Kristin Hannah's Family Matters 4-Book Bundle: Angel Falls, Between Sisters, The Things We Do for Love, Magic Hour (84 page)

The girl—Lauren—looked up, glanced around, then looked at her wristwatch. She pushed the empty plate away and crossed her arms, waiting.

It was now or never.

Either Mama was going to let Angie make changes around here or she wasn’t.

Time to find out the answer.

Angie went to the kitchen, where she found Mama washing up the last of the night’s dishes. Four pans of fresh lasagna lined the counter.

“The Bolognese is almost ready,” Mama said. “We’ll have plenty for tomorrow night.”

“And the rest of the month,” Angie muttered.

Mama looked up. “What does that mean?”

Angie chose her words carefully. They were like missiles; each one could start a war. “We had seven customers tonight, Mama.”

“That’s good for a weeknight.”

“Not good enough.”

Mama wrenched the faucet’s handle hard. “It will get better when the holidays come.”

Angie tried another tack. “I’m a mess at waitressing.”

“Yes. You’ll get better.”

“I was still better than Rosa. I watched her the other night, Mama. I’ve never seen anyone move so slowly.”

“She’s been here a long time, Angela. Show some respect.”

“We need to make some changes. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”

“You will not fire Rosa.” Mama tossed down her dishrag. It hit the counter like a gauntlet.

“I would never do that.”

Mama relaxed a tiny bit. “Good.”

“Come with me,” Angie said, reaching out for Mama’s hand.

Together they walked out of the kitchen. In the shadow behind the archway, Angie paused. “You see that girl?”

“She ordered the lasagna,” Mama said. “Looks like she loved it.”

“I want … I’m going to hire her to work nights and weekends.”

“She’s too young.”

“I’m hiring her. And she’s not too young. Livvy and Mira were waitressing at a much earlier age.”

Mama shifted and frowned, studying the girl. “She doesn’t
look
Italian.”

“She isn’t.”

Mama drew in a sharp breath and pulled Angie deeper into the shadows. “Now look here—”

“Do you want me to help you in the restaurant?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then let me help.”

“Rosa will feel slighted.”

“Honestly, Mama, I think she’ll be glad. Last night she bumped into the walls twice. She’s tired. She’ll welcome the help.”

“High school girls never work out. Ask your papa.”

“We can’t ask Papa. This is for you and me to decide.”

Mama seemed to deflate at the reminder about Papa. The wrinkles in her cheeks deepened. She bit down on her lower lip and peered around the corner again. “Her hair is a mess.”

“It’s raining out. I think she’s been looking for work. The way you did, remember, in Chicago, when you and Papa were first married.”

The memory seemed to soften Mama. “Her shoes have holes in them, and her blouse is too small. Poor thing. Still.” She frowned. “The last redhead who worked here stole a whole night’s receipts.”

“She’s not going to steal from us.”

Mama pulled away from the wall and walked down the hallway toward the kitchen. She was talking, whispering, the whole time, gesturing wildly.

If Angie closed her eyes, she might have seen her father there, standing firm, smiling gently at his wife’s theatrics even as he disagreed with her.

Mama spun around and came back to Angie. “He always thought you were the smart one. Fine. Hire this girl but don’t let her use the register.”

Angie almost laughed at that, it was so absurd. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Mama turned on her heel and left the restaurant.

Angie glanced out the window. Mama was marching down the street, arguing with a man who wasn’t there.

“Thanks, Papa,” Angie said, smiling as she walked through the now empty restaurant.

Lauren looked up at her. “That was delicious,” she said, sounding nervous. She folded her napkin carefully and set it on the table.

“My mother can really cook.” Angie sat down across from the girl. “Are you a responsible employee?”

“Completely.”

“We can count on you to show up on time?”

Lauren nodded. Her dark eyes were earnest. “Always.”

Angie smiled. This was the best she’d felt in months. “Okay, then. You can start tomorrow night. Say five to ten. Is that okay?”

“It’s great.”

Angie reached across the table and shook Lauren’s warm hand. “Welcome to the family.”

“Thanks.” Lauren got quickly to her feet. “I’d better go home now.”

Angie would have sworn she saw tears in the girl’s brown eyes, but before she could comment on it, Lauren was gone. It wasn’t until later, when Angie was closing out the register, that it dawned on her.

