OR THE NEXT FEW DAYS, ANGIE DID WHAT SHE DID best: She threw herself into a project. She woke long before dawn and spent all day studying. She called friends and former clients--anyone who'd ever been involved in the restaurant or food service business--and wrote down every word of their advice. Then she read and reread the account books until she understood every dollar that came in and every penny that went out. When she finished that, she went to the library. Hour after hour, she sat at the cheap Formica table with books and articles strewn out in front of her. After that, she parked herself at the microfiche machine and read the archived material.

At six o'clock, the librarian, Mrs. Martin, who'd been old when Angie got her first library card, turned off the lights.

Angie got the hint. She carried several armfuls of books to her car and drove back to the cottage, where she kept reading long into the night. She fell asleep on the sofa, which was infinitely preferable to being in bed alone.

While she was doing her research, her family called like clockwork. She answered each call politely, talked for a few moments, then gently hung up. She would, she said repeatedly, let them know when she was ready to see the restaurant. At each such call, Mama snorted and said crisply, You cannot learn without doing, Angela.

To which Angie replied, I can't do without learning, Mama. I'll let you know when I'm ready.

Always you were obsessive, Mama would reply. We do not understand you.

There was more than a little truth in that, Angie knew. She had always been a woman with laserlike focus. When she started something, there was no halfway, no easy beginning. It was this trait that had broken her. Quite simply, once she'd decided I want a child, there had been ruin on the horizon. It was the thing she couldn't have, and the search had taken everything.

She knew this, had learned it, but still she was who she was. When she undertook something, she focused on success.

And to be honest--which she was with herself only in the quiet darkness of the deepest hour of night--it was better to think about the restaurant than to dwell on the losses and failures that had brought her here.

They were with her, of course, those memories and heartaches. Sometimes, as she was reading about management techniques or special promotions, she'd flash on the past.

Sophie would have been sleeping through the night by now.

Or:

Conlan loved that song.

It was like stepping barefoot on a sharp bit of broken glass. She pulled the glass out and ran on, but the pain remained. In those moments, she redoubled her efforts at studying, perhaps poured herself a glass of wine.

By Wednesday afternoon, she was exhausted by her lack of sleep and finished with her research. There was nothing more she could learn from secondary sources. It was time to apply her learning to the restaurant.

She put her books away, took a long, hot shower, and dressed carefully. Black pants, black sweater. Nothing that would draw attention or underscore her "big city" ways.

She drove slowly to town and parked in front of the restaurant. Notepad in hand, she got out of the car.

The first thing she noticed was the bench.

"Oh," she said softly, touching the wrought-iron curled back. The metal felt cold against her fingertips... just as it had on the day they'd bought it.

She closed her eyes, remembering....

The four of them hadn't agreed on a thing all week-- not the song that should be sung at the funeral, nor who should sing it, not what his headstone should look like, nor what color roses should drape the casket. Until the bench. They'd been in the hardware store, looking for citronella candles for the celebration of Papa's life, when they'd seen this bench.

Mama had stopped first. Papa always wanted a bench outside the restaurant.

So folks could take a load off, Mira had said, coming up beside her.

By the next morning that bench had been secured to the sidewalk. They'd never discussed putting an In Memoriam plaque on it. That was the way of big cities. In West End, everyone knew that bench belonged to Tony DeSaria. The first week it was up, a dozen flowers appeared on it, single blossoms left by people who remembered.

She stared up at the restaurant that had been his pride and joy.

"I'll save it for you, Papa," she whispered, realizing a moment later that she was waiting for an answer. There was nothing, just the sound of traffic behind her and the distant hum of the sea.

She uncapped her pen and held the tip poised just above the paper, at the ready.

The brick facade was in need of repair. Moss grew beneath the eaves. A lot of shingles were missing. The red neon sign that read DeSaria's was missing the apostrophe and the i.

She started writing.

Roof

Exterior repair

Sidewalk dirty

Moss

Sign

She climbed the few steps to the front door and paused. A menu was posted behind glass on the wall. Spaghetti with meatballs was $7.95. A lasagna dinner, including bread and salad, was $6.95.

