Mama turned to her. The old-fashioned glasses magnified her dark, teary eyes. "He won't talk to me so much anymore. He says, 'It's time, Maria.' I don't know what I'll do all alone."

Angie knew about that kind of loneliness. It hurt, sometimes more than you could bear, but there was no way to avoid it. You simply kept moving until it passed. "You'll never be alone, Mama. You have children and grandchildren and friends and family."

"It's not the same."

"No."

Mama's mouth creased sadly downward. They sat there, silent and remembering, until Mama said, "Would you get me something to drink?"

"Sure."

Angie sidled down the row of seats and merged into the crowd. At the door, she paused for a moment and looked back.

Mama was the only person left in the fourth row. She looked small from here, a little hunched. And she was talking to Papa.

Angie hurried across the lobby toward the bar. There were dozens of people clustered there.

That was when she saw him.

She drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

He looked good.

Take your breath away and make your heart ache good.

But then, he'd always been the most handsome man she'd ever seen. She remembered the first time she'd ever seen him, all those years ago on Huntington Beach. She'd been trying to learn to surf and doing a terrible job of it. A huge wave had tumbled over her, sucked her under, and turned her around. She'd panicked and flailed, unable to tell which way was up. Then a hand had grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to the surface. She'd found herself looking into the bluest pair of eyes she'd ever seen....

"Conlan." She said his name quietly, as if maybe he wasn't really there and she was imagining him. She moved toward him.

He saw her.

They stared at each other, started to come together for a hug, and then backed off. They were like toys stuck in the pause mode, struggling to move.

"It's good to see you," he said.

"It's good to see you, too."

An awkward pause settled between them, and suddenly Angie wished she'd never walked over here, never said hello.

"How are you doing? Still in West End?"

"I'm good. It seems I have a knack for the restaurant biz. Who knew?"

"Your dad," he said, reminding her with those two words how much he knew about her.

"Yeah. Well. How's the news?"

"Good. I'm writing a series on the freeway killer. Maybe you've read it?"

She wished she could say yes. Once, she'd been his first reader on everything. "I kind of stick with local news these days."

"Oh."

Her heart was swelling now, starting to ache. It was beginning to hurt just standing so near him. She ought to leave while her dignity was intact. Instead, she found herself asking, "Are you by yourself?"

"No."

She nodded; it was more a jerking tilt of the chin. "Of course not. Well, I better--" She turned to go.

"Wait." He grabbed her wrist.

She stopped, looked down at his strong, tanned fingers, so stark against her pale wrist.

"How are you?" he asked, moving closer to her. "Really?"

She could smell his aftershave. It was the expensive Dolce & Gabbana brand she'd bought him for Christmas last year. She looked up at him, noticed a tiny patch of black on his jaw where he'd missed shaving. He'd always had that problem, he did everything in such a hurry. Angie had had to inspect his shave every morning. She wanted to reach up and touch his face, let her fingertip trail along his jaw. "I'm okay. Better than that, really. I like being in West End again."

"You always said you'd never go home."

"I said a lot of things. And I didn't say a lot of things."

She saw the change that came over his face. A terrible sorrow seemed to pull at his mouth. "Don't, Ange--"

"I miss you." She couldn't believe she'd said it. Before he could respond (or not), she forced a smile. "I've been hanging out with my sisters and being Auntie Angela again. It's fun."

He laughed, obviously relieved by the change of subject. "Let me guess: You've promised Jason to convince Mira that an eyebrow ring is okay."

For a second it was like the old days between them. The good old days. "Very funny. I would never think an eyebrow ring is okay. Although he has mentioned a tattoo."

"Conlan?"

Angie saw the blond thirty-something woman who'd come up to Conlan. She wore a plain navy dress and a strand of pearls. Not a hair was out of place. She looked like the owner of a small, exclusive boutique.

"Angie, this is Lara. Lara, Angie."

Angie forced a smile. It was probably absurdly overbright, but there was nothing she could do about that. "It's nice to meet you. Well. I'd better run." She started to rush away.

Conlan pulled her gently toward him. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"For what?" She made herself laugh.

"Call me sometime."

She held on to a smile by force of will. "Sure, Conlan. I'd love to run into you again. Bye."

FIFTEEN

THE WORST PART ABOUT IT WAS THAT SHE'D ALMOST forgotten. At least, she believed she had, and in the end, that was pretty much the same thing.

"Denial" was Mira's one-word answer to Angie's long, drawn-out explanation of how she'd handled her emotions after the divorce.

It was, she thought, as good an observation as any. In the months between May and November, she'd allowed herself to think about several of her losses. Particularly her father's death and the loss of her daughter and the subsequent realization that there would be no babies. In fact, she was proud of the way she'd handled her grief. Every now and then it had shocked her, pulled her under its icy surface, but in each instance, she'd swum free.

