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

by Hannah, Kristin

  Angie turned back to the counselor. “It was kind of you to think of Lauren’s feelings on this, but as you can see, she’s a tough kid.”

  Mrs. Detlas slowly closed Lauren’s folder. Then she said, “I suppose she could finish the semester here and take the finals. There’s only six weeks left in the term, and Christmas break cuts in the middle of it. She could take her finals in January and graduate early, but I really believe—”

  Angie stood up. “Thank you, Mrs. Detlas. Lauren will graduate from Fircrest, which is as it should be.”

  “You’re welcome,” Mrs. Detlas said, obviously irritated.

  “I’m sure you’ll make every effort to help her. And I’ll be sure and tell my uncle how well it all turned out for Lauren.”

  “Your uncle?”

  “Oh, did I forget to mention that?” She looked right at the counselor. “Cardinal Lanza is my mother’s brother.”

  Mrs. Detlas seemed to shrink into her chair. “Oh” was how she answered, but it could hardly be heard at all.

  “Let’s go, Lauren,” Angie said, heading for the door.

  Lauren stumbled along beside her. “That was amazing,” she said when they got outside.

  “And fun. The old bat needed a wake-up call.”

  “How did you know what to say?”

  “Life, honey. It all comes in handy.”

  Lauren smiled. She felt great. Better than great. No one had ever fought for her like that, and the effort strengthened her, made her feel invincible. With Angie on her side, she could do anything.

  Even attend classes when she knew people would be staring and talking.

  Angie grinned. “I just hope there is a Cardinal Lanza.”

  At that, they both burst into laughter.

  Angie stood at the corner, watching Lauren walk across campus. She held herself back from shouting: “Bye, honey. Have a good day at school. I’ll be here at six to pick you up.” She was still young enough to know that such a scene would be the height of uncool. And poor Lauren didn’t need any extra attention to come her way. Pregnant in private school was tough enough. A geek wannabe mother might push her over the edge.

  Lauren paused at the big building’s double door. Turning slightly, she waved at Angie, then disappeared inside.

  Angie’s chest felt tight. “You little witches better be nice to my girl,” she said. Closing her eyes, she said a prayer for Lauren, then she got into the car.

  As she was driving home, trying not to imagine the firestorm of gossip at Fircrest Academy, she considered going back, parking by the flagpole, just in case. What if Lauren came out crying, broken by the kinds of petty cruelty that only teenage girls could inflict? She would need Angie …

  “No,” she said aloud, taking charge of her negative fantasies. Lauren had to get through this day on her own. There was no other way. The road she’d found herself on was dark and scary; there was no way out except straight through.

  The bleating ring of her cell phone saved her. She dug into her purse and found it, answering on the third ring.

  “Angie?”

  She hadn’t realized until just then, when she drew in a sharp breath, that she’d been waiting for this. “Hey, Con,” she said, trying to sound casual. To be safe, she pulled off to the side of the road. Her heart was going a mile a minute.

  “I’ve been thinking about the other night.”

  Me, too.

  “We need to talk.” “That’s been true for years,” she said. “Do you want to come down to the cottage?” The minute the invitation slipped out, she thought: Lauren.

  He would not be happy about the situation.

  “Not today, I’m busy,” he said. “Maybe …” His voice trailed into the dark woods of uncertainty. He was reconsidering; she could tell.

  “It’s Monday. The restaurant’s closed. I could come up and buy you lunch.”

  “Lunch?”

  “It’s a meal. Often characterized by sandwiches and soups.” Her joke fell flat. “Come on, Con. You need to eat lunch.”

  “How about Al Boccalino?”

  “I can be there by eleven-thirty.” She flicked her turn signal and eased back onto the road.

  “See you then. Bye,” he said.

  “Bye.” Angie wanted to smile, but all she could think about was the girl living under her roof. Conlan would not take this news well.

  She made it to downtown Seattle in record time, parked the car, and headed for the restaurant.