No wonder they were losing money.

Prices

Menu

She opened the door. A bell tinkled overhead. The pungent aromas of garlic, thyme, simmering tomatoes, and baking bread filled the air.

She was drawn back in time. Not a thing had changed in twenty years. The dimly lit room, the round tables draped in red-and-white-checked fabric, the pictures of Italy on the wall. She expected to see Papa come around the corner, grinning, wiping his hands on his apron, saying, Bella Angelina, you're home.

"Well. Well. You're really here. I was afraid you'd fallen down the cabin stairs and couldn't get up."

Angie blinked and wiped her eyes.

Livvy stood by the hostess table, wearing a pair of tight black jeans, a black off-the-shoulder blouse, and Barbie mules. Tension came off Livvy in waves. It was as if they were kids again, teenagers fighting over who got to use the Baby Soft spray first.

"I came to help," Angie said.

"Unfortunately, you can't cook and you haven't worked at the restaurant since you got your braces off. No. Wait. You never worked here."

"I don't want us to fight, Livvy."

Livvy sighed. "I know. I don't mean to be a bitch. I'm just tired of all the crap. This place is bleeding money and all Mama does is make more pans of lasagna. Mira bitches at me but when I ask for help, she says she doesn't understand business, only cooking. And who does finally offer a hand? You. Daddy's princess. I don't know whether to laugh or cry." She pulled a lighter out of her pocket and lit a cigarette.

"You aren't going to smoke in here, are you?"

Livvy paused. "You sound like Papa." She dropped the cigarette into a half full glass of water. "I'm going outside for a smoke. You tell me when you've figured out how to save the day."

Angie watched her sister leave, then she headed into the kitchen where Mama was busy layering lasagna into big metal baking pans. Mira was right next to her, arranging meatballs on a metal tray that was only slightly smaller than a twin bed. At Angie's entrance, Mira looked up and smiled. "Hey there."

"Angie!" Mama wiped her cheek, leaving a red tomato trail behind. Sweat beaded her brow. "Are you ready to learn how to cook?"

"I'll hardly save the restaurant by cooking, Mama. I'm making notes."

Mama's smile fell a fraction. She shot a worried look at Mira, who merely shrugged. "Notes?"

"On things I think might improve the business."

"And you're starting in my kitchen? Your Papa--God rest his soul--loved--"

"Relax, Mama. I'm just checking things out."

"Mrs. Martin says you've read every restaurant reference book in the library," Mira said.

"Remind me not to rent any X-rated movies in this town," Angie said, smiling.

Mama snorted. "People watch out for each other here, Angela. That's a good thing."

"Don't get started, Mama. I was joking."

"I should hope so." Mama pushed her heavy glasses higher on her nose and peered at Angie through owl-sized brown eyes. "If you want to help, learn to cook."

"Papa couldn't cook."

Mama blinked, sniffed, then went back to layering the ricotta-parsley mixture over noodles.

Mira and Angie exchanged a look.

This was going to be worse than Angie thought. She was going to have to tread with extreme care. An irritated Livvy was one thing. Mama pissed off was something else entirely. Barrow, Alaska, in the winter was warmer than Mama when she got mad.

Angie looked down at her notes, feeling both pairs of eyes on her. It took her a second to gather enough courage to ask: "So, how long has the menu been the same?"

Mira grinned knowingly. "Since the summer I went to Girl Scout camp."

"Very funny," Mama snapped. "We perfected it. Our regulars love every item."

"I'm not saying otherwise. I just wondered when you last changed the menu."

"Nineteen seventy-five."

Angie underlined the word menu on her list. She might not know much about operating a restaurant, but she knew plenty about going out to dinner. A changing menu kept people coming back for more. "And do you offer nightly specials?"

"Everything is special. This isn't downtown Seattle, Angela. We do things our own way here. It was good enough for Papa. God rest his soul." Mama's chin tilted in the air. The temperature in the kitchen dropped several degrees. "Now we'd better get back to work." She elbowed Mira, who went back to hand-forming the meatballs.

