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

by Hannah, Kristin

  First, they visited the suppliers. Angie watched her mother move through the boxes of fresh vegetables, choosing the same things day after day: tomatoes, green peppers, eggplants, iceberg lettuce, yellow onions, and carrots. Mama never paused to inspect the portobello or porcini mushrooms, the brightly colored array of peppers, the baby pea pods, the butter lettuce, or the rich, dark truffles.

  It was the same routine at the fish and meat markets. Mama bought tiny, shell pink shrimp for cocktails and nothing else. From Alpac Brothers, she chose extra lean ground sirloin, ground pork and veal, and dozens of boneless chicken breasts. By the end of the fourth day, Angie had begun to see the missed opportunities. Finally, she hung back, told Mama to “go on home”; that Angie would be along soon. As soon as Mama left, Angie turned to the produce supervisor. “Okay,” she said, “let’s pretend that DeSaria’s is a brand-new restaurant.”

  For the next few hours, he tossed information at her like a circus performer. She caught every word and wrote it down, then did the same thing at the fish and meat markets.

  She must have asked a hundred questions.

  What does it mean if the fish was flash frozen?

  What are the best kinds of clams? Oysters?

  Why would we want to buy squid ink?

  How do you pick a good cantaloupe?

  Why is Dungeness crab better than snow or king?

  The vendors answered each question patiently, and by the end of the week, Angie was beginning to understand how they could improve the menu. She compulsively collected recipes and menus from some of the most famous restaurants in Los Angeles, San Francisco, and New York. All of them, she noticed, used the freshest local ingredients for seasonal dishes. In addition, she read all her father’s notes and records and interrogated her sisters until they begged for mercy.

  For the first time in her life, she was becoming a part of the restaurant instead of a satellite in its orbit. To Angie’s—and everyone’s—surprise, she loved it.

  On Saturday night, in between helping Lauren waitress, she read over the accounts payable, paid bills, and jotted down some notes on what supplies were running low. The day passed in a blur of activity, and by the time the last guests left, she was exhausted.

  It felt great.

  She said good night to Mama and Mira, then got two bowls of gelato and sat down at a table by the fireplace. She loved this time of night, in the quiet of the closed restaurant. It relaxed her, and sometimes, in the crackle of the fire or the tap of rain on the roof, she felt her father’s presence.

  “I’m going home now, Angie,” Lauren said, walking through the dining room.

  “Have some of this gelato with me. It’s delicious.” It had become a ritual in the past few nights: Angie and Lauren sharing dessert at the end of the evening. Angie actually looked forward to it.

  Lauren grinned. “At this rate I’ll have to waddle to the dance.”

  Angie laughed. “Funny. Sit.”

  Lauren sat down across from her, where Angie had already placed a bowl of the gelato and a spoon.

  Angie spooned up a bit of gelato, let it melt in her mouth, “Man, this is good. Too bad we hardly had any customers tonight.” She looked at Lauren. “Your tips can’t be too good.”

  “They’re not.”

  “The ad for the coat drive hits tomorrow. That should help.”

  “I hope so.”

  Angie heard the desperate edge in Lauren’s voice. “How much does a homecoming dress cost these days?”

  Lauren sighed. “Lots.”

  Angie studied her. “What size are you?”

  “An eight.”

  “Same as me.” The answer was there, plain as the spoon in her hand. “I could loan you a dress. Conlan—my … ex-husband—was a reporter for the Seattle Times. Every now and then we went to some event. So I have a few dresses. One of them might fit you.”

  The look on Lauren’s face was easy to read: a combination of longing and shame. “I couldn’t do that. But thanks.”

  Angie decided not to push the offer. Lauren could think about it. “You’re going with the boy who picks you up from work?”

  Lauren blushed. “David Haynes.”

  Angie saw the transformation, knew what it meant. Love. It was no surprise. Lauren was a serious girl, the kind who fell in love hard and didn’t come out of it easily. A good girl, in other words. “How long have you and David been dating?”

  “Almost four years.”

