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

by Hannah, Kristin

  “What?”

  “The plan was two years at the community college in Fircrest, then two years at Western.” She smiled. “In a way, it worked. I didn’t count on eight years between my sophomore and junior years, but life follows its own plan.” She glanced across the room at the kids’ table.

  “So a baby kept you out of college.”

  Mira frowned. “What an odd way to phrase it. No, just slowed me down, that’s all.”

  After that, Lauren had trouble eating or talking or even smiling. She finished her meal—or pretended to—then helped with the dishes like an automaton. All she could think about was the baby inside of her, how it would grow bigger and bigger and make her world smaller.

  And all around her there was talk of children and babies and friends who were having both. It stopped when Angie was in the room, but the minute she left, the women started up with the kid talk again.

  Lauren wished she could leave, just slip unnoticed into the night and disappear.

  But that would be rude, and she was the type of girl who followed the rules and played nicely with others.

  The kind of girl who let her boyfriend convince her that one time without a condom would be fine. I’ll pull out, he’d promised.

  “Not fast enough,” she muttered, taking her piece of pie into the living room.

  Her mind was far away as she sat in the living room, tucked between Livvy’s little boys. She stared down at her untouched pie. One of the boys kept talking to her, asking her questions about toys she’d never heard of and movies she’d never seen. She couldn’t answer any of his questions. Hell, she could hardly keep remembering to nod and smile and pretend she was listening. How could she possibly concentrate on a child’s questions when now, this second, a human life was taking root inside her, growing with every beat of her heart? She touched her stomach, feeling how flat it was.

  “Come with me.”

  Lauren jerked her chin up, yanked her hand away from her belly.

  Angie stood there, a plaid woolen blanket thrown over her shoulder. Without waiting for Lauren to answer, she turned and headed toward the sliding glass doors.

  Lauren followed her out to the back deck. They sat side by side on a wooden bench, both of them resting their feet on the deck railing. Angie tucked the blanket around their bodies.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  The gentleness of the question was Lauren’s undoing. Her resolve faded, leaving behind a pale gray desperation. She looked at Angie. “You know about love, right?”

  “I was in love with Conlan for a long time, and my folks were married for almost fifty years. So, yeah, I know something about love.”

  “But you’re divorced. So you know it ends, too.”

  “Yes. It can end. It can also build a family and last forever.”

  Lauren knew nothing about the kind of love that stayed firm in shaky years. She did know how David would react to news of their baby, though. His smile would vanish. He would try to say it didn’t matter, that he loved Lauren and that they’d be okay, but neither one of them would believe it.

  “Did you love your husband?” Lauren asked.

  “Yes.”

  Lauren wished she hadn’t asked the question; that was how hurt Angie looked right now. But she couldn’t stop herself. “So he stopped loving you?”

  “Oh, Lauren.” Angie sighed. “The answers aren’t always so clear when it comes to things like that. Love can get us through the hardest times. It can also be our hardest times.” She looked down at her bare left hand. “I think he loved me for a long time.”

  “But your marriage didn’t last.”

  “We had big issues, Lauren.”

  “Your daughter.”

  Angie looked up, obviously surprised. Then she smiled sadly. “Not many people dare to bring her up.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t be. I like talking about her sometimes. Anyway, when she died, it was the beginning of the end for Con and me. But let’s talk about you. Have you and David broken up?”

  “No.”

  “So it must be college-related. You want to talk about it?”

  College.

  For a second she didn’t understand the question. College seemed distant now, not like real life at all.

  Not like a girl who was pregnant.

  Or a woman who would have given anything for a child.

  She looked at Angie, wanting to ask for help so badly the words tasted bitter. But she couldn’t do it, couldn’t bring this problem to Angie.

  “Maybe it’s more serious than that,” Angie said slowly.

  Lauren threw back the blanket and got to her feet. Walking toward the railing, she stared out at the dark backyard.

  Angie came up behind her, touched her shoulder. “Is there some way I can help you?”

  Lauren closed her eyes. It felt good to have someone offer.

  But there was no way anyone could help. She knew that. It was up to her to take care of it.

  She sighed. What choice did she have, really? She was seventeen years old. She’d just sent out college applications and paid every dime she had for the privilege.

  She was a teenager. She couldn’t be a mother. God knew she understood about mommies who resented their babies. She didn’t want to do that to a child. It was a painful legacy that she’d hate to pass on.

  And if she were going to take care of it—

  Say it, her subconscious demanded. If you can think it, identify it.

  And if she were going to have an abortion, should she tell David?

  How could she not?

  “Believe me,” she whispered, seeing her breath in lacy white fronds, “he’d rather not know.”

  “What did you say?”

  Lauren turned to Angie. “The truth is … things are bad at home. My mom is in love with yet another loser—big surprise—and she’s hardly working. And we’re … fighting about stuff.”

  “My mom and I went at it pretty good when I was your age. I’m sure—”

  “Believe me. It’s not the same thing. My mom isn’t like yours.” Lauren felt that loneliness well up in her throat again. She looked away before Angie could see it in her eyes. “You know how we live.”