Angie knew when she'd been dismissed. She turned and went back into the empty dining room. She saw Livvy over by the hostess desk again. Her sister was talking to Rosa, the woman who'd started waitressing in the seventies. Angie waved and went upstairs.

It was quiet in her father's office. She paused at the open doorway, letting the memories wash over her. In her mind, he was still there, sitting at the big oak desk he'd bought at a Rotary Club auction, poring over the accounts.

Angelina! Come in. I'll show you about taxes.

But I want to go to the movies, Papa.

Of course you do. Run along then. Send Olivia up here.

She sighed heavily and went to his desk. She sat in his chair, heard the springs creak beneath her weight.

For the next several hours, she studied and learned and made notes. She re-read all of the old account books and then started on tax records and her father's handwritten business notes. By the time she closed the last book, she knew that her mother was right. DeSaria's was in trouble. Their income had dropped to almost nothing. She rubbed her eyes, then went downstairs.

It was seven o'clock.

The middle of the dinner hour. There were two parties in the restaurant: Dr. and Mrs. Petrocelli and the Schmidt family.

"Is it always this slow?" she said to Livvy, who stood at the hostess table, studying her talon fingernails. The bright red polish was dotted with pink stars.

"Last Wednesday we had three customers all night. You may want to write that down. They all ordered lasagna, in case you're interested."

"Like they had a choice."

"And it begins."

"I'm not here to criticize you, Liv. I'm just trying to help."

"You want to help? Figure out how to get people through the door. Or how to pay Rosa Contadori's salary." She glanced over at the elderly waitress who moved at a glacial pace, carrying one plate at a time.

"It'll take some changes," Angie said, trying to be as gentle as possible.

Livvy tapped a long scarlet fingernail against her tooth. "Like what?"

"Menu. Advertising. Decor. Pricing. Your payables are a mess. So is ordering. You guys are wasting a lot of food."

"You have to cook for people, even if they don't show up."

"I'm just saying--"

"That we're doing everything wrong." She raised her voice so that Mama could hear.

"What's that?" Mama said, coming out of the kitchen.

"Angie's been here half a day, Mama. Long enough to know that we don't know shit."

Mama looked down at them for a moment, then turned and headed for the corner by the window, where she started talking to the curtain.

Livvy rolled her eyes. "Oh, good. She's getting Papa's opinion. If a dead man disagrees with me, I'm outta here."

Finally, Mama returned. She didn't look happy. "Papa tells me you think the menu is bad."

Angie frowned. That was what she thought, but she hadn't told anyone yet. "Not bad, Mama. But change might be a good thing."

Mama bit down on her lower lip, crossed her arms. "I know," she said to the air beside her. Then she looked at Livvy. "Papa thinks we should listen to Angie. For now."

"Of course he does. His princess." She glared at Angie. "I don't need this crap. I have a new husband who has begged me to stay home at night and make babies."

The arrow hit its mark. Angie actually flinched.

"So that's what I'm going to do." Livvy patted Angie's back. "Good luck with the place, little sis. It's all yours. You work nights and weekends." She turned on her high heel and walked out.

Angie stared after her, wondering how it had gone bad so quickly. "All I said was we needed to make a few changes."

"But not to the menu," Mama said, crossing her arms. "People love my lasagna."

LAUREN STARED DOWN AT THE QUESTION IN FRONT OF her.

A man walks six miles at four miles per hour. At what speed would he need to travel during the next two and a half hours to have an average speed of six miles an hour during the entire trip?

The answer choices blurred in front of her tired eyes.

She pushed back from the table. She couldn't do this anymore. SAT preparation had filled so much of her time in the last month that she'd started to get headaches. It wouldn't do her any good if she aced the test but fell asleep in all her classes.

The test is in two weeks.

With a sigh, she pulled back up to the table and picked up her pencil. She'd already taken this test last year and gotten a good score. This time, she was hoping for a perfect 1600. For a girl like her, every point mattered.

By the time the oven beeper went off an hour later, she'd completed another five pages of the practice test. Numbers and vocabulary words and geometry equations floated through her head like those giant Star Wars spaceships, bumping into one another.

