NGIE STOOD IN FRONT OF HER DRESSER. THE TOP drawer was open. There, buried among the bras and panties and socks, was her camera.

To take photos of my grandbabies, Mama had said when she'd given Angie the camera.

Babies, that smile of Mama's said, grow as naturally as green buds in springtime. Angie sighed.

For years, she had used this camera all the time, documenting every moment of her life. She was there, year after year, snapping pictures at family gatherings-- birthday parties, baby showers, preschool graduations. Somewhere along the way, it had begun to cause her pain, this looking through the viewfinder at a life she wanted desperately but couldn't have. One by one, she'd stopped photographing her nieces and nephews. It simply hurt too much to see her loss in color. She knew it was selfish of her, and childish, too, but some lines couldn't be crossed. By the time little Dani had been born--only five years ago now; it felt like a lifetime-- Angie had put the camera away for good.

She grabbed the camera, refilled the film, and went downstairs.

Lauren stood at the fireplace with her back to the flames. The golden glow wreathed her, gave her pale, freckled skin a bronze sheen. The shell pink gown was a little too big on her, and a little too long, but neither flaw was noticeable. With her hair coiled into a French twist and held back by the butterfly clip, she looked like a princess.

"You look beautiful," Angie said, coming into the room. She was embarrassed by how much emotion she suddenly felt. It was a little thing--helping a teenage girl get ready for a school dance; nothing, really--so why did she feel so much?

"I know," Lauren said. There was wonder in her voice. Surprise.

Angie needed the distance of a viewfinder suddenly. She started snapping photographs. She kept taking them, one after another, until Lauren laughed and said: "Wait! Save some film for David."

Angie felt like an idiot. "You're right. Have a seat. I'll get us tea while we wait." She went into the kitchen.

"He said he'd be here at seven o'clock. We're going to the club for dinner."

In the kitchen, Angie made two cups of tea, then carried them into the living room. "The club, huh? Pretty hoity-toity."

Lauren giggled. She looked impossibly young just then, perched as she was on the very edge of the sofa. Obviously she was afraid to wrinkle her gown. She sipped her tea with extreme care, holding the cup with two hands.

Angie felt a surge of emotion; she was afraid of what the world could do to a girl like this, one who seemed sometimes to be too alone.

"You're looking at me weird. Am I holding the cup wrong?" Lauren asked.

"No." Angie quickly took another photograph. As she lowered the camera back to her lap, she met Lauren's starry-eyed gaze. How could a mother not want to experience this moment? "I guess you've gone to lots of school dances," she said. That was probably the answer.

"Yeah. Most of them." Lauren didn't seem to really be listening, though. Her voice sounded distracted. Finally, she set down her teacup and said, "Can I ask you something?"

"Generally that's a question one should say no to. Often hell no."

"Really. Can I?"

"Fire away." Angie leaned back into the sofa's denim pillows.

"Why did you do all this for me tonight?"

"I like you, Lauren. That's all. I wanted to help."

"I think it's because you feel sorry for me."

Angie sighed. She knew she couldn't deflect the question. Lauren wanted a real answer. "That was part of it, maybe. Mostly, though... I know how it feels not to get what you want."

"You?"

Angie swallowed hard. A part of her wished she hadn't opened this particular door--and yet it had felt so natural to speak. Though now that she'd begun, she didn't know quite how to move forward. "I don't have children," she said.

"Why not?"

Angie actually appreciated the directness of the question. Women her own age tended to recognize the land mine in this conversation and walk gingerly around it. "The doctors don't know, exactly. I've been pregnant three times but..." She thought of Sophia and closed her eyes for a second, then went on. "No luck."

"So you liked helping me get ready?" There was a wistfulness in Lauren's voice that matched Angie's own emotions.

"I did," she answered softly. She was about to say something else when the doorbell rang.

"It's David," Lauren said, popping to her feet, running for the door.

"Stop!" Angie called out.

"What?"

"A lady is called when the date arrives. Go upstairs. I'll answer the door."

"Really?" Lauren's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Go."

As soon as Lauren was upstairs, Angie went to the front door and opened it.

David stood on the small porch. In a flawlessly cut black tuxedo with a white shirt and silver tie, he was every teenage girl's dream.

"You must be David. I've seen you drive up to the restaurant. I'm Angie Malone."

He shook her hand so hard she swore she felt the bones clamp together. "David Ryerson Haynes," he said, smiling nervously, looking past her.

Angie stepped back, ushered him inside. "Of the timber family?"

"That's us. Is Lauren ready?"