Lauren had bolted at the word
family.

When Angie got home, the cottage was quiet and dark, and in all those shadows lay loneliness.

She closed the door behind her and stood there, listening to the sound of her own breathing. It was a sound she’d grown used to, and yet here, in this house that had been loud in her youth, it wounded her. When she couldn’t stand it anymore, she tossed her purse on the entry table and went to the old RCA stereo in the living room. She pushed a cassette into the tape player and turned the system on.

Tony Bennett’s voice floated through the speakers, filling the room with music and memories. This was her papa’s favorite tape; the one he’d made himself. Every song began late, sometimes as much as a whole stanza. Whenever he’d heard one he loved, he’d jump up from
his chair and run for the stereo, yelling, “I love this one!”

She wanted to smile at the memory, but that lightness wasn’t in her. In fact, it felt far away. “I hired a new waitress tonight, Papa. She’s a high school girl. You can imagine Mama’s reaction to
that.
Oh, and she has red hair.”

She went to the window and stared outside. Moonlight dusted the waves and glistened along the dark blue sea. The next song came on. Bette Midler’s “Wind Beneath My Wings.”

It had played at his funeral.

The music swirled around her, threatened to pull her under.

“It is easy to talk to him, isn’t it? Especially here.”

Angie spun around at the sound of her mother’s voice.

Mama stood behind the sofa, staring at her, obviously trying to smile. She was dressed in a ratty old flannel nightgown, one Papa had given her years ago. She crossed the room and snapped off the stereo.

“What are you doing here, Mama?”

Mama sat down on the sofa and patted the cushion. “I knew you would have a hard night.”

Angie sat down beside her, close enough to lean against her mother’s steady side. “How did you know?”

Mama put an arm around her. “The girl,” she said at last.

Angie couldn’t believe she hadn’t figured it out. Of course. “I’ll need to keep my distance from her, won’t I?”

“You’ve never been good at that.”

“No.”

Mama tightened her hold. “Just be careful. Your heart is soft.”

“It feels as if it’s in pieces sometimes.”

Mama made a sound, a little sigh. “We keep breathing in times like that. There’s nothing else.”

Angie nodded. “I know.”

After that, they got out a deck of cards and played gin rummy long into the night. By the time they fell asleep side by side on the sofa, curled up beneath a quilt Mama had made years ago, Angie had found her strength again.

Lauren showed up for work fifteen minutes early. She wore her best pair of black jeans and a white cotton blouse that she’d gotten Mrs. Mauk to iron for her.

She knocked on the door and waited for an answer. When none came, she cautiously opened the door and peered inside.

The restaurant was dark. Tables sat in shadows. “Hello?” She closed the door behind her.

A woman came around the corner, moving fast, her hands coiled in the stained white apron that covered her clothing. She saw Lauren and stopped.

Lauren felt like a bug trapped in a child’s hand. That was how this woman stared at her, narrow-eyed and frowning. Old-fashioned eyeglasses made her eyes appear huge.

“You are the new girl?”

She nodded, feeling a slow blush creep up her cheeks. “I’m Lauren Ribido.” She stepped forward, held her hand out. They shook hands. The woman’s grip was stronger than Lauren had expected.

“I am Maria DeSaria. Is this your first job?”

“No. I’ve been working for years. When I was little—fifth and sixth grade—I picked strawberries and raspberries
at the Magruder farm. I’ve been working at Rite Aid since it opened last summer.”

“Berries? I thought that was mostly migrant workers.”

“It is. Mostly. The pay was okay for a kid.”

Maria tilted her head to one side, frowning as she studied Lauren. “Are you a troubled girl? Runaway, drugs? That sort of thing?”

“No. I have a 3.9 grade point at Fircrest Academy. I’ve never been in any kind of trouble.”

“Fircrest. Hmm. Are you Catholic?”

“Yes,” Lauren answered with a nervous frown. It was a dangerous thing to admit these days. So much trouble in the church. She forced herself to stand perfectly straight. No fidgeting.

“Well. That’s good, even if you do have red hair.”

Lauren had no idea what to say to that, so she remained silent.

“Have you waitressed before?” Maria asked at last.

“Yes.”