  Angie moved closer. “You told me your mom is young, right? Thirty-four? That means she was just a kid when she had you. That’s a tough road to walk. I’m sure she’s doing the best she can.” She touched Lauren’s shoulder. “Sometimes we have to forgive the people we love, even if we’re mad as hell. That’s just how it is.”

  “Yeah,” Lauren said dully.

  “Thanks for being honest with me,” Angie said. “It’s hard to talk about family problems.”

  And there it was—the feeling worse when you thought you’d hit the bottom. Lauren stared out at the darkness, unable to look at Angie. She tried to think of something to say but nothing came to her except a soft, thready “Thanks. It helps to talk.”

  Angie put an arm around her, squeezing gently. “That’s what friends are for.”

  EIGHTEEN

  So he stopped loving you? For the whole of that night, Angie found herself thinking about Lauren’s question. It stayed with her, haunted her. By morning it was all she could think about.

  So he stopped loving you?

  He had never said that to Angie. In all the months it had taken to dismantle their marriage, neither one of them had said, “I don’t love you anymore.”

  They’d stopped loving their life together.

  That wasn’t the same thing at all.

  The tiny seed of what if took root, blossomed.

  What if he still loved her? Or if he could love her again? Once she had that thought, nothing else mattered.

  She called her sister. “Hey, Livvy. I need you to work for me today,” she said without even bothering to say hello.

  “It’s Thanksgiving weekend. Why should I—”

  “I’m going to see Conlan.”

  “I’ll be there.”


  Sisters. Thank God for them.

  Now it was almost noon and Angie was on the outskirts of Seattle. As always, the traffic was bumper to bumper in this city that had built its freeways too many years ago.

  She took the next exit and looped into downtown. Amazingly, there was a parking spot right across the street from the Times’s office. She pulled in and parked.

  And wondered what the hell she was doing here. She didn’t even know if he’d be working today. She knew nothing about his life now.

  They were separate. Divorced. What had made her think he’d want to see her?

  You hear that, Papa? Your Angela is afraid.

  It was true. And it was no way to live.

  She flipped down the mirror and checked her face. She saw every wrinkle that time and circumstance had left on her.

  “Damn.”

  If only there was time for a chemical peel.

  Be brave, Angie.

  She grabbed her purse and went inside the building.

  The receptionist was new.

  “I’m here to see Conlan Malone.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Malone is busy today. I’ll check—”

  “I’m his wife.” She winced, corrected herself. “Ex wife.”

  “Oh. Let me—”

  Henry Chase, the security guard who’d worked this building for more years than anyone could count, came around the corner. “Angie,” he said grinning. “Long time no see.”

  She let out a relieved breath. “Hey, Henry.”

  “You here to see him?”

  “I am.”

  “Come on.”

  She smiled back at the receptionist, who shrugged and reached for the phone.

  Angie followed Henry to the bank of elevators, said good-bye, and went upstairs. On the third floor, she stepped out into the busy center of Conlan’s life.

  There were desks everywhere. On this holiday weekend, many of them were empty. She was glad of that. Still, there were plenty of familiar faces. People looked up, smiled nervously, and glanced toward Conlan’s office.

  The ex-wife’s visit was worry-worthy, apparently. No doubt, word of her visit would spread from desk to desk; reporters loved to hear news and pass it on.

  She tilted her chin up, clutched her purse in sweaty fingers, and kept moving.

  She saw him before he saw her. He stood at the window of his corner office, talking on the phone. He was putting on his coat as he talked.

  In that instant, everything she’d repressed came flooding back. She remembered how he used to kiss her first thing in the morning, every day, even when he was late for work, and how she sometimes pushed him away because she had other, more important things on her mind.

  She knocked on the glass door.

  Conlan turned, saw her. His smile faded slowly, his eyes narrowed. In anger? Disappointment? She wasn’t sure anymore; she couldn’t read his face. Maybe the look had been one of sadness.

  He waved her in.

  She opened the door and went inside.

  He held up one finger to her, then said into the phone, “That’s not okay, George. We’re scheduled. I have the photographer ready. He’s waiting in the van already.”

  Angie looked down at his desk. It was covered with notes and letters; a stack of newspapers dominated one side.

  The pictures of her were gone. Now there was nothing personal at all, no glimpse of who he was on his off hours.

  She didn’t sit down, afraid that she’d start to tap her foot or squirm nervously.

  “Ten minutes, George. Don’t you move.” Conlan hung up the phone, then turned to her. “Angie” was all he said. The Why are you here? was silent but unmistakable.

  “I was in town. I thought we could—”

  “Bad timing, Ange. That was George Stephanopoulos on the phone. I have a meeting with him in”—he looked at his watch—“seventeen minutes.”

  “Oh.”

  He reached down for his briefcase.

  She took a step backward, feeling vulnerable now.

  He looked at her.

  Neither of them moved or spoke. The room felt full of ghosts and long lost sounds. Laughter. Crying. Whispering.

