"So you didn't talk to her about it? You just ran off?"

"I couldn't face her."

Mrs. Mauk leaned back in her chair, studying Lauren through narrowed eyes. Finally, she said, "Close your eyes."

"But--"

"Do it."

Lauren did as she was told.

"I want you to picture your mother."

She formed the image in her mind. Mom, platinum-haired, her once beautiful face beginning to tighten and go thin; she was sprawled on the broken-down sofa, wearing a frayed denim miniskirt and a cropped T-shirt. There was a cigarette in her right hand. Smoke spiraled up from it. "Okay."

"That's what running away does to a woman."

Lauren slowly opened her eyes and looked at Mrs. Mauk.

"I watched you bust your ass for a chance in life, Lauren. You carried home backpacks full of books and worked two jobs and got yourself a scholarship to Fir-crest. You came up with the rent when your loser mother spent it all at the Tides. I had hope for you, Lauren. Do you know how rare that is in this building?"

Hope.

Lauren closed her eyes again, this time picturing Angie. She saw her standing on the porch, looking out to sea, with her dark hair fluttering in the breeze. Angie turned, saw Lauren, and smiled. There you are. How did you sleep?

It was a nothing little memory; just an image of an ordinary day.

"You have someplace to go, don't you?" Mrs. Mauk said.

"I'm afraid."

"That's no way to go through life, Lauren. Trust me on this. I know where the road ends if it starts with fear. You know where it ends, too. In an apartment upstairs and a mound of unpaid bills."

"What if she can't forgive me?"

"Come on, Lauren. You're smarter than that," Mrs. Mauk said. "What if she can?"

"YOU'RE A REPORTER, DAMN IT. FIND HER."

"Angie, we've had this conversation a dozen times. I don't even know where to start. David spoke to all of her friends. No one has heard from her. The guy at the bus station doesn't remember selling her a ticket. Her old apartment has been re-rented; the landlady practically hung up on me when I asked about Lauren. The admissions director at USC said she canceled her scholarship. I have no idea where she'd go."

Angie hit the button on the food processor. The whirring sound filled the kitchen. She stared down into the crumbly mixture, trying to think of something new to say.

There was nothing. In the past twenty-four hours she and Conlan had said everything that could be said on the subject. Lauren had simply vanished. It wasn't difficult to do in this busy, overcrowded world.

Angie unlocked the bowl and poured the topping over the blueberry mixture. Her sisters swore that cooking was therapeutic. This was her third blueberry cobbler. Any more therapy and she'd probably scream.

He came up behind her, put his arm around her, and kissed the curve of her neck. She sighed and leaned back against him.

"I can't stand the thought of her alone. And don't tell me she's not alone. She's a kid. She needs someone to take care of her."

"She's a mother now," he said gently. "The kid part gets lost in all that."

She turned into his arms, put her hands on his chest. His heart beat beneath her palm, nice and steady and even. Whenever in the past few hours she'd felt dizzy or lost or unsteady, she'd gone to him, touched him, and let him be her anchor.

He kissed her. With his lips against hers, he whispered, "She knows you love her. She'll be back."

Angie could hear in his voice how much he wanted to believe that. "No," she said. "She won't be back. You know why?"

"Why?"

"She's going to think I could never forgive her. Her mother didn't teach her the things that matter. She doesn't realize she's forgiven her mom--or would the second she showed up. She doesn't know how durable love can be, only how easily it gets broken."

"You know what's amazing? You never mention the baby."

"A part of me knew she couldn't do it." She sighed. "I wish I'd told her that. Maybe then she wouldn't have run off in the middle of the night."

"You told her what really mattered. And she heard you. I guarantee it."

"I don't think so, Con."

"I know so. When she had the baby, you told Lauren you loved her and you were proud of her. Someday, when she stops hating herself for what she had to do, she'll remember that. And she'll be back. Maybe her mother didn't teach her about love, but you did. Sooner or later, she'll figure that out."

He could always do it; say just the right thing she needed to hear. "Have I told you how much I love you, Conlan Malone?"

"You've told me." He glanced over at the oven. "How long does that thing bake?"

She wanted to smile. "Fifty minutes."

"That's definitely enough time to show me. Maybe even twice."

ANGIE KISSED HER SLEEPING HUSBAND AND ROLLED out of bed, careful not to disturb him. Dressing in gray sweats, she left the room.

It was so quiet downstairs. She'd forgotten that. The silence.

A teenager made so much noise ...

"Where are you?" she whispered out loud, hugging herself. The world out there was so damned big and Lauren was so young. A dozen bad ends came to her, flashed through her mind like images in a horror film.

She headed toward the kitchen for a cup of coffee. She was halfway there when she saw the box. It was in the hallway, tucked in close to the wall. Conlan must have got it out of the laundry yesterday morning before they'd gone to the hospital.

Yesterday: when everything had been different.

She knew she should turn away from it, pretend she hadn't seen it. But that was the way of her former self, and no good came of not looking.

She went to the box, knelt beside it, and opened it up.

The Winnie-the-Pooh lamp lay on top, cradled in a pink cotton blanket.