She went into the kitchen to make dinner before work. She could choose between a bowl of Raisin Bran and an apple with peanut butter. She picked the apple. When she finished eating, she dressed in a nice pair of black pants and a heavy pink sweater. Her Rite Aid smock covered most of the sweater anyway. She grabbed her backpack--just in case she found time to finish her trigonometry homework on her dinner break--and left the apartment.

She hurried down the stairs and was just reaching for the front door knob when a voice said, "Lauren?"

Dang it. She paused, turned.

Mrs. Mauk stood in the open doorway to her apartment. A tired frown pulled the edges of her mouth downward. The wrinkles on her forehead looked painted on. "I'm still waiting for that rent check."

"I know." She had trouble keeping her voice even.

Mrs. Mauk moved toward her. "I'm sorry, Lauren. You know I am, but I need to get paid. Otherwise, it's my job on the line."

Lauren felt herself deflate. Now she'd have to ask her boss for an advance. She hated doing that. "I know. I'll tell Mom."

"You do that."

She headed for the door, heard Mrs. Mauk say, "You're a good kid, Lauren"; it was the same thing the manager said every time she had to ask for money. There was no answer to that, so Lauren kept walking, out into a rainy, navy blue night.

It took two bus changes to get her out toward the highway, where the neon bright Rite Aid pharmacy offered all night hours. She hurried into the store, even though she wasn't late. Even a few extra minutes on her time card helped.

"Uh, Lauren?" It was Sally Ponochek, the pharmacist. As always, she was squinting. "Mr. Landers wants to see you."

"Okay. Thanks." She went back to the employees' lunchroom and dropped off her stuff, then went upstairs to the manager's small, supply-cramped office. All the way there she practiced how she would ask it: I've worked here for almost a year. I work every holiday-- you know that. I'll work Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve this year. Is there any way I could get an advance on this week's salary?

She forced herself to smile at him. "You wanted to see me, Mr. Landers?"

He looked up from the papers on his desk. "Oh. Lauren. Yes." He ran a hand through his thinning hair, recombed what was left of it across his head. "There's no easy way to say this. We need to let you go. You've seen how slow business is. Word is corporate is thinking of shutting this location down. The locals simply won't patronize a chain store. I'm sorry."

It took a second. "You're firing me?"

"Technically we're laying you off. If business picks up..." He let the inchoate promise dangle. They both knew business wouldn't pick up. He handed her a letter. "It's a glowing recommendation. I'm sorry to lose you, Lauren."

THE HOUSE WAS TOO QUIET.

Angie stood by the fireplace, staring out at the moonlit ocean. Heat radiated up her legs but somehow didn't reach her core. She crossed her arms, still cold.

It was only eight-thirty; too early for bed.

She turned away from the window and looked longingly at the stairs. If only she could turn back time a few years, become again the woman who slept easily.

It had been easier with Conlan's arms around her. She hadn't slept alone in so long she'd forgotten how big a mattress could be, how much heat a lover's body generated.

There was no way she'd sleep tonight, not the way she felt right now.

What she needed was noise. The approximation of a life.

She bent down and grabbed her keys off the coffee table, then headed for the door.

Fifteen minutes later, she was parked in Mira's driveway. The small two-story house sat tucked on a tiny lot, hemmed on both sides by houses of remarkable similarity. The front yard was littered with toys and bikes and skateboards.

Angie sat there a minute, clutching the steering wheel. She couldn't bust in on Mira's family at nine o'clock. It would be too rude.

But if she left now, where would she go? Back to the silence of her lonely cottage, to the shadowland of memories that were best left alone?

She opened the door, got out.

The night closed around her, chilled her. She smelled autumn. A bloated gray cloud floated overhead, started spitting rain on the sidewalk.

She hurried up the walk and knocked on the front door.

Mira answered almost instantly. She stood in the entry, smiling sadly, wearing an old football jersey and Grinch slippers. Her long hair was unbound; it cascaded down her sides in an unruly mass. "I wondered how long you were going to sit out there."