  Angie lifted her eyebrows. High school years were like those of a dog’s life; four years could be a lifetime.

  She wanted to say Be careful, Lauren; love can kill you, but of course she didn’t. If Lauren was lucky, it was a lesson she’d never learn.

  The thought made Angie sigh. Suddenly, she was thinking about Conlan and all the years she’d loved him. And how it had felt when it was gone.

  She got up from the table quickly, before her sadness could be seen. She stood by the window, staring out at the night. The cold of autumn had come early this year; already a layer of frost was forming on the street. All over town leaves were falling from shivering trees, landing in piles on the sidewalks and along the roadsides. By this time next week, those heaps would be slippery and black. Soon there would be no leaves left.

  “Are you okay?”

  Angie heard the worry in Lauren’s voice and it embarrassed her. “Fine.” Before she could say more, apologize or perhaps explain, a car pulled up outside the restaurant and honked.

  “That’s David,” Lauren said, popping to her feet.

  Angie looked at the car out front. It was a classic Porsche Speedster, painted primer gray. The wheels shone with chrome and the tires were obviously new. “That’s some car.”

  Lauren came up beside her. “I call him Speed Racer sometimes. You know, from the old cartoon. ’Cause he lives for that car.”

  “Ah. A boy and his car.”

  Lauren laughed. “If I have to see one more paint chip, I might scream. Of course I don’t tell him that.”

  Angie stared down at the girl. Never had she seen such purity of emotion, such blatant adoration. First love. All at once, she remembered how consuming it was. She almost said, You be careful, Lauren, but it wasn’t her place. Such advice was for a mother to give.

  “See you Tuesday,” Lauren said, leaving.

  Angie watched Lauren go outside. The girl ran across the sidewalk and disappeared into the sports car.

  And suddenly she was thinking of a long time ago, back when she’d been head-over-heels in love with Tommy Matucci. He’d driven an old, battered Ford Fairlane; rickety and temperamental as that car had been, he’d loved it.

  Funny.

  She hadn’t thought of that in years.

  They parked in front of Lauren’s building, in their usual spot. She gently eased herself into position. It wasn’t easy in a car this small; the gear shift seemed to take up a lot of space. Still, they’d had years to perfect their technique.

  David took her in his arms and kissed her. She felt herself falling into that familiar breathy darkness, that needing. Her heartbeat sped up. Within minutes the windows were fogged up and their privacy was complete.

  “Lauren,” he murmured, and she heard it in his voice, too; that needing of her. His hand slid beneath her blouse. She shivered at the touch.

  Then his wristwatch started to bleat.

  “Shit,” he groaned, pulling his hand from her body. “I can’t believe they make me come home this early. I know eighth graders who can stay out till midnight.” He crossed his arms with a dramatic flourish.

  It was all Lauren could do not to smile. He had no idea how childish he looked right now. The great David Ryerson Haynes, pouting. “You’re lucky,” she said, snuggling up to him. “It means they love you.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Lauren felt his heartbeat; it fluttered beneath her palm. For a second, just that, she felt older than him by years.

  “Your mom doesn’t give a shit what time
you get home. Or even if you come home.”

  “My point exactly,” she said, feeling a swell of the old bitterness. She and mom had tackled the issue of curfews a long time ago. I won’t be your warden, Mom had said. My parents tried that and it only made me more wild. Now Lauren could come and go as she pleased.

  David kissed her again, and then drew back with a sigh.

  She knew instantly that something was wrong. “What’s the matter?”

  He leaned across her, opened the glove box. “Here,” he said, handing her some papers.

  “What—” She looked down. “The Stanford application.”

  “My dad wants me to go for early decision. It’s due November fifteenth.”

  “Oh,” Lauren said, easing back into her own seat. She knew he’d do anything to please his father.

  “I thought you could do it, too.”

  The eagerness in his voice made her want to cry. How could he drive her home, see her apartment, and not get it? “I can’t afford to do that, David. I need a scholarship. And not a few vanity bucks. I need a full ride.”