Angie pulled it out, held it. The amazing thing was that she didn't cry, didn't ache for the lost baby for whom this lamp had been bought. Instead, she carried it to the kitchen and set it on the table.

"There," she said. "It's waiting for you, Lauren. Come home and pick it up."

Her only answer was silence. Now and then the old house creaked and in the distance the ocean grumbled and whooshed, but here, in this house that had gone from three inhabitants to two, it was still.

She walked out to the porch, stared down at the ocean. She was so intent on the water that it took her a moment to see the girl standing in the trees.

Angie ran down the steps and across the wet grass, almost falling twice.

Lauren stood there, unsmiling, her eyes swollen and red. She tried to smile. Failed.

Angie wanted to throw her arms around Lauren, but something stopped her. There was a look in the girl's eyes that was harrowing. Her mouth trembled.

"We were so worried about you," Angie said, moving a step closer.

Lauren looked down at the baby in her arms. "I know I promised him to you. I just ..." She looked up. Tears filled her eyes.

"Oh, Lauren." At last, Angie closed the gap between them. She touched Lauren's damp cheek in the gentle kind of caress she'd dared so easily in the past. "I should have told you more about what it was like. It's just ... it was so hard to think about the day I had Sophie. The few minutes I held her. I knew when you looked into your baby's eyes, you'd be as lost as I was. That's why I never decorated the nursery. I knew, honey."

"You knew I'd keep him?"

"I was pretty sure."

Lauren's face crumpled just a little, her lips trembled and curved downward. "But you stayed with me. I thought--"

"It was you, Lauren. Don't you know that? You're part of our family. We love you."

Lauren's eyes widened. "Even after how I hurt you?"

"Love bangs us up a bit in this life, Lauren. But it doesn't go away."

Lauren stared up at her. "When I was little, I used to have a dream. The same one, every night. I was in a green dress and a woman was there, reaching down to hold my hand. She always said, 'Come on, Lauren, we don't want to be late.' When I woke up, I was always crying."

"Why were you crying?"

"Because she was the mom I couldn't have."

Angie drew in a sharp breath, then released it on a ragged sigh. Something inside her gave way; she hadn't realized how tightly she'd been wrapped until the pressure eased. This was what they'd come together for, she and Lauren. This one perfect moment. She reached out for Lauren's hand, said gently, "You have me, Lauren."

Tears streaked down Lauren's face. "Oh, Angie," she said. "I'm so sorry."

Angie pulled her into her arms. "There's nothing to be sorry about."

"Thank you, Angie," she said in a quiet voice, drawing back.

Angie's face softened into a smile. "No. Thank you."

"For being nothing but trouble and keeping you up at night?"

"For showing me how it feels to be a mother. And now, a grandmother. All of those empty years I dreamed of my little girl on a merry-go-round. I didn't know ..."

"Didn't know what?"

"That my daughter was already too old for playgrounds."

Lauren looked up at her then. It was all in her eyes, the years spent in quiet desperation, standing at her window, dreaming of a mother who loved her, or lying in her bed, longing for a bedtime story and a good-night kiss. "I was waiting for you, too."

Angie felt her smile shake. She reinforced it, wiped her eyes. "And who is this barnacle on your chest?"

"John Henry." Lauren eased the baby out of the front pack and offered him to Angie. She took him, held him in her arms.

"He's perfect," she whispered, feeling a heady combination of love and awe. Nothing filled a woman's arms like a baby. She kissed his soft forehead, inhaled the baby-sweet scent of him.

"What do I do now?" Lauren asked in a quiet voice.

"You tell me. What do you want to do?"

"I want to go to college. I guess it'll have to be community college for now. Maybe if I work for a few months and really save up I'll be able to take classes in the spring. It wasn't what I dreamed of, but ... things change."

"Even that will be hard," Angie said gently. Harder still would be watching all her friends--and David--go off to college in the fall. She'd lose them all. One by one, they'd go on with their lives. They'd have nothing in common with a girl their age who'd become a mother. It would break Lauren's heart.

"I'm used to hard. If I could have my job back ..."

"Would it help if you had a place to live?"

Lauren gasped; it was a sharp, brittle sound, as if she'd just washed ashore. "Really?"

"Of course, really."

"I wouldn't--we wouldn't have to stay for long. Just until I had enough money for an apartment and day care."

"Don't you understand, yet, Lauren? You don't need day care. You're part of a loud, loving, opinionated family now. Johnny won't be the first baby to grow up in the restaurant, and he won't be the last." She grinned. "And as you might imagine, I could find time to babysit. Not every day, of course. He's your son, but I could certainly help."

"You'd do that?"

"Of course." Angie gazed down at Lauren sadly. The girl looked so young right now; her eyes were full of a hope that seemed brand-new. Angie pulled her into a fierce hug. For a heartbeat, she couldn't let go. Finally, she took a deep breath and stepped back. "You're here just in time. Today is Aunt Giulia's birthday. I've made three blueberry cobblers--which no one except you and Conlan will eat." She reached out for Lauren, and then said quietly, "Come on. We don't want to be late."