"You knew?"

"Are you kidding? Kim Fisk called the minute you parked. Andrea Schmidt called five seconds later. You forget what it's like to live in a neighborhood."

Angie felt like an idiot. "Oh."

"Come on in. I figured you'd be by." She led the way down a linoleum-floored hallway and turned in to the family room, where a huge brown sectional framed a big-screen television. Two glasses of red wine waited on the oak coffee table.

Angie couldn't help smiling. She sat down on the sofa and reached for the wineglass. "Where is everyone?"

"The little ones are asleep, the big ones are doing homework, and tonight is Vince's league night." Mira stretched out on the sofa, looking at Angie. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"You were just driving around in the dark?"

"Something like that."

"Come on, Ange. Livvy quit. Mama threw down the lasagna gauntlet and the restaurant is bleeding."

Angie looked up, trying to smile. "And don't forget that I'm learning to live alone."

"By the looks of it, that isn't going well."

"No." She took a sip of wine. Maybe more than a sip. She didn't really want to talk about her life. All it did was wound her. "I need to convince Livvy to come back."

Mira sighed, obviously disappointed by Angie's change in subject. "We probably should have told you that she's wanted to quit for months."

"Yeah. That would have been good to know."

"Look on the bright side. There's one less of us to piss off when you start making changes."

For some reason, the word changes hit Angie hard. She put down the wineglass and stood up; then she moved to the window, staring out, as if her location had been the problem.

"Angie?"

"I don't know what the hell is wrong with me lately."

Mira came up beside her, touched her shoulder. "You need to slow down."

"What do you mean?"

"Ever since you were a girl, you've been running for what you wanted. You couldn't get out of West End quickly enough. Poor Tommy Matucci asked about you for two years after you left, but you never called him. Then you rushed through college and blistered up the food chain in advertising." Her voice softened. "And when you and Conlan decided to start your family, you immediately started tracking your ovulation and working at it."

"A lot of good it did me."

"The point is, now you're lost, but you're still running full speed. Away from Seattle and your ruined marriage, toward West End and the failing restaurant. How will you ever figure out what you want when everything is a blur?"

Angie stared at her reflection in the window. Her skin looked parchment pale, her eyes seemed bruised by darkness, and her mouth was barely a strip. "What do you know about wanting?" she said, hearing the ache in her voice.

"I have four kids and a husband who loves his bowling league almost as much as he loves me, and I've never had a boss who wasn't related to me. While you were sending me postcards from New York and London and Los Angeles, I was trying to save enough money to get my hair cut. Believe me, I know about wanting."

Angie wanted to turn and face her sister but she didn't dare. "I would have traded it all--the trips, the lifestyle, the career--for just one of those babies upstairs."

Mira touched her shoulder. "I know."

Angie finally turned and knew instantly it was a mistake.

Mira's eyes were full of tears.

"I need to go," Angie said, hearing the thickness of her voice.

"Don't--"

She pushed past Mira and ran for the front door. Outside, rain slashed at her, blurred her vision. Not caring, she raced for the car. Mira's Come back echoed behind her.

"I can't," she said, too softly for her sister to hear.

She climbed into the car and slammed the door, starting the engine and backing out before Mira could follow her.

She drove up one street and down another, barely aware of where she was. The radio volume was turned high. Right now Cher was singing at her to "Believe."

At last she found herself in the Safeway parking lot, drawn like a moth to the bright lights.

There she sat beneath the glaring streetlamp, staring out at the rain hammering her windshield.

I would have traded it all.

She closed her eyes. Just saying those words aloud had hurt.

No.

She wouldn't sit here and stew about it. Enough was enough. This was definitely the last time she'd vow to forget what couldn't be changed.

She'd go into the store, buy some over-the-counter sleeping pills, and take just enough to get her through the night.

She got out of her car and went into the sprawling white-lit store. None of her family would be here, she knew. They patronized the locals.

She went straight to the aspirin aisle and found what she was looking for.

She was halfway to the checkout aisle when she saw them.