  His breath exhaled heavily. “I know.”

  They sat that way for a few long minutes, each in a separate seat, not touching, staring at the foggy windshield.

  “I probably won’t get in,” he said at last.

  “Come on, David. They have a building named after your family.”

  “Then you will, too.” He turned to her then, gathered her into his arms, and held her, kissed her. She let herself be swept into that kiss until nothing else mattered but them.

  Later, when she was alone again, walking through the sad darkness of her apartment, she couldn’t help wishing she lived in his world, where everything came easy. Dreams most of all.

  When Mira returned from carpool, Angie was standing on her front porch.

  “You’re up bright and early,” Mira said, walking up the path. “And you sorta look like shit.”

  “You should talk. Does everyone wear ripped sweatpants and rubber shoes for carpool?”

  “Most of us. Come on in.” Smiling, she led Angie into the house, which smelled of coffee and pancakes. Picking up toys along the way, she went to the kitchen and poured two cups of coffee. “Okay,” she said, settling into a plaid, overstuffed chair in the cluttered family room. “Why are you here and why do you look like a Survivor contestant?”

  “Very funny.” Angie plopped into a chair. “I was up most of the night, working.”

  “Working, huh?” Mira sipped her coffee and eyed Angie over the chipped rim.

  Angie handed her sister a notebook. “Here’s what I want to do.”

  Mira set down her mug and opened the notebook. Surprise widened her eyes as she read.

  Angie launched into it. “In addition to the coat promotion, I’ve planned for wine night on Tuesdays, where all bottles would be half off; date night on Thursdays, where dinner would come with two movie tickets; and happy hour on Fridays and Saturdays. We could open the restaurant at three o’clock and serve drinks and free hors d’oeuvres until five o’clock. You know: antipasti, bruschetta, that kind of thing. My research indicates that a few happy hours a week could almost double our weekly gross. We’re wasting our liquor license by using it for a drink here and there. And how’s this: Rediscover Romance at DeSaria’s. It’s my ad tagline. I thought we could hand out roses to all the couples who come in.”

  “Holy shit,” Mira muttered.

  Angie knew what that meant: Her sister had come to the Big Item. The menu change. “I want us to double the prices and cut half the items on the current menu. We need to do more with fresh fish and seasonal vegetables.”

  “Holy shit,” Mira said again, looking up. “Papa would have loved all this, Ange.”

  “I know. It’s Mama I’m worried about.”

  Mira laughed. “As we used to say, duh.”

  “How do I pitch these ideas to her?”

  “From a distance, preferably wearing body armor.”

  “Funny.”

  “Okay, princess. There are two ways to get around Mama. The first and most obvious is to use Papa. Ultimately, she’s always done anything to make him happy.”

  “Unfortunately, she’s the one he’s talking to.”

  “Yeah, so you’ll need plan B. Make her think it’s her idea. I did that when I wanted to go see Wings at the Kingdome. It took almost a month, but she finally decided I wouldn’t be American enough if I didn’t go with my friends.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “It starts with asking for advice.”

  TEN

  Lauren stood in the center of the dining room, staring down at the collection of salt and pepper shakers she’d gathered together.

  All night she’d been trying to figure out how to ask Angie for an advance on her first paycheck. Or to borrow a dress.

  Either way she’d look like a real loser. Not to mention that the DeSarias might wonder what had happened to her tip money.

  Drugs, Maria would say, shaking her head. So sad. No doubt she’d blame it all on Lauren’s red hair.

  If she told the truth—that she’d had to cough up back-due rent—Maria and Angie would give each other that startled Oh, she’s poor/how pathetic look. Lauren had seen that look a hundred times in her life, from teachers and school counselors and neighbors.

  She went to the window, stared out at the foggy night.

  There were moments that mattered, that changed your life. Was a homecoming dance one of those memories that should be acquired at all costs? Would she be … lessened somehow by a failure to attend? Perhaps she should go in a vintage dress and pretend it was a fashion statement, an airy disregard for convention, instead of a response to her penniless life. They all knew she was on scholarship anyway. No one would say anything. But Lauren would know. All night she’d feel a little broken inside. Was the dance worth that?

