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

by Hannah, Kristin

  “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.

  TWELVE

  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 cra
mps. 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.

  Lauren recognized the signs: two kinds of butts, and beer bottles on the kitchen counter. It didn’t take a forensic team to analyze the crime scene. It was familiar territory.

  Mom had picked up some loser (they were all losers) from the tavern and brought him home.

  They were in her mother’s bedroom now. She recognized the thumping rhythm of her mother’s old Hollywood bed frame. Clang-clang-thump. Clang-clang-thump.

  She hurried into her bedroom and closed the door. Moving quietly, not wanting anyone to know she was home, she grabbed her day planner and flipped it open. On today’s date she wrote: DeSaria Party. She didn’t ever want to forget it. She wanted to be able to look down at those two words and remember how tonight had felt.

  She went into the bathroom and got ready for bed in record speed. The last thing she wanted was to bump into Him in the hallway.

  She ran back to her room and slammed the door shut. Crawling into bed, she pulled the covers to her chin and stared up at the ceiling.

  Memories of tonight filled her mind. A strange emotion came with the images; part happiness, part loss. She couldn’t untangle it.

  It was just a restaurant, she reminded herself. A place of employment.

  Angie was her boss, not her—

  mother.

  There it was, the truth of the matter, the pea under her mattress. She’d felt alone for so long, and now—irrationally—she felt as if she belonged somewhere.

  Even if it was a lie, which it certainly was, it felt better than the cold emptiness that was the truth.

  She tried to stop thinking about it, to stop playing and replaying their conversations in her mind, but she couldn’t let it go. At the end of the night, when they’d all been crowded around the fireplace, talking and laughing, Lauren had loosened up enough to tell the one joke she knew. Mira and Angie had laughed long and hard; Maria had said, “This make no sense. Why would the man say such a thing?” The question had made them all laugh harder, and Lauren most of all.

  Remembering it made her want to cry.

  THIRTEEN

  October rushed past, but in November, life seemed to move slowly again. One day bled into the next. It rained constantly, sometimes in howling, sheeting storms that turned the ocean into a whirlpool of sound and fury. More often than not, though, the moisture fell in beaded drops from a bloated, tired-looking sky.

  For the past two weeks Lauren had been home as little as possible. That man was always there, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes and stinking up the air with his loserdom. Of course Mom was in love with him. He was precisely her type.

  Lauren made a point of working at the restaurant almost every night and all day on weekends. Even though they’d hired another waitress, Lauren tried to keep her hours steady. When she wasn’t working, she was at the school library or hanging out with David.

  The only downside to earning all this money and improving her already stellar grades was that she was exhausted. Right now it was taking every scrap of her determination to stay awake in class. In the front of the room, Mr. Goldman was waxing poetic about the way Jackson Pollock used color.

  To Lauren, the painting looked like something an angry child would make if handed a box of paints.

  Electives.

  That was practically all she was taking this year. She hadn’t realized earlier, when she’d poured the heat on her accelerated studies, that by her senior year she’d have almost all of her requirements out of the way. As it was, she could technically graduate at the end of this semester. Trigonometry was the only class she had that mattered, and it wasn’t even required for graduation.

  When the bell rang, she slapped her book shut and shot out of her seat, moving into the laughing, shoving, talking crowd of students around her.

  At the flagpole, she found David playing hacky sack with the guys. When he saw her, his face lit up. He reached for her and pulled her into his arms. For the first time all day she wasn’t tired.

  “I’m starving,” someone said.
<
br />   “Me, too.”

  Lauren looped an arm around David as he followed the crowd down the street to the Hamburger Haven that was their regular hangout.

  Marci Morford dropped some money in the jukebox. Afroman’s “Crazy Rap” immediately started to play.

  Everyone groaned, and then laughed. Anna Lyons launched into a story about Mrs. Fiore, the home economics teacher, which got everyone arguing about how sucky it was to have to do actual homework in a skate class.

  Lauren ordered a strawberry milkshake, a bacon burger, and fries.

  It felt good to have money in her pocket. For years she’d pretended never to be hungry. Now she ate all the time.

  “Jeez, Lo,” Irene Herman laughed. “Way to pack it down. Do you have a buck I can borrow?”

  “No problem.” Lauren pulled a few dollars out of her jeans and handed it to her friend. “I know you want a milkshake, too.”

  That got everyone talking about how much they could eat.

  “Hey,” Kim said after a while, “did you guys get the notice about the California schools?”

  Lauren looked up. “What notice?”

  “They’re having a big thing in Portland this weekend.”

  Portland. An hour and a half away. Lauren’s heartbeat picked up. “That’s cool.” She slipped her hand into David’s, squeezing gently. “We can go together,” she said, looking at him.

  David looked crestfallen. “I’m going to my grandma’s this weekend,” he said. “In Indiana. There’s no way I can cancel. It’s their anniversary party.” He looked around the table. “Can one of you guys give Lauren a ride?”

  One by one they all made their excuses.

  Crap. Now she’d have to ride the bus. And as if that weren’t bad enough, she’d have to go to yet another college fair as the only kid without a parent.

  When the food was gone, the crowd drifted away, leaving Lauren and David alone at the table.