Kristin Hannah's Family Matters 4-Book Bundle: Angel Falls, Between Sisters, The Things We Do for Love, Magic Hour (77 page)

Mama had stopped first.
Papa always wanted a bench outside the restaurant.

So folks could take a load off,
Mira had said, coming up beside her.

By the next morning that bench had been secured to the sidewalk. They’d never discussed putting an In Memoriam plaque on it. That was the way of big cities. In West End, everyone knew that bench belonged to Tony DeSaria. The first week it was up, a dozen flowers appeared on it, single blossoms left by people who remembered.

She stared up at the restaurant that had been his pride and joy.

“I’ll save it for you, Papa,” she whispered, realizing a
moment later that she was waiting for an answer. There was nothing, just the sound of traffic behind her and the distant hum of the sea.

She uncapped her pen and held the tip poised just above the paper, at the ready.

The brick facade was in need of repair. Moss grew beneath the eaves. A lot of shingles were missing. The red neon sign that read
DeSaria’s
was missing the apostrophe and the
i.

She started writing.

Roof

Exterior repair

Sidewalk dirty

Moss

Sign

She climbed the few steps to the front door and paused. A menu was posted behind glass on the wall. Spaghetti with meatballs was $7.95. A lasagna dinner, including bread and salad, was $6.95.

No wonder they were losing money.

Prices

Menu

She opened the door. A bell tinkled overhead. The pungent aromas of garlic, thyme, simmering tomatoes, and baking bread filled the air.

She was drawn back in time. Not a thing had changed in twenty years. The dimly lit room, the round tables draped in red-and-white-checked fabric, the pictures of Italy on the wall. She expected to see Papa come around the corner, grinning, wiping his hands on his apron, saying,
Bella Angelina, you’re home.

“Well. Well. You’re really here. I was afraid you’d fallen down the cabin stairs and couldn’t get up.”

Angie blinked and wiped her eyes.

Livvy stood by the hostess table, wearing a pair of
tight black jeans, a black off-the-shoulder blouse, and Barbie mules. Tension came off Livvy in waves. It was as if they were kids again, teenagers fighting over who got to use the Baby Soft spray first.

“I came to help,” Angie said.

“Unfortunately, you can’t cook and you haven’t worked at the restaurant since you got your braces off. No. Wait. You
never
worked here.”

“I don’t want us to fight, Livvy.”

Livvy sighed. “I know. I don’t mean to be a bitch. I’m just tired of all the crap. This place is bleeding money and all Mama does is make more pans of lasagna. Mira bitches at me but when I ask for help, she says she doesn’t understand business, only cooking. And who does finally offer a hand? You. Daddy’s princess. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.” She pulled a lighter out of her pocket and lit a cigarette.

“You aren’t going to smoke in here, are you?”

Livvy paused. “You sound like Papa.” She dropped the cigarette into a half full glass of water. “I’m going outside for a smoke. You tell me when you’ve figured out how to save the day.”

Angie watched her sister leave, then she headed into the kitchen where Mama was busy layering lasagna into big metal baking pans. Mira was right next to her, arranging meatballs on a metal tray that was only slightly smaller than a twin bed. At Angie’s entrance, Mira looked up and smiled. “Hey there.”

“Angie!” Mama wiped her cheek, leaving a red tomato trail behind. Sweat beaded her brow. “Are you ready to learn how to cook?”

“I’ll hardly save the restaurant by cooking, Mama. I’m making notes.”

Mama’s smile fell a fraction. She shot a worried look at Mira, who merely shrugged. “Notes?”

“On things I think might improve the business.”

“And you’re starting in
my
kitchen? Your Papa—God rest his soul—loved—”

“Relax, Mama. I’m just checking things out.”

“Mrs. Martin says you’ve read every restaurant reference book in the library,” Mira said.

“Remind me not to rent any X-rated movies in this town,” Angie said, smiling.

Mama snorted. “People watch out for each other here, Angela. That’s a good thing.”

“Don’t get started, Mama. I was joking.”

“I should hope so.” Mama pushed her heavy glasses higher on her nose and peered at Angie through owl-sized brown eyes. “If you want to help, learn to cook.”

“Papa couldn’t cook.”

