Authors: Kristin Hannah
She looked up at David, who was smiling so brightly he looked like a kid on the last day of school. “It took
me forever to find all that shit. My mom has it all buried in all these blue covers.”
“It’s beautiful.”
He led her to her seat, pulled out her chair. When she sat down, he poured sparkling cider into her wineglass. “I was going to raid the old man’s wine room, but I knew you’d bitch at me and worry about getting caught.”
“I love you,” she said, embarrassed by the tears that stung her eyes.
“I love you, too.” He grinned again. “And I’d like to formally ask you to go to the homecoming dance with me.”
She laughed at that. “I’d be honored.” They’d gone to every high school dance together. This would be their last homecoming. At the thought, her smile faded. Suddenly she was thinking of next year and the chance that they’d be separated. She looked up at him; she needed to convince him that they should be together at school. He believed their love could survive a separation. She wasn’t willing to take that chance. He was the only person who’d ever told her
I love you.
She didn’t want to live without that. Without him. “David, I—”
The doorbell rang.
She gasped. “Is it your parents? Oh, God—”
“Relax. They called from New York an hour ago. My dad was pissed off because the limo was five minutes late.” He started for the door.
“Don’t answer it.” She didn’t want anything to ruin this night for them. What if Jared and the guys had heard about the Hayneses’ business trip? That was all the seed that was needed; a high school party could blossom in a second.
David laughed. “Just stay here.”
She heard him walk down the hallway and open the
door. Then she heard voices. A bit of laughter. The door clicked shut.
A minute later, David walked into the formal dining room, holding a pizza box. Dressed in his low-slung, baggy jeans and
Don’t Be Jealous, Not Everyone Can Be Me
T-shirt, he was so handsome she had trouble breathing.
He came to the table, set the box down. “I wanted to cook for you,” he said, losing his smile for just a second. “I burned the shit out of everything.”
Lauren stood up slowly, moved in close to him. “This is perfect.”
“Really?”
She heard the neediness in his voice and it touched her heart in a deep, deep place. She knew how that felt, wanting to please someone. “Really,” she answered, pressing onto her toes to kiss him.
He pulled her into his arms, held her so close she couldn’t breathe.
By the time they ate the pizza, it was cold.
Livvy’s new house was a 1970s-style split-level on a big corner lot in one of the nicer subdivisions in town. Some of the homes—the really expensive ones—looked out over the ocean. The rest had access to a kidney-shaped swimming pool and a community center that proudly offered kitchen facilities. When Angie had been in school, Havenwood had been The Place to live. She remembered sitting around the pool in the summers with her friends, watching the mothers. Most of them were in lounge chairs, wearing sexy one-piece swimming suits and wide brimmed hats; cigarettes and gin and tonics were in every adult hand. She’d thought they were so sophisticated, those white-bread suburban women. Nothing like her spicy Italian mother who had never spent a day lounging beside a community pool.
Her sister must have looked on this place with the same adolescent longing to belong.
She parked in Livvy’s circular driveway behind the Subaru wagon and got out of the car. At the front door, she paused.
This had to be done carefully. Surgeon-doing-open-heart-work carefully. Angie had been awake most of last night thinking about it. Well, about that and other things. It had been another bad night in her lonely bed, and
while she’d lain there, remembering what she’d longed to forget and worrying about her future, one thing had come clear: She had to get Livvy back to work. Angie had no idea how to run the restaurant by herself and no desire to do it for long.
I’m sorry, Liv.
Those were clearly the opening words. After that, she’d eat a little humble pie and cajole her sister with compliments. Whatever would work. Livvy
had
to return to the restaurant. Angie hadn’t wanted to work here for life, after all; just for a month or two until she could sleep alone in her bed again.
She knocked on the door.
And waited.
Knocked again.
Finally Livvy opened the door. She wore a tight pink velour sweat suit with
J. Lo
emblazoned across her chest. “I figured you’d show up. Come on in.” She backed up and turned around. There wasn’t really room for both of them in the postage stamp–sized entry. Livvy went up the carpeted stairs to the formal living room, where a plastic runner lay over the carpet, showing the preferred footpath.