  These were questions a girl should ask her mother.

  “Ha,” Lauren said without a trace of humor.

  As usual, she had to follow her own counsel. There were two choices. She could make up a lie … or she could ask Angie for help.

  Angie sat at the stainless steel counter. Notes and papers were spread out in front of her.

  Mama stood with her back to the sink, her arms crossed. It didn’t take an expert to read her body language. Her eyes were narrowed and her mouth was a needle-thin line of displeasure.

  Angie proceeded with the utmost caution. “I’ve spoken with Scott Forman at the theater. He’s ready to give us a fifty percent discount on tickets if we include him in our ads.”

  Mama sniffed. “The movies are terrible these days. So much violence. It will upset people’s stomachs.”

  “They’ll be eating before the movie.”

  “Exactly.”

  Angie pressed forward. Business had really picked up since the inception of the coat drive. It was time to implement the rest of her plan. “Do you think it’s a good idea?”

  Mama shrugged. “We will see, I suppose.”

  “And the advertising—you think that’s smart?”

  “How much does it cost?”

  Angie laid out the pricing sheets. Mama glanced at them but didn’t move from her place at the sink. “Too much.”

  “I’ll see if I can negotiate better pricing.” She gently moved her notepad, revealing a menu from Cassiopeia’s, the four-star Italian restaurant in Vancouver. “Do you have any suggestions for wine night?”

  Mama sniffed. “We could talk to Victoria and Casey McClellan. They own that winery in Walla Walla. What’s it called—Seven Hills? And Randy Finley up at Mount Baker Vineyards makes good wines. Maybe they would give us a good rate to feature their wines. Randy loves my osso bucco.”

  “That’s a great idea, Mama.” Angie made some more notes on her list. When she finished, she nudged the Cassiopeia’s menu.

  Mama craned her neck forward and tilted her head. “What’s that?”

  “What?” Angie bit back a sm
ile. “Now, about the fresh fish. We—”

  “Angela Rose, why do you have that menu?”

  Angie feigned surprise. “This? I was just interested in our competition.”

  Mama waved her hand airily. “They have never even been to the old country, those people.”

  “Their pricing is interesting.”

  Mama looked at her. “How so?”

  “The entrées start at $14.95 and go up from there.” Angie paused, shaking her head. “It’s sad that so many people equate high prices with quality.”

  “Give me that.” Mama snatched the menu from the table and whipped it open. “Herbed pancakes with wild mushroom butter and pan-fried whitefish—for $21.95. This is not Italian. My mama, God rest her soul, made a tonno al cartoccio—tuna baked in parchment—that melted in your mouth.”

  “Terry has tuna on sale this week, Mama. Ahi, too. And his calamari steaks were beautiful.”

  “You are remembering your papa’s favorite. Calamari ripieni. It takes the very best tomatoes.”

  “Johnny from the farmer’s market promises me red heaven.”

  “Calamari and ahi are expensive.”

  “We could try it for a night or two—an advertised special. If it doesn’t work, we can forget about it.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  Angie swore under her breath. Mama was close to agreeing. Any little change could send them back to square one.

  Lauren walked into the kitchen, clutching her neatly folded apron.

  “Good night, Lauren,” Angie said. “Lock up on your way out.”

  Lauren didn’t move. She looked confused somehow, uncertain.

  “Thank you, Lauren,” Mama said. “Have a nice evening.”

  Lauren didn’t move.

  “What is it?” Angie asked.

  “I … uh …” Lauren frowned. “I can work tomorrow night after all.”

  “Great,” Angie said, going back to her notes. “See you at five.”

  The minute Lauren left, Angie returned to the discussion. “So, Mama, what do you think about upping the prices a little and adding a daily fish special?”

  “I think my daughter is trying to change the menu that has been good enough for DeSaria’s for years.”