That explained the Porsche. She called out Lauren's name. Within a second she appeared at the top of the stairs.

David gasped. "Whoa," he said softly, moving toward the stairs. "You look awesome."

Lauren hurried downstairs and went to David. She looked up at him, her smile trembling. "You think so?"

He handed her a white wrist corsage, then kissed her.

Even from across the room Angie could see the gentleness of that kiss, and it made her smile.

"Come on, you two," she said. "Photo op. Stand by the fireplace."

Angie snapped several pictures. It took an act of will to stop. "Okay," she finally said. "Have fun. Drive safely."

She wasn't even sure they heard her. Lauren and David were lost in each other's eyes.

But at the front door, Lauren threw her arms around Angie, holding on in a death-grip hug. "I'll never forget this," she whispered. "Thank you."

Angie whispered back, "You're welcome," but her throat was suddenly tight and she wasn't sure if her words carried any sound or not.

She stood there as David led Lauren to the car and opened the door for her.

In the amount of time it took to wave, they were gone.

Angie backed into the house and closed the door. The silence seemed oppressive suddenly.

She'd forgotten how quiet her life was. Lately, if she didn't turn on the stereo, she would hear nothing except her own breathing or the patter of her own footsteps on the hardwood floor.

She felt herself slipping down a slope she knew too well; at the bottom it was lonely and cold.

She didn't want to go down there again. It had taken so long to crawl up. She wished she could call Conlan right now. He'd once been so good at talking her down from the ledge. But those days were gone, too.

The phone rang. Thank God. She ran to answer it. "Hello?" She was surprised at how ordinary her voice sounded. A drowning woman shouldn't speak in so certain a voice.

"How did the dance preparation go?" It was Mama.

"Great. She looked beautiful." Angie made herself laugh, prayed it sounded more natural than it felt.

"Are you okay?"

She loved her mother for asking. "I'm fine. I think I'll go to bed early. We'll talk in the morning, okay?"

"I love you, Angela."

"Love you, too, Mama."

She was trembling when she hung up. She thought about doing a lot of things--listening to music, reading a book, working on the new menu. In the end, though, she was too tired for any of it. She climbed into her big king-sized bed, pulled the covers up to her chin, and closed her eyes.

Sometime later, she woke up.

Someone was calling her name. She glanced at the clock. It wasn't yet nine o'clock.

She crawled out of bed and stumbled down the stairs.

Mama stood in the kitchen, her clothes dappled with raindrops, her red-splattered apron still in place. She put her hands on her hips. "You are not fine."

"I will be."

"I will be ninety someday. That doesn't mean getting there will be easy. Come." She took Angie by the hand and led her toward the sofa. They sat down, cuddled together the way they'd done when Angie was a girl. Mama stroked her hair.

"It was fun helping her get ready for the dance. It wasn't until later... after she'd left... that I started thinking about..."

"I know," Mama said gently. "It made you think of your daughter."

Angie sighed. Grief was like that; both she and Mama knew it well. It would sometimes feel fresh, no matter how long she lived. Some losses ran deep, and time moved too slowly in a lifetime to heal them completely.

"I lost a son once," Mama said into the silence that fell between them.

Angie gasped. "You never told us that."

"Some things are too difficult to speak of. He would have been my first."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I couldn't."

Angie felt her mother's pain. It connected them, that common loss, brought them to a place that felt like friendship.

"I wanted to say only hopeful things."

Angie stared down at her own hands. For a split second she was surprised to see that her wedding ring was gone.

"Be careful with this girl, Angela," her mother said gently.

It was the second time she'd been given this advice. Angie wondered if she could follow it.

SUNSHINE ON AN AUTUMN'S MORNING WAS A GIFT FROM God himself, as rare as pink diamonds in this part of the world.

Lauren took it as a sign.

She stretched lazily, coming awake. She could hear the hum of cars on the street. Next door, the neighbors were fighting. Somewhere, a car horn honked. In the bedroom down the hall, her mother was sleeping off a late-night bender.

To the rest of the world it was an ordinary Sunday morning.

Lauren rolled onto her side. The old mattress that had been her bed for as long as she could remember squeaked at the movement.

David lay sprawled on his back, his hair a tangled mess that obscured half his face. One arm hung off the side of the bed, the other was angled across his head. She could see the red smattering of pimples that dotted his hairline and the tiny zigzag scar that traced his cheekbone. He'd gotten that in sixth grade, playing touch football.

"I bled like a stuck pig," he always said when retelling the story. There was nothing he liked more than bragging about his injuries. She always teased him that he was a hypochondriac.

She touched the scar, traced it with the tip of her finger.

