The Things We Do for Love

"No. I have a 3.9 grade point at Fircrest Academy. I've never been in any kind of trouble."



"Fircrest. Hmm. Are you Catholic?"



"Yes," Lauren answered with a nervous frown. It was a dangerous thing to admit these days. So much trouble in the church. She forced herself to stand perfectly straight. No fidgeting.



"Well. That's good, even if you do have red hair."



Lauren had no idea what to say to that, so she remained silent.



"Have you waitressed before?" Maria asked at last.



"Yes."



"So when I tell you to set up the tables and wipe down the menus, you know what I mean."



"Yes, ma'am."



"The silverware is in that chest," Maria said. "Not that it's real silver," she added quickly.



"Okay."



They stared at each other. Lauren felt like that bug again.



"Well. Get started," Maria said.



Lauren ran for the chest and pulled open the top drawer. Silverware rattled at the ferocity of the movement. She winced, knowing that already she'd done something wrong.



She glanced worriedly back at Maria, who stood there, frowning, watching Lauren fumble through the drawer.



It was not going to be easy to please that woman, Lauren thought. Not easy at all.



BY THE END OF HER SHIFT LAUREN KNEW TWO THINGS: She needed to wear tennis shoes to work, and earning enough money for back rent and a decent dress wasn't going to happen at DeSaria's.



Still, she liked the place. The food was wonderful. She worked as hard as she could, trying to find jobs that needed to be done before someone--namely Maria-- told her what to do. Now she was refilling all the olive oil decanters.



"You know," Angie said, coming up behind her, "this could be a great restaurant if people actually showed up. Here." She handed Lauren a dessert plate that held a piece of tiramisu. "Join me."



They sat down at the table by the fireplace. The flames flickered and snapped.



Lauren felt Angie's gaze on her and she looked up. In the dark eyes, she saw something. Compassion, maybe, with an edge of pity. Angie had seen Lauren that night in the parking lot, and then again at the Help-Your-Neighbor House. There were no secrets now. "It was really nice of you to give me this job. You don't need another waitress, though." She wished immediately that she'd kept silent. She needed this job.



"We will. I've got big plans for the place." Angie smiled. "Although I don't know much about the business. Just ask my sister Livvy. She thinks I'm going to screw up big time."



Lauren couldn't imagine that this beautiful woman failed at anything. "I'm sure you'll do great. The food is amazing."



"Yeah. My mom and Mira can really cook." Angie took another bite, then asked, "So, how long have you lived in West End? Maybe I went to school with your folks."



"I don't think so." Lauren hoped she didn't sound bitter but it was hard to tell. "We moved here when I was in fourth grade." She paused. "It's just Mom and me." She liked the way that sounded, as if they were a team, she and her mother. Still, her family--or lack thereof-- was not something she wanted to talk about. "How about you? Have you always lived in West End?"



"I grew up here. But I moved away for college and got married...." Angie's voice seemed to give out. She stared down at her dessert, stabbed it with her fork. "I just moved back home after a divorce." She looked up, made an attempt at smiling. "Sorry. I'm not used to saying it yet."



"Oh." Lauren had no idea how to respond. She went back to eating. The sound of their forks on porcelain seemed loud.



Finally, Angie said, "Do you need a ride home tonight?"



"No." She was surprised by the question. "My boyfriend is picking me up." As she said it, she heard a car honk outside. She shot to her feet. "There he is. I better go." She looked down at the dishes. "Should I--"



"Run along. I'll see you tomorrow night."



Lauren looked down at her. "Are you sure?"



"I'm sure. See you then."



"Bye," Lauren said, already moving. At the hostess desk, she bent down for her backpack. Slinging it over her shoulder, she headed for the door.



THE CROWD WENT WILD.



Like everyone else, Lauren was on her feet, screaming and clapping. A roar moved through the stands. The scoreboard flickered, changed, revealed the new numbers: Fircrest--28. Kelso Christian--14.



"That was awesome," Anna Lyons said, grabbing Lauren's sleeve and tugging it hard.