  Their restaurant.

  At least, it had been once.

  She was four blocks away when it started to pour. Raindrops the size of golf balls battered the sidewalk in front of her, formed rushing silver rivers along the curb. She popped open her umbrella and headed for Pioneer Square. In the park, dozens of homeless people huddled in pods, passing cigarettes back and forth, trying to keep dry.

  Finally she reached Yesler. The viaduct—that arching concrete overpass that dared a big earthquake to crumble it—held the rain at bay.

  She ducked into the restaurant. Al Boccalino was empty this early in the day. The working lunch crowd wouldn’t be here for another hour at least.

  Carlos, the owner of the restaurant, came around the corner. Seeing her, he smiled.

  “Mrs. Malone. It’s good to see you again.”

  “You, too.” She handed him her coat and umbrella and followed him into the small, Tuscan-inspired trattoria. Immediately, she smelled the pungent combination of garlic and thyme that reminded her of home.

  “You should bring your mama back some time,” Carlos said with a smile.

  Angie laughed. The one time she had brought her parents here, Mama had spent the whole night in the kitchen, chastising the chef for cutting tomatoes for marinara. Crush them, she’d muttered. That is why God gave us hands. “Sure, Carlos,” she said, her smile fading when she saw Conlan.

  He rose at her entrance.

  Carlos helped her into her seat, gave them each a menu, and then disappeared.

  “It feels strange to be here again,” Angie said.

  “I know. I haven’t been here since our anniversary.”

  She frowned. “I thought your apartment was right around the corner.”

  “It is.”

  That silence descended again. They looked at each other.

  Carlos appeared at the table, holding a bottle of champagne. “My favorite couple together again. Is good.” He filled each fluted glass with glittering, bubbling liquid. He looked at Conlan. “You let me decide your lunch menu, yes?”

  “Of course,” Conlan answered, still looking at Angie.

  She felt exposed by that look, vulnerable. She reached for her glass, needing something in her hand.

  I want to tell you about this girl I met.

  “Conlan,” she said just as Carlos reappeared by the table, holding a plate of caprese salad. By the time they’d oohed and aahed over the food, Angie had lost her nerve. She finished her glass of champagne and poured a second.

  She’s really great. She’s living with me. Oh, and did I mention she’s pregnant?

  Conlan leaned forward, put his elbows on the table. “This morning I got a call from my agent. I’ve been offered a book contract.” He paused, then said, “And the only person I wanted to tell was you. What do you think that means?”

  She knew how much it had cost him to admit that. She wanted to reach for him, take his hand in hers, and tell him that she still loved him, that she’d always loved him and always would, but it was too soon for that. Instead, she said, “I think it means we loved each other for a long time.”

  “Most of my life.”

  She touched her glass to his. The brittle clinking was the sound of beginnings. She knew she should tell him about Lauren now, but she couldn’t do it. This moment felt magical somehow, full of possibility. “Tell me everything.”

  He launched into the story of a local man who had been convicted of raping and killing several elderly women in the late nineties. Conlan had done an
investigative piece on the story and been hooked. He’d come to believe the man was innocent, and DNA tests had just proven it. “It’s a Cinderella deal,” he said. “They’re giving me a decent amount of money to write this book and another one.”

  He was still talking about the story an hour later when they finished their dessert and paid the bill.

  Angie got to her feet, noticing that she was more than a little tipsy.

  Conlan stood beside her, steadied her with his touch.

  She stared up at him. His face, creased now in a smile, made her want to cry. “I’m so proud of you, Conlan.”

  His smile faded. “This can’t be good.”

  “What can’t? I—”

  He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, right there in the restaurant, in front of everyone. It wasn’t one of those you-could-be-my-grandma kisses, either. Oh, no.

  “Wow,” she said when it was over. She realized she was swaying slightly. She tried to remain still. It was difficult; her heart was pounding. She wanted him with a ferocity that surprised her. “But we need to talk,” she said, trying to think straight.