Last night had been perfect. Better than perfect. She'd felt like a princess, and when David led her out onto the stage, she'd practically floated along behind him. Aerosmith's "Angel" had been playing. She wondered how long she'd remember that. Would she tell their children the story? Come on, kids; come listen to the story of the night Mommy was crowned homecoming queen.

"I love you," David had whispered, holding her hand as the tiara was placed on her head. She remembered looking at him then, seeing him through a blur of tears. She loved him so much it made her chest ache. She couldn't imagine being apart from him.

If they went to different colleges...

That was all it took, just the thought of different colleges, and she felt sick to her stomach.

David came awake slowly. When he saw her, he smiled. "I'll have to tell my folks I'm at Jared's more often."

He pulled her into his arms. She fit perfectly against him; it was as if they'd been built for each other.

This was what it would be like when they were at college together, and later, when they were married. She would never feel alone again. She kissed him, touched him. "My mom never wakes up till noon on Sunday," she said, smiling slowly.

He drew back. "My uncle Peter is meeting me at home in an hour. I have an appointment with some big wig from Stanford."

She drew back. "On Sunday? I thought--"

"He's only in town for the weekend. You can come along."

Her smile faded, along with her romantic hopes for the day. "Yeah, right." If he'd really wanted her to come along, he would have asked her before now.

"Don't be that way."

"Come on, David. Quit dreaming. I'm not going to get a scholarship at Stanford, and I don't have Mommy and Daddy to write a check. You, however, could get into USC."

It was an old discussion. His heavy sigh showed that he was tired of it. "First of all, you can get into Stanford. Second of all, if you're at USC, we'll see each other plenty. We love each other, Lauren. It doesn't go away because of a few miles."

"A few hundred miles." She stared up at the tattered acoustical tile ceiling. A water stain blossomed across one corner. She wished she could smile. "I have to work today, anyway."

He pulled her closer, gave her one of those slow kisses that made her heart beat faster. She felt her anger dissolve. When he finally released her and got out of bed, she felt cold.

He gathered up the tux and redressed.

She sat up in bed with the blankets pulled across her bare breasts. "I had a great time last night."

He walked around the bed and sat down beside her. "You worry too much."

"Look around you, David." She heard the throatiness of her voice. With anyone else, it would have been embarrassing. "I've always had to worry."

"Not about me. I love you."

"I know that." And she did. She believed it with every cell in her body. She clung to him, kissed him. "Good luck."

After he'd gone, Lauren sat there a long time, alone, staring at the open door. Finally, she got out of bed and took a hot shower, then dressed and walked down the hallway. She stopped at her mother's bedroom door. She could hear snoring coming from inside.

A familiar longing filled her. She touched the door, wondering if her mother had even thought about the dance last night.

Ask her.

Sometimes, in the early morning, when the sunlight slanted just so through the dusty blinds, Mom woke up almost happy. Maybe this would be one of those days; Lauren needed it to be. She knocked quietly and opened the door. "Mom?"

Her mother lay in bed, sprawled across the top of the blankets. In a flimsy old T-shirt, she looked spindly and too thin. She wasn't eating enough lately.

Lauren paused. It was one of those rare moments when she remembered how young her mother was. "Mom?" She went into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed.

Mom rolled onto her back. Without opening her eyes, she murmured, "What time is it?"

"Not even ten." She wanted to push the hair out of her mother's eyes, but she didn't dare. It was the kind of intimacy that could ruin everything.

Mom rubbed her eyes. "I feel like shit. Phoebe and I partied pretty hard last night." She grinned sleepily. "No surprise there."

Lauren leaned forward. "I'm the homecoming queen," she said quietly, still not quite believing it. She couldn't contain her smile.

"Huh?" Mom's eyes slid shut again.

"The dance? It was last night," Lauren said, but already she knew she'd lost her mother's attention. "Never mind."

"I think I'll call in sick today. I feel like shit." Mom rolled over again. Within seconds, she was snoring.

Lauren refused to be disappointed. It had been stupid to expect anything else. Some lessons should have been learned a long time ago.

With a sigh, she got to her feet.

AN HOUR LATER LAUREN WAS ON THE BUS, HEADING through town. The sun had disappeared again, tucked itself behind a rapidly darkening bank of clouds. By the time they reached the last stoplight, it had begun to rain.

It was still early on this Sunday morning. Few cars were parked in the angled slots, but the church lots were full.