Pale blue velvet sofas faced each other, separated by a glossy wood table. The accent chairs were ornately gilt; the fabric was pink and blue flowers. The sculpted carpet was orange.
“We haven’t gotten new carpeting yet,” Livvy said. “The furniture is awesome, though. Don’t you think?”
Angie noticed the taupe-colored Naugahyde La-Z-Boy, still in plastic. “Beautiful. Did you decorate yourself?”
Livvy’s plank chest seemed to expand. “I did. I was going to use a decorator, but Sal said I was as good as any of those gals down at Rick’s Sofa World.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“I was thinking maybe I’d even get a job down there. Have a seat. Coffee?”
“Sure.” Angie sat down on a sofa.
Livvy went into the kitchen and came back a few minutes later with two cups of coffee. She handed one to Angie, then sat down across from her.
Angie stared into her coffee. There was no point in putting it off. “You know why I’m here.”
“Of course.”
“I’m sorry, Livvy. I didn’t mean to insult you or criticize you or hurt your feelings.”
“I know that. You’ve always done it accidentally.”
“I’m different from you and Mira, as you’ve pointed out so often. Sometimes I can be too … focused.”
“Is that what they call it in the big city? Us small-town girls say bitchy. Or obsessive-compulsive.” Livvy smiled. “We watch
Oprah,
too, you know.”
“Come on, Liv. You’re killing me here. Accept my apology and say you’ll come back to work. I need your help. I think we can really help Mama out.”
Livvy took a deep breath. “Here’s the thing. I’ve
been
helping Mama out. For five years, I’ve worked at that damn restaurant and listened to her opinion on everything from my haircut to my shoes. No wonder it took me so long to meet a decent guy.” She leaned forward. “Now I’m a
wife.
I have a husband who loves me. I don’t want to blow it. It’s time for me to stop being a DeSaria first and everything else second. Sal deserves that.”
Angie wanted to be angry at Livvy, to bend her sister to her will; instead, she had a fleeting, painful thought about her own marriage: Maybe at some point she should have made it more important than children. She sighed. It was too late now. “You want a new start,”
she said quietly, feeling an unexpected connection to her sister. They had this in common.
“Exactly.”
“You’re doing the right thing. I should have—”
“Don’t go there, Angie. I know you flip me shit about my other husbands but I learned something from them. Life keeps going. You think it’ll stop, wait for you to be done crying, but it just keeps moving. Don’t spend your time looking back. You don’t want to miss what’s ahead.”
“I guess this is what’s ahead for me right now. Thanks a lot.” She tried to smile. “Could you see your way to helping me, at least? Maybe give me some advice?”
“You’re asking
me
for advice?”
“Just this once, and I probably won’t follow it.” She reached into her purse for her notepad.
Livvy laughed. “Read me your list.”
“How did you know—”
“You started making lists in third grade. Remember how they used to disappear?”
“Yeah.”
“I flushed them down the toilet. They made me crazy. All those things you wanted to accomplish.” She smiled. “I should have made a few lists of my own.”
It was as close to a compliment as Angie had ever gotten from her sister. She handed her the notepad. The list was three pages long.
Livvy flipped it open. Her lips moved as she read. A smile started, slowly at first. By the time she looked up, she was close to laughing. “You want to do all this?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Have you met our mother? You know, the woman who has put exactly the same ornaments on her Christmas tree for more than three decades? Why? Because she likes the tree the way it is.”
Angie winced. It was true. Mama was a generous, loving, giving woman … as long as things went exactly the way she wanted them to go. These changes would not be welcomed.
“However,” Livvy went on, “your ideas could save DeSaria’s … if that’s possible. But I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”
“What would you do first?”
Livvy looked down at the list, flipped through the pages. “It’s not here.”
“What isn’t?”
“First, you hire a new waitress. Rosa Contadori has been serving food at DeSaria’s since before you were born. I could learn to play golf in the time it takes her to write down an order. I’ve been picking up the slack, but …” She shrugged. “I don’t see you waitressing.”
Angie couldn’t disagree with that. “Any suggestions?”
Livvy grinned. “Make sure she’s Italian.”
“Very funny.” Angie reached for her pen. “Anything else?”
