the menu except take off the lasagna.” She made a shooing gesture with her hands. “Now quit standing around like log bumps and go out
there. Lauren could use your help. Mira, go get more tomatoes.”
When Livvy and Mira left, Mama laughed. “Come here,” she said to Angie, opening her arms. “Your papa,” she whispered, “he would be so proud of you.”
Angie held her tightly. “He’d be proud of
us.
”
Late that night, when the final burst of guests had been served, and their dinner plates cleared away to make room for tiramisu and bowls full of rich zabaglione with fresh raspberries, Mama came out of the kitchen to see how her food had been received.
The guests, most of whom had known Maria for years, clapped at her arrival. Mr. Fortense yelled out, “Fabulous food!”
Mama smiled. “Thank you. And come back soon. Tomorrow I make asparagus-potato gnocchi with fresh tomatoes. It will make you weep.” She looked at Angie. “It is my brilliant baby daughter’s favorite dish.”
When the last customers finally left at ten-thirty, Lauren was exhausted. The tables had been full all night. A couple of times there had been lines at the door, even. Poor Rosa couldn’t possibly keep up. For the first hour or so, Lauren had been going so fast she felt nervous and queasy. Then Angie’s sister had shown up. Like an angel, Livvy swept in on a cloud of laughter and eased Lauren’s burden.
Now Lauren stood by the reservation desk. Rosa had gone home at least an hour ago and the women were all in the kitchen. For the first time all night, Lauren could draw a relaxed breath. She pulled her tip money out of her apron pocket and counted it.
Twice.
She’d earned sixty-one dollars tonight. Suddenly it didn’t matter that her feet hurt, her hands ached, and
she had cramps. She was rich. A few more nights like this and she’d have all her application money.
She took off her apron and headed for the kitchen. She was halfway there when the swinging door burst open.
Livvy walked out first. Mira was right behind her. Though they looked nothing alike, there was no doubt they were sisters. Their gestures mirrored each other. They both had the same husky laugh as Angie. From another room, it was hard to tell their voices apart.
A sound clicked through the restaurant. The rich, velvety voice of Frank Sinatra snapped off.
Mira and Livvy stopped in tandem, cocked their heads.
Another song started. Loud. The sound of it was so unexpected it took Lauren a second to recognize it.
Bruce Springsteen.
“Glory Days.”
I had a friend was a big baseball player
back in high school
Livvy let out a whoop and pushed her hands high in the air. She immediately started to dance with Mira, who moved awkwardly, as if she were getting electroshock treatments.
“I haven’t danced since … jeez, I can’t remember the last time I danced,” Mira yelled to her sister over the music.
Livvy laughed. “That’s obvious, big sister. You look like Elaine in that
Seinfeld
episode. You have got to get out more.”
Mira bumped her sister, hip to hip.
Lauren watched in awe. These two sisters who had
barely spoken all night were like different people now.
Younger. Freer.
Connected.
The door burst open again. Angie came dancing out with her mother behind her, holding her. “Conga line,” someone yelled.
Livvy and Mira fell in behind, holding on to one another. The four of them danced around the empty tables, pausing now and then to kick out their heels or throw back their heads.
It was incredibly dorky. Like something off some old people’s TV show.
And heartbreakingly cool.
Lauren’s stomach tightened. She didn’t know how to react. All she knew was that she didn’t belong here. She was an employee.
This was family.
She started to back away, edge toward the door.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Angie cried out.
Lauren stopped in her tracks, looked up. The conga line had broken up.
Mira and Livvy were dancing together. Maria stood in the corner, watching her daughters with a smile.
Angie rushed toward Lauren. “You can’t leave yet. It’s a party.”
“I don’t—”
Angie grabbed her hand, grinned at her.
The word—
belong
—was lost.
The music changed. “Crocodile Rock” blared through the speakers.
“Elton!” Livvy yelled. “We saw him at the Tacoma Dome, remember?”
And the dancing started again.
“Dance,” Angie said, and before Lauren knew it she was in the middle of the crowd of women, dancing. By
the third song—Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl”—Lauren was laughing as loudly as the rest of them.
For the next half an hour or so, she was enfolded in the warm raucousness of a loving family. They laughed, they danced, they talked endlessly about how busy the restaurant had been. Lauren loved every minute of it, and when the party broke up near midnight, she honestly hated to go home.
But there was no choice, of course. She offered to take the bus—an offer that was rejected almost instantly. Angie ushered her out to the car. They talked all the way and laughed often, but finally Lauren was home.
She trudged up the gloomy stairs toward her apartment, shifting her heavy backpack from one tired shoulder to the other.
The door to the apartment was open.
Inside, gray smoke hung in strands along the stained acoustical tile ceiling. Cigarette butts lay heaped in ashtrays on the coffee table and scattered here and there across the floor. An empty bottle of gin rolled slowly back and forth on the wobbly dining table, finally clunking onto the linoleum floor.