A bird-thin woman in dirty clothes carrying three cartons of cigarettes and a twelve-pack of beer. Four raggedly dressed children buzzed around her. One of them--the smallest--asked for a doughnut, and the mother cuffed him.

The children's hair and faces were filthy; their tennis shoes were pocked with holes.

Angie stopped; her breathing felt heavy. The pain welled up again. If it would have done any good, she would have looked up at God and begged, Why?

Why did some women make babies so easily, while others...

She dropped the box of sleeping pills and walked out of the store. Outside, rain hit her hard, mingled with her tears.

In the car, she sat perfectly still, staring through the beaded windshield. In time, the family came out of the store. They piled into a shabby car and drove off. None of the kids put on a seat belt.

Angie closed her eyes. She knew that if she sat here long enough, it would pass. Grief was like a rain cloud; sooner or later, if you were patient, it moved on. All she had to do was keep breathing....

Something smacked on her windshield.

Her eyes opened.

A pink flyer was on her windshield. It read: Work Wanted. Steady. Reliable.

Before she could read any more, the rain pummeled the flyer, ruined the ink.

Angie leaned toward the passenger seat and rolled down the window.

A girl with red hair was planting the flyers. She moved stoically from car to car, heedless of the rain, wearing a threadbare coat and faded jeans.

Angie didn't think. She reacted. Getting out of the car, she yelled, "Hey, you!"

The girl looked up.

Angie ran toward her. "Can I help you?"

"No." The girl started to move away.

Angie reached into her coat pocket and pulled out money. "Here," she said, pressing the wad of bills into the girl's cold, wet hand.

"I can't take that," the girl whispered, shaking her head.

"Please. For me," Angie said.

They looked at each other for a long moment.

Finally, the girl nodded. Tears filled her eyes. "Thanks." Then she turned and ran into the night.

LAUREN CLIMBED THE DARK, SHADOWY STAIRS TOWARD the apartment building. Every step seemed to draw something out of her, until, by the time she reached Mrs. Mauk's front door, Lauren was certain she'd grown smaller somehow. She was so tired of feeling vulnerable and alone.

She paused, staring down at the damp wad of bills in her hand. One hundred twenty-five dollars.

For me, the woman in the parking lot had said, as if she were the one in need.

Yeah, right. Lauren knew charity when she saw it. She'd wanted to turn it down, maybe laugh lightly and say You've got me all wrong. Instead, she'd run all the way home.

She wiped the leftover tears from her eyes and knocked on the door.

Mrs. Mauk answered. When she saw Lauren, her smile faded. "You're soaking wet."

"I'm fine," Lauren said. "Here."

Mrs. Mauk took the money, counted it. There was a small pause, then the woman said, "I'll just take one hundred of it, okay? You go buy yourself something decent to eat."

Lauren almost started to cry again. Before the tears could fill her eyes, she turned away and ran for the stairway.

In her apartment, she called out for her mother.

Silence answered her.

With a sigh, she tossed her backpack onto the sofa and went to the refrigerator. It was practically empty. She was just reaching for a half-eaten sandwich when someone knocked.

She crossed the small, messy apartment and opened the door.

David stood there, holding a big cardboard box. "Hey, Trix," he said.

"What--"

"I called the pharmacy. They said you didn't work there anymore."

"Oh." She bit her lip. The softness of his voice and the understanding in his eyes was almost more than she could take right now.

"So I cleaned out the fridge at home. Mom had a dinner party last night and there were killer leftovers." He reached into the box and pulled out a videotape. "And I brought my Speed Racer tapes."

She forced a smile. "Did you bring the one where Trixie saves his ass?"

He gazed down at her. In that single look, she saw everything. Love. Understanding. Caring. "Of course."

"Thank you" was all she could say.

"You should have called me, you know. When you lost your job."

He didn't know how it felt, to lose something you needed so desperately. But he was right. She should have called him. Even at seventeen, as young and immature as he could sometimes be, he was the steadiest person in her life. When she was with him, her future--their future--seemed as pure and shimmering as a pearl. "I know."

"Now, come on, let's get something to eat and watch a movie. I have to be home by midnight."