Lauren couldn't contain herself. She started laughing. David's pass had been beautiful, a perfect forty-yard spiral right into Jared's hands. She hoped his father had seen it.



"Come on," someone said. "It's almost halftime."



Lauren followed the group of girls down the aisle and onto the concrete stairs. They hurried down to the sidelines, where the various booths were being set up. She took her place at the hot dog stand, where the annual staff was already hard at work. "My turn," she said to Marci Morford, who was busy refilling the mustard jars. For the next half hour, while the marching band moved across the field, she sold hot dogs and hamburgers to the sea of people who drifted along the sidelines, congregating now and then to talk. Parents. Teachers. Students. Graduates. On Friday nights during football season, they all met at the stadium for local games. Everyone was talking about David. He was playing the game of his life.



When Lauren's shift was over, she rejoined her friends and watched the end of the game.



Fircrest kicked the other school's butt.



The stands slowly emptied out. Lauren and her friends cleaned up the mess at the booth, then went to the locker room. Outside the door, they stood in a pod, talking and laughing and waiting. One by one, the players came out, hooked up with their girlfriends, and walked away.



At last, the double doors opened and the final few players rushed out, laughing and talking and punching one another in the arms. David was in their midst and yet he stood apart somehow, the way Brad Pitt or George Clooney must have stood out in their high schools. The floodlights fell on him alone, and right then, he appeared golden, from his blond hair to his bright smile.



Lauren ran to him. He separated easily from the pack and pulled her into an embrace. "You were great," she whispered.



He grinned. "I was, wasn't I? Did you see that bomb to Jared? Shit. I was on fire." Laughing, he kissed her.



At the flagpole, he stopped, looked around.



Lauren knew what--or whom--he was looking for. She tensed up, slipped her arm around him, and settled in close.



The rest of the kids drifted toward their cars. They heard the distant sound of engines starting, doors slamming shut, horns honking. The party at the beach would be huge tonight. There was nothing like a big victory to get the gang going. Their last home game had been quiet; she and David had spent the hours afterward in his mom's car, talking about everything. This night would be different. She didn't care how they celebrated as long as they were together.



"Hey, David," someone called out, "are you and Lauren coming to the beach?"



"We'll be there," David said, waving back. His eyes were narrowed; he kept glancing away from the lights, toward the field. The parking lot. Finally, he said, "Did you see them?"



Before Lauren could answer, she heard his mother's voice. "David. Lauren. There you are."



Mrs. Haynes crossed the courtyard and came up to them. She hugged David fiercely, and then smiled up at him. Lauren wondered if David saw the way that smile shook. "I'm so proud of you."



"Thanks, Mom." David looked behind her.



"Your dad had a business meeting tonight," she said slowly. "He's sorry."



David's face seemed to crumble. "Whatever."



"I'll take you guys out for pizza, if you'd like--"



"No, thanks. There's a party at Clayborne Beach. But thanks." David grabbed Lauren's hand and pulled her away.



Mrs. Haynes fell into step beside them. In silence, the three of them walked to the parking lot. David opened the car door for Lauren.



She paused for a moment, looked at his mother. "Thanks for the invitation, Mrs. Haynes," she said.



"You're welcome," she answered quietly. "Have fun." Then she looked at David. "Be home by midnight."



He walked around to his side of the car. "Sure."



Later that night, as they were huddled around the fire, sitting amid a circle of kids who were talking about the traditional grad night party, Lauren leaned against him, whispered, "I'm sure he wanted to be there."



David sighed. "Yeah. He'll be there next Friday," he said, but when he looked at her, his eyes were bright. "I love you."



"I love you, too," she said, slipping her hand into his.



Finally, he smiled.



IN THE PAST FEW DAYS, ANGIE HAD WORKED CEASE lessly. Every morning, she was up before dawn and seated at the kitchen table, with notes and menus and paperwork spread out before her. In these, the quiet, pale pink hours, she put together the coat campaign and created a series of advertisements and promotions. By seven-thirty, she was at the restaurant, meeting with Mama to learn the behind-the-scenes routine.



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.