  “Later,” he said in a gravelly, desperate voice. Taking her hand, he pulled her toward the door. “We’re going to my place.”

  She gave in. It was impossible not to. “Can we run?”

  “Definitely.”

  Outside, Angie was surprised to see that it was still light. Then she remembered: It had been a lunch date. They ran through the rain down Yesler Street, turned on Jackson.

  Conlan jammed his key in the lock.

  Angie pressed up against his back and put her arms around him. She moved her hands down to his waistband.

  “Damn,” he muttered, trying another key.

  The lock clicked open.

  He pushed through the door and dragged her toward the elevator. When the doors opened, they tumbled inside, still kissing.

  Angie was on fire. She touched him everywhere, kissed him until she felt dizzy.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  The doors opened. He swept her into his arms and carried her down the hall. In minutes—seconds—they were in his bedroom.

  Conlan placed her gently on the bed. She lay there, feeling dazed with the kind of desire she’d forgotten about. “Take off your clothes,” she said in a husky voice, propping herself onto her elbows. He knelt at the foot of the bed, between her legs. “I can’t stay away from you,” he whispered. There was both wonder and disappointment in his voice.

  She knew there would be a price for this moment.

  Right now, she didn’t care.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Naked, Angie stood at the window of her husband’s—ex-husband’s—apartment, staring out at Elliott Bay. Rain gave the world a blurry, distant countenance. Cars rumbled north and south on the viaduct. The windowpanes rattled ever so softly from all that traffic, made a sound like the chattering of teeth.

  If this were a movie moment, she’d be smoking a cigarette and frowning while a montage of images from their failed marriage and newborn reconciliation flashed across the screen. The last image, as the movie returned to the present, would be Lauren’s face.

  “You look worried,” Conlan said.

  How well he knew her. Even when she stood in profile, with her back slanted toward him, he could tell. Probably it was in her stance. He always said she tilted her chin up and crossed her arms when she was upset.

  She didn’t turn to face him. In the window, a ghostly image of her face, blurred by rain, gazed back at her. “I wouldn’t say worried. Thoughtful, maybe.”

  The bed springs creaked. He must be sitting up. “Ange?”

  Finally, she went to the bed and sat down beside him. He touched her arm, kissed the swell of her breast.

  “What is it?”

  “I need to tell you something,” she said.

  He drew back. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “There’s this girl.”

  “Oh?”

  “She’s a good girl. Perfect grades. Hardworking.”

  “And she’s relevant to us how?”

  “I hired her in September. She works at the restaurant about twenty hours a week. You know, after school, weekends. Mama hates to admit it, but she’s the best waitress they’ve ever had.”

  Conlan eyed her. “What’s her tragic flaw?”

  “There isn’t one.”

  “Angie Malone, I know you. Now what the hell are we really talking about here? And don’t tell me it’s a girl who is a great waitress.”

  “Her mother abandoned her.”

  “Abandoned?”

  “Just walked out one day.”

  His gaze was steady. “Tell me you found her a place to live—”

  “Gave her a place.”

  Conlan blew out a heavy breath. “She’s living with you at the cottage?”

  “Yes.”

  Disappointment stamped itself on his face—in his blue eyes, in his frowning mouth. “So you have a teenager living in the house.”

  “It’s not like that. Not like before, anyway. I’m just helping her out until …”

  “Until what?”

  Angie sighed and covered her eyes with her hand. “Until the baby is born.”

  “Oh, shit,” Conlan said, throwing the covers back, getting out of bed.

  “Con—”

  He stormed into the bathroom, slammed the door shut behind him.

  Angie felt as if she’d been kicked in the gut. She’d known this would happen. But what choice did she have? With a sigh, she bent down for her clothes and got dressed. Then she sat on the bed, waiting.