“Plenty. Let’s start with the basics.…”
Angie stood on the sidewalk, looking at the restaurant that had been so much a part of her youth. Mama and Papa had been here every evening; he at the front door, greeting guests, she in the kitchen, cooking for them. Family dinners had taken place at four-thirty, before the guests arrived. They’d all sat at a big round table in the kitchen so that they wouldn’t be seen if customers arrived early. After dinner, Mira and Livvy had gone to work, waitressing and busing tables.
But not Angie.
This one is a genius,
Papa always said.
She’s going to college, so she needs to study.
It had never been questioned. Once Papa spoke, a matter was ended. Angie was going to college. That was that. Night after night, she studied in the kitchen.
No wonder she’d gotten a scholarship.
Now here she was, back at the beginning of her life, preparing to save a business she knew nothing about, and tonight there would be no Livvy to help her out.
She stared down at her notes. They had filled four more pages, she and Livvy. One idea after another.
It was up to Angie to implement the changes.
She walked up the steps and went through the front door. The place was already open, of course. Mama had arrived at three-thirty, not a minute before, not a minute later, as she’d done every Friday night for three decades.
Angie heard the clatter and jangle coming from the kitchen. She went in, found her mother cursing. “Mira is late. And Rosa called in sick tonight. I know she is playing bingo at the Elks.”
“Rosa is sick?” Angie heard the panic in her voice. “She’s our only waitress.”
“Now
you
are our waitress,” Mama said. “It is not that hard, Angela. Just give people what they order.” She went back to making her meatballs.
Angie left the kitchen. In the dining rooms, she went from table to table, checking every detail, making sure the salt and pepper shakers were filled, that the place settings were clean and properly placed.
Ten minutes later, Mira came rushing through the front door. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she called out to Angie on her way to the kitchen. “Daniella fell off her bike.”
Angie nodded and went back to the menu, studying it as if it were a CliffsNotes guide and she were cramming for a test.
At five forty-five the first customers arrived. Dr. and Mrs. Feinstein, who ran the clinic in town. Twenty minutes
later, the Giuliani family arrived. Angie greeted them all as her father would have, then showed them to their tables. For the first few minutes, she actually felt good, as if she were part of her heritage at last. Her mother beamed at her, nodded encouragingly.
By six-fifteen, she was in trouble.
How could seven people generate so much work?
More water, please.
I asked for Parmesan.
Where’s our bread—
and the oil.
“You might be a great copywriter, Angela,” Mama said to her at one point, “but I would not tip you well. You’re too slow.”
Angie couldn’t disagree. She headed for the Feinsteins’ table and set down the plate of cannelloni. “I’ll be right back with your scampi, Mrs. Feinstein,” she said, then ran for the kitchen.
“I hope Dr. Feinstein isn’t finished by the time his wife is served,” Mama said, clucking in disapproval. “Mira, make those meatballs bigger.”
Angie backed out of the kitchen and hurried back to the Feinsteins’ table.
As she was serving the scampi, she heard the front door open. A bell tinkled.
More customers.
Oh no.
She turned slowly and saw Livvy. Her sister took one look at her and burst out laughing.
Angie straightened. “You’re here to laugh at me?”
“The princess working at DeSaria’s? Of course I’m here to laugh at you.” Livvy touched her shoulder. “And to help you out.”
By the end of the evening Angie had a pounding headache. “Okay. It’s official. I’m the worst waitress in
history.” She looked down at her clothes. She’d spilled red wine down her apron and dragged her sleeve in the crème anglaise. A discoloration on her pants was almost certainly from the lasagna. She sat down at a table in the back corner beside Mira. “I can’t believe I wore cashmere and high heels. No wonder Livvy laughs every time she looks at me.”
“You’ll get better,” Mira promised. “Here. Fold napkins.”
“Well, I damn sure can’t get worse.” Angie couldn’t help laughing, though it wasn’t funny. In truth, she hadn’t expected it to be so hard. All her life, things had come easily to her. She’d simply been good at whatever she tried. Not exceptional, perhaps, but better than average. She’d graduated from UCLA—in four years, thank you, with a very respectable grade point—and she’d immediately been hired by the best ad agency in Seattle.