It reminded her of a time, not so long ago, really, when she used to open her bedroom window on the Sabbath, rain or snow. The weather didn't matter. She used to lean out the window and listen to those pealing bells. She'd close her eyes and imagine how it must feel to get dressed up on Sunday and go to church. Her daydream was always the same: She saw a little girl with red hair, wearing a bright green dress, hurrying along behind a beautiful blond woman. Up ahead, a family waited for them.

Come along, Lauren, her imaginary mother always said, smiling gently as she reached out to hold her hand. We don't want to be late.

Lauren hadn't opened that window of hers in a long time. Now when she looked out, all she saw was the broken down building next door and Mrs. Sanchez's dented blue El Camino. Now she had that dream only at night.

The bus slowed, began to ease toward the stop. Lauren looked down at the shopping bag in her lap. She should have called first--that was how it was done in polite homes. You didn't just stop by, even to return something. Unfortunately, she didn't know Angie's phone number. And--if she were honest with herself at least-- she needed not to be alone.

"Miracle Mile Road," the bus driver called out.

Lauren lurched to her feet and hurried down the aisle, trying not to knock into anyone, then went down the narrow steps and exited the bus.

The doors wheezed shut behind her, clanged. The bus drove on.

She stood there, clutching the bag to her chest, trying to protect it from the rain that fell like bits of icy glass.

The road stretched out in front of her, bordered on either side by towering cedar trees whose tips reached toward the gray underbelly of clouds. Here and there, mailboxes dotted the roadside, but other than that there were no signs of life. This was the time of year that belonged to the forest itself, a dank dark few weeks in which the hikers who dared to venture into this greenand-black wilderness could be lost until spring.

By the time she reached the driveway, it was raining in earnest--fast, cold, razor cuts hit her cheeks.

The house looked empty. No light came through the windows. Rain played a thumping beat on the roof, splashed in the puddles. Fortunately, Angie's car was in the carport.

She went to the door and knocked.

There was noise coming from inside. Music.

She knocked again. With every minute that passed, she lost a little more feeling in her hands. It was freezing out here.

After one last knock, she reached for the doorknob. To her surprise, the knob turned easily. She opened the door.

"Hello?" She stepped inside, closed the door behind her.

There were no lights on. Without sunshine, the room looked a little gloomy.

She noticed a purse on the kitchen counter; a pile of car keys lay beside it on the white Formica.

"Angie?" Lauren took off her shoes and socks and set the bag on the counter beside the purse.

She walked toward the living room, calling out Angie's name as she went.

The house was empty.

"Damn it," Lauren muttered. Now she'd have to walk all the way back to the bus stop and stand there in the freezing rain. She had no idea how often the number nine bus stopped at that corner.

Oh, well.

As long as she was here, she might as well return the dress to its proper place. She went upstairs.

The steps creaked beneath her weight. She looked back and saw the wet footprints trailing behind her.

Great. Now she'd have to clean the floor on her way out.

She stopped at the closed bedroom door and knocked just in case, although there was no way Angie was still asleep at ten-thirty in the morning.

She opened the door.

The room was dark. Heavy floral-print drapery blocked the windows.

Lauren felt around for a light switch, found it, and flicked it up. Light burst from the overhead fixture.

She hurried toward the closet and put the dress away, then stepped back into the bedroom.

Angie was sitting up in bed, frowning at her in a bleary-eyed, confused way. "Lauren?"

Embarrassment rooted her to the spot. Her cheeks burned. "I--uh--I'm sorry. I knocked. I thought--"

Angie gave her a tired smile. Her eyes were swollen and rimmed in red, as if she'd been crying. Tiny pink lines crisscrossed the upper ridge of her cheeks. Her long dark hair was a mess. All in all, she didn't look good. "It's fine, kiddo."

"I should leave."

"No!" Then, more softly: "I'd like it if you stayed." She lifted her chin to indicate the foot of the huge four-poster bed. "Sit."

"I'm all wet."

Angie shrugged. "Wet dries."

Lauren looked down at her bare feet. The skin was almost scarlet colored; the blue veins seemed pronounced. She climbed up onto the bed, stretched her legs out, and leaned against the footboard.

Angie tossed her a huge chenille pillow, then tucked an unbelievably soft blanket around her feet. "Tell me about last night."

The question released something in Lauren. For the first time all day her chest didn't ache. She wanted to launch into every romantic detail but something stopped her. It was the sadness in Angie's eyes. "You've been crying," Lauren said matter-of-factly.

"I'm old. This is how I look in the morning."

"First of all, it's ten-thirty. Practically afternoon. Secondly, I know about crying in your sleep."

Angie dropped her head back against the headboard and stared up at the white tongue-in-groove planked ceiling. It was