The divorce somehow had been pushed aside, a little thing in the presence of giants.

Now she saw the whole of it and she couldn't look away.

"There's nothing wrong with denial," she said to Mira, who stood at the stainless steel counter, making pasta.

"Maybe not, but it can fill up and explode one day. That's how people find themselves in McDonald's with a loaded handgun."

"Are you suggesting there's a felony in my future?"

"I'm pointing out that you can ignore your feelings for only so long."

"And I've reached the end of my time, huh?"

"Conlan was one of the good ones," Mira said gently.

Angie went to the window, stared out at the busy street. "I think was is the key word in that sentence."

"Some women choose to go after men they've accidentally let go."

"You make Conlan sound like a dog that broke its leash and ran. Should I put reward posters around Volunteer Park?"

Mira came around the counter and stood beside Angie, put a hand on her shoulder. Together they stared out the window. In the silvery pane, backed by night, they became a pair of watery faces. "I remember when you met Conlan."

"Enough," Angie said. She couldn't go down memory lane right now.

"I'm just saying--"

"I know what you're saying."

"Do you?"

"Of course." She gave her sister a tender smile, hoping it wasn't as sad as it felt. "Some things end, Mira."

"Love shouldn't be one of those things."

Angie wished she could be that naive again, but innocence was one of the casualties of divorce. Maybe the first one. "I know," she answered, leaning against her sister. She didn't say what they both knew: that it happened every day.

LAUREN GOT OFF THE BUS ON SHOREWOOD STREET.

There it was in front of her: a bright, sprawling Safeway.

You know what makes a girl throw up for no reason, don't you?

She flipped the hood of her sweatshirt up and tried to lose herself in the soft, cottony folds. Looking down to avoid eye contact with anyone, she marched into the store, snagged a red basket, and headed straight for the "feminine needs" aisle.

She didn't bother pricing the tests; instead, she grabbed two boxes and tossed them in her basket, then ran to the magazine aisle, where she yanked a U.S. News & World Report out of the stack. The cover story was "How Colleges Compare."

Perfect.

She tossed it on top of her pregnancy tests and made a beeline for the checkout.

An hour later she was home again, sitting on the edge of the bathtub. She'd locked the door, but there had been no need. The sounds that came from her mother's bedroom were unmistakable: Mom wouldn't be bothering Lauren right now.

She stared down at the box. The fine print was hard to read; her hands were trembling as she opened the box.

"Please God." She didn't voice the rest of her plea. He knew what she wanted.

Or, more precisely, what she most fervently did not want.

ANGIE STOOD AT THE HOSTESS DESK, MAKING NOTES on the calendar. For the last twenty-four hours she'd worked from sunup to sundown. Anything was better than thinking about Conlan.

She looked up and saw Lauren standing by the fireplace, staring into the flames. The restaurant was full of customers, and yet there Lauren stood, doing nothing. Angie went to her, touched the girl's shoulder.

Lauren turned, looking dazed. "What? Did you say something?"

"Are you okay?"

"Fine. Fine. I just needed something for table seven." She frowned as if she couldn't remember what she'd just said.

"Zabaglione."

"Huh?"

"Table seven. Mr. and Mrs. Rex Mayberry. They're waiting for zabaglione and cappuccino. And Bonnie Schmidt ordered a tiramisu."

Lauren's smile was pathetic. Her dark eyes remained dull, even sad. "That's right." She headed for the kitchen.

"Wait," Angie said.

Lauren paused, looked back.

"Mama made some extra panna cotta. You know how quickly it goes bad. Stay a few minutes after work and have some with me."

"I hardly need to eat fattening foods," Lauren said, and walked away.

For the next few hours, Angie watched Lauren closely, noticing the paleness of her skin, the woodenness of her smile. Several times she tried to make Lauren laugh, all to no avail. Something was definitely wrong. Maybe it was David. Or maybe she'd been rejected by a college.

By the time Angie had ushered out the final guest, said good-bye to Mama, Mira, and Rosa, and closed out the register, she was really worried.

Lauren stood at the big picture window, staring out at the night, her arms crossed tightly against her chest. Across the street, volunteers were busily hanging turkeys and pilgrim hats from the streetlamps. Next, Angie knew, they'd string thousands of Christmas lights for the celebration that followed Thanksgiving. The annual tree lighting ceremony was an event to be remembered. Hundreds of tourists came to town for it. The first Saturday in December. Angie had rarely missed it, not even during her married years. Some family traditions were inviolable.

Angie came up behind Lauren. "It's only a week until the first lighting celebration."

"Yeah."

She could see Lauren's face in the window; the reflection was pale and indistinct. "Do you guys go to the ceremony every year?"

"You guys?" Lauren uncrossed her arms.

"You and your mom."

Lauren made a sound that might have been a laugh. "Mommie Dearest isn't one to stand in line on a cold night to watch lights turn on."