“So when I tell you to set up the tables and wipe down the menus, you know what I mean.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The silverware is in that chest,” Maria said. “Not that it’s real silver,” she added quickly.

“Okay.”

They stared at each other. Lauren felt like that bug again.

“Well. Get started,” Maria said.

Lauren ran for the chest and pulled open the top drawer. Silverware rattled at the ferocity of the movement. She winced, knowing that already she’d done something wrong.

She glanced worriedly back at Maria, who stood
there, frowning, watching Lauren fumble through the drawer.

It was not going to be easy to please that woman, Lauren thought. Not easy at all.

By the end of her shift Lauren knew two things: She needed to wear tennis shoes to work, and earning enough money for back rent and a decent dress wasn’t going to happen at DeSaria’s.

Still, she liked the place. The food was wonderful. She worked as hard as she could, trying to find jobs that needed to be done before someone—namely Maria—told her what to do. Now she was refilling all the olive oil decanters.

“You know,” Angie said, coming up behind her, “this could be a great restaurant if people actually showed up. Here.” She handed Lauren a dessert plate that held a piece of tiramisu. “Join me.”

They sat down at the table by the fireplace. The flames flickered and snapped.

Lauren felt Angie’s gaze on her and she looked up. In the dark eyes, she saw something. Compassion, maybe, with an edge of pity. Angie had seen Lauren that night in the parking lot, and then again at the Help-Your-Neighbor House. There were no secrets now. “It was really nice of you to give me this job. You don’t need another waitress, though.” She wished immediately that she’d kept silent. She
needed
this job.

“We will. I’ve got big plans for the place.” Angie smiled. “Although I don’t know much about the business. Just ask my sister Livvy. She thinks I’m going to screw up big time.”

Lauren couldn’t imagine that this beautiful woman failed at anything. “I’m sure you’ll do great. The food is amazing.”

“Yeah. My mom and Mira can really cook.” Angie took another bite, then asked, “So, how long have you lived in West End? Maybe I went to school with your folks.”

“I don’t think so.” Lauren hoped she didn’t sound bitter but it was hard to tell. “We moved here when I was in fourth grade.” She paused. “It’s just Mom and me.” She liked the way that sounded, as if they were a team, she and her mother. Still, her family—or lack thereof—was not something she wanted to talk about. “How about you? Have you always lived in West End?”

“I grew up here. But I moved away for college and got married.…” Angie’s voice seemed to give out. She stared down at her dessert, stabbed it with her fork. “I just moved back home after a divorce.” She looked up, made an attempt at smiling. “Sorry. I’m not used to saying it yet.”

“Oh.” Lauren had no idea how to respond. She went back to eating. The sound of their forks on porcelain seemed loud.

Finally, Angie said, “Do you need a ride home tonight?”

“No.” She was surprised by the question. “My boyfriend is picking me up.” As she said it, she heard a car honk outside. She shot to her feet. “There he is. I better go.” She looked down at the dishes. “Should I—”

“Run along. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

Lauren looked down at her. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. See you then.”

“Bye,” Lauren said, already moving. At the hostess desk, she bent down for her backpack. Slinging it over her shoulder, she headed for the door.

The crowd went wild.

Like everyone else, Lauren was on her feet, screaming and clapping. A roar moved through the stands. The
scoreboard flickered, changed, revealed the new numbers: Fircrest—28. Kelso Christian—14.

“That was
awesome,
” Anna Lyons said, grabbing Lauren’s sleeve and tugging it hard.

Lauren couldn’t contain herself. She started laughing. David’s pass had been beautiful, a perfect forty-yard spiral right into Jared’s hands. She hoped his father had seen it.

“Come on,” someone said. “It’s almost halftime.”

Lauren followed the group of girls down the aisle and onto the concrete stairs. They hurried down to the sidelines, where the various booths were being set up. She took her place at the hot dog stand, where the annual staff was already hard at work. “My turn,” she said to Marci Morford, who was busy refilling the mustard jars. For the next half hour, while the marching band moved across the field, she sold hot dogs and hamburgers to the sea of people who drifted along the sidelines, congregating now and then to talk. Parents. Teachers. Students. Graduates. On Friday nights during football season, they all met at the stadium for local games. Everyone was talking about David. He was playing the game of his life.