  She wanted him to move toward her, give her some sign of encouragement, however small. Then she could launch into I’m sorry and he would know why she was here.

  “I’ve gotta run. Sorry.” He started to reach for her, probably to pat her shoulder, but drew back before making contact. They stared at each other for another long moment, and then he walked out on her.

  She sank down into the chair in front of his desk.

  “Angie?”

  She wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting there, dazed, trying to collect the pieces of herself. She looked up and saw Diane VanDerbeek.

  Angie didn’t rise. She wasn’t sure her legs would hold her. “Diane. It’s good to see you again.”

  And it was. Diane had worked with Conlan for a long time. She and her husband, John, had been their friends for years. Conlan had gotten custody of the friendship in the divorce. No, that wasn’t quite true. Angie had given them up without a fight. For weeks after the separation, Diane had called. Angie hadn’t called her back.

  “Let him be, for heaven’s sake. He’s finally getting his life back.”

  Angie frowned. “You make it sound like he fell apart after the divorce. He was a rock.”

  Diane stared down at her silently, as if measuring what to say. After a moment, she glanced out the window at the gray November day. Her mouth, usually so quick to smile, remained pressed in a thin line, perhaps even curled downward ever so slightly.

  Angie felt herself tightening up. Diane had always had a reporter’s directness. I call ’em like I see ’em had been her mantra. Whatever observation she was about to make, Angie was pretty sure she didn’t want to hear it.

  “Did you really miss so much?” Diane finally asked.

  “I don’t think I want to talk about this.”

  “Twice this year I came into his office and found him crying. Once when Sophie died and once when you’d decided to divorce.” Her voice softened; so did the look in her eyes. “With Sophie, I thought: How sad that he had to come here to cry.”

  “Don’t,” Angie murmured.

  “I tried to tell you this before, when it mattered, but you wouldn’t listen. So why are you here now?”

  “I thought …” Angie stood up suddenly. In about five seconds, she was going to start crying. If she started, God alone knew when she’d stop. “It doesn’t matter. I need to go. I was an idiot.” She ran for the door. As she rounded the corner into the hallway, she heard Diane say:

  “Leave him alone, Angie. You’ve hurt him enough.”

  Angie hardly slept that night. When she crawled into bed and closed her eyes, all she saw were memories flickering across the theater screen in her mind.

  She and Conlan were in New York four years ago for his birthday. He’d bought her an Armani dress—her first designer garment.

  “It cost more than my first car. I don’t think I can wear it. We should return it, in fact. There are children starving in Africa …”

  He came up beside her. Their reflections were framed in the perfect oval of the hotel room mirror. “Let’s not worry about the starving children tonight. You look beautiful.”

  She turned, looped her arms around him, and looked up into his blue, blue eyes.

  She should have told him she loved him more than life, more even than the babies God had withheld from them. Why hadn’t she?

  “The thing about silk,” he said, sliding his hand down her back, “is that it slips off as easily as it slips on.”

  She’d felt a shiver of desire then; she remembered that clearly. But it had been the wrong time of the month for conception.

  “It’s the wrong time,” she’d said, not noticing until later how much those words had taken from him.

  Stupid woman. S
tupid.

  Another memory came to her. More recent. This time they were in San Francisco on business. She’d been pitching a high-concept campaign for a national account. Conlan had come along for the ride. He’d thought they could make a romantic weekend out of it, or so he’d said. She’d agreed because … well, their romantic weekends had become few and far between by then.

  In the Promenade Bar, thirty-four stories above the busy San Francisco streets, they chose a window table. The city, in all her jeweled glory, lay glittering all around them.

  Conlan excused himself and went to the restroom. Angie ordered a Cosmopolitan for herself and a Maker’s Mark on the rocks for him. While she waited, she studied the company’s statistics again. The waitress delivered the drinks.

  Angie was stunned by the bill. “Seventeen dollars for one Cosmopolitan?”

  “It’s the Promenade,” the waitress answered. “Magic is expensive. You want the drinks?”

  “Sure, thanks.”

  Conlan returned a minute later. He had barely sat down when Angie leaned over and said, “I closed out the tab. Seventeen bucks for one drink.”

  He sighed, then smiled. Had it been forced? Then, she hadn’t thought so. “None of your DeSaria economy plans for us tonight. We’ve got the money, Ange. We might as well spend it.”

  Finally, she understood. He’d come along on this trip not in search of romance, but rather in search of a different life. It was his way of dealing with a dream that hadn’t come true. He wanted to remind himself—and her—that they could make a full, wonderful life without children, and that getaway weekends were the trade-off for a too-quiet house and an empty nursery.

  What she should have said was “Then I’ll have three drinks … and order the lobster.”

  It would have been so easy. He would have kissed her then, and maybe their new life would have begun.

  Instead, she’d started to cry. “Don’t ask me to give it up,” she’d whispered. “I’m not ready.”

  And just like that, their new beginning had slid down into the mud of the same old middle.

  Why hadn’t she seen the truth when it was right beside her, sharing her bed night after night? All this time, she’d thought that the search for a baby had ruined them.