  He finally came out, wearing a pair of worn old Levi’s and a pale blue T-shirt. His anger seemed to have gone; without it, he looked tired. His shoulders were rounded in defeat. “You said you’d changed.”

  “I have.”

  “The old Angie brought a pregnant teenager home, too.” He looked at her. “That was the beginning of the end for us. I remember, even if you don’t.”

  “Come on,” she said, feeling as if something inside of her were breaking. She moved toward him. “I’ve hardly forgotten. Just give me a chance.”

  “I’ve given you a lifetime of chances, Ange.” He looked around the room, then at the bed. “This was a mistake. I should have known better.”

  “It’s different this time. I swear.” She reached for him. He sidestepped out of her grasp.

  “How? How is it different?”

  “She’s a seventeen-year-old with no one to take care of her and nowhere to go. I’m helping her, but I’m not crazy anymore with what I don’t have. I’ve made peace with not having a baby. Please,” she whispered. “Give me a chance to show you that this is different. Come meet her.”

  “Meet her? After what Sarah Dekker put us through—”

  “This is not Sarah. The baby is Lauren’s. Just come and meet her. Please. For me.”

  He looked down at her, long and hard, then he said, “I won’t live through it all again. The highs. The lows. The obsessions.”

  “Conlan, believe me, I—”

  “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” He reached for his keys off the dresser and headed for the door.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He paused. Without looking back, he said, “You’re always sorry, aren’t you, Angie? That’s what I should have remembered.”

  In her world history class last year, Lauren had done a report on Victorian London. One of her research sources had been the film The Elephant Man. She remembered sitting in the library after hours, staring at the small television screen, watching the well-heeled Londoners taunt and ridicule poor John Merrick, whose face and body had been twisted and tortured far beyond what a man should have to endure. But the whispers and stares hurt him as deeply as any of his deformities.

  Lauren understood that now, how much it hurt to be the object of gossip. In all her years at Fircrest she’d strived for the kind of perfection that drew only positive attentio
n. She was never late to class, never broke the rules, never said mean things about other kids. She’d tried, in all ways, to be like Caesar’s wife: above reproach.

  She should have known how far the mighty fall and how hard the ground could be.

  Everyone was staring at her, pointing and whispering. Even the teachers seemed shocked and unnerved by her presence. They acted as if she carried a lethal virus, one that could all too easily go airborne and infect innocent passersby.

  After school, she let herself be swept along by the laughing, yelling crowd. Even in the midst of all these people—friends, mostly—she felt infinitely different. Separate. Head down, she tried to be invisible.

  “Lauren!”

  She looked up instinctively, though she immediately wished she hadn’t.

  The gang was gathered around the flagpole; Susan and Kim were seated on the bricked ledge beside it and David and Jared were playing hacky sack.

  She steeled herself for the inevitable. She’d avoided them at lunch by hiding out in the library, but now she had no choice but to say hi.

  “Hey, guys,” she said, coming up to the group. She hesitated, saw David do the same.

  They stared at each other from a distance.

  The girls swarmed her, pulled at her arm. She followed them out behind the school, to their place on the football field. The boys followed along behind, keeping the hacky sack in motion.

  “Well?” Kim asked when they were all standing around the goalpost. “How does it feel?”

  “Scary,” Lauren answered. She so didn’t want to talk about this, but it was better to be talked to than talked about. And these were her best friends.

  “What are you going to do?” Susan asked, scouting through her backpack for something. Finally she pulled out a Coke. Opening it, she took a drink and passed it around.

  David came up behind Lauren, slipped an arm around her waist. “We don’t know.”

  “How come you didn’t have an abortion?” Kim asked. “That’s what my cousin did.”

  Lauren shrugged. “I just couldn’t.” She was starting to wish she were far, far away from here. With Angie, where she felt safe …

  “David says you’re giving it up for adoption. That’s cool. My aunt Sylvia adopted a baby last year. She’s way happy now,” Susan said, reaching for the Coke.