Mama blinked, sniffed, then went back to layering the ricotta-parsley mixture over noodles.

Mira and Angie exchanged a look.

This was going to be worse than Angie thought. She was going to have to tread with extreme care. An irritated Livvy was one thing. Mama pissed off was something else entirely. Barrow, Alaska, in the winter was warmer than Mama when she got mad.

Angie looked down at her notes, feeling both pairs of eyes on her. It took her a second to gather enough courage to ask: “So, how long has the menu been the same?”

Mira grinned knowingly. “Since the summer I went to Girl Scout camp.”

“Very funny,” Mama snapped. “We perfected it. Our regulars love every item.”

“I’m not saying otherwise. I just wondered when you last changed the menu.”

“Nineteen seventy-five.”

Angie underlined the word
menu
on her list. She
might not know much about operating a restaurant, but she knew plenty about going out to dinner. A changing menu kept people coming back for more. “And do you offer nightly specials?”

“Everything is special. This isn’t downtown Seattle, Angela. We do things our own way here. It was good enough for Papa. God rest his soul.” Mama’s chin tilted in the air. The temperature in the kitchen dropped several degrees. “Now we’d better get back to work.” She elbowed Mira, who went back to hand-forming the meatballs.

Angie knew when she’d been dismissed. She turned and went back into the empty dining room. She saw Livvy over by the hostess desk again. Her sister was talking to Rosa, the woman who’d started waitressing in the seventies. Angie waved and went upstairs.

It was quiet in her father’s office. She paused at the open doorway, letting the memories wash over her. In her mind, he was still there, sitting at the big oak desk he’d bought at a Rotary Club auction, poring over the accounts.

Angelina! Come in. I’ll show you about taxes.

But I want to go to the movies, Papa.

Of course you do. Run along then. Send Olivia up here.

She sighed heavily and went to his desk. She sat in his chair, heard the springs creak beneath her weight.

For the next several hours, she studied and learned and made notes. She re-read all of the old account books and then started on tax records and her father’s handwritten business notes. By the time she closed the last book, she knew that her mother was right. DeSaria’s was in trouble. Their income had dropped to almost nothing. She rubbed her eyes, then went downstairs.

It was seven o’clock.

The middle of the dinner hour. There were two parties in the restaurant: Dr. and Mrs. Petrocelli and the Schmidt family.

“Is it always this slow?” she said to Livvy, who stood at the hostess table, studying her talon fingernails. The bright red polish was dotted with pink stars.

“Last Wednesday we had three customers all night. You may want to write that down. They all ordered lasagna, in case you’re interested.”

“Like they had a choice.”

“And it begins.”

“I’m not here to criticize you, Liv. I’m just trying to help.”

“You want to help? Figure out how to get people through the door. Or how to pay Rosa Contadori’s salary.” She glanced over at the elderly waitress who moved at a glacial pace, carrying one plate at a time.

“It’ll take some changes,” Angie said, trying to be as gentle as possible.

Livvy tapped a long scarlet fingernail against her tooth. “Like what?”

“Menu. Advertising. Decor. Pricing. Your payables are a mess. So is ordering. You guys are wasting a lot of food.”

“You have to cook for people, even if they don’t show up.”

“I’m just saying—”

“That we’re doing everything wrong.” She raised her voice so that Mama could hear.

“What’s that?” Mama said, coming out of the kitchen.

“Angie’s been here half a day, Mama. Long enough to know that we don’t know shit.”

Mama looked down at them for a moment, then turned and headed for the corner by the window, where she started talking to the curtain.

Livvy rolled her eyes. “Oh, good. She’s getting Papa’s opinion. If a dead man disagrees with me, I’m outta here.”

Finally, Mama returned. She didn’t look happy. “Papa tells me you think the menu is bad.”

Angie frowned. That
was
what she thought, but she hadn’t told anyone yet. “Not bad, Mama. But change might be a good thing.”

Mama bit down on her lower lip, crossed her arms. “I know,” she said to the air beside her. Then she looked at Livvy. “Papa thinks we should listen to Angie. For now.”

“Of
course
he does. His princess.” She glared at Angie. “I don’t need this crap. I have a new husband who has begged me to stay home at night and make babies.”

The arrow hit its mark. Angie actually flinched.

“So that’s what I’m going to do.” Livvy patted Angie’s back. “Good luck with the place, little sis. It’s all yours.
You
work nights and weekends.” She turned on her high heel and walked out.

Angie stared after her, wondering how it had gone bad so quickly. “All I said was we needed to make a few changes.”

“But not to the menu,” Mama said, crossing her arms. “People
love
my lasagna.”

Lauren stared down at the question in front of her.

The answer choices blurred in front of her tired eyes.

She pushed back from the table. She couldn’t do this anymore. SAT preparation had filled so much of her time in the last month that she’d started to get headaches. It wouldn’t do her any good if she aced the test but fell asleep in all her classes.

The test is in two weeks.

With a sigh, she pulled back up to the table and picked up her pencil. She’d already taken this test last year and gotten a good score. This time, she was hoping for a perfect 1600. For a girl like her, every point mattered.

By the time the oven beeper went off an hour later, she’d completed another five pages of the practice test. Numbers and vocabulary words and geometry equations floated through her head like those giant
Star Wars
spaceships, bumping into one another.

She went into the kitchen to make dinner before work. She could choose between a bowl of Raisin Bran and an apple with peanut butter. She picked the apple. When she finished eating, she dressed in a nice pair of black pants and a heavy pink sweater. Her Rite Aid smock covered most of the sweater anyway. She grabbed her backpack—just in case she found time to finish her trigonometry homework on her dinner break—and left the apartment.

She hurried down the stairs and was just reaching for the front door knob when a voice said, “Lauren?”

Dang it.
She paused, turned.

Mrs. Mauk stood in the open doorway to her apartment. A tired frown pulled the edges of her mouth downward. The wrinkles on her forehead looked painted on. “I’m still waiting for that rent check.”

“I know.” She had trouble keeping her voice even.

Mrs. Mauk moved toward her. “I’m sorry, Lauren.
You know I am, but I need to get paid. Otherwise, it’s my job on the line.”

Lauren felt herself deflate. Now she’d have to ask her boss for an advance. She
hated
doing that. “I know. I’ll tell Mom.”

“You do that.”

She headed for the door, heard Mrs. Mauk say, “You’re a good kid, Lauren”; it was the same thing the manager said every time she had to ask for money. There was no answer to that, so Lauren kept walking, out into a rainy, navy blue night.

It took two bus changes to get her out toward the highway, where the neon bright Rite Aid pharmacy offered all night hours. She hurried into the store, even though she wasn’t late. Even a few extra minutes on her time card helped.

“Uh, Lauren?” It was Sally Ponochek, the pharmacist. As always, she was squinting. “Mr. Landers wants to see you.”

“Okay. Thanks.” She went back to the employees’ lunchroom and dropped off her stuff, then went upstairs to the manager’s small, supply-cramped office. All the way there she practiced how she would ask it:
I’ve worked here for almost a year. I work every holiday—you know that. I’ll work Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve this year. Is there any way I could get an advance on this week’s salary?

She forced herself to smile at him. “You wanted to see me, Mr. Landers?”

He looked up from the papers on his desk. “Oh. Lauren. Yes.” He ran a hand through his thinning hair, recombed what was left of it across his head. “There’s no easy way to say this. We need to let you go. You’ve seen how slow business is. Word is corporate is thinking of
shutting this location down. The locals simply won’t patronize a chain store. I’m sorry.”

It took a second. “You’re
firing
me?”

“Technically we’re laying you off. If business picks up …” He let the inchoate promise dangle. They both knew business wouldn’t pick up. He handed her a letter. “It’s a glowing recommendation. I’m sorry to lose you, Lauren.”

The house was too quiet.

Angie stood by the fireplace, staring out at the moonlit ocean. Heat radiated up her legs but somehow didn’t reach her core. She crossed her arms, still cold.

It was only eight-thirty; too early for bed.

She turned away from the window and looked longingly at the stairs. If only she could turn back time a few years, become again the woman who slept easily.

It had been easier with Conlan’s arms around her. She hadn’t slept alone in so long she’d forgotten how big a mattress could be, how much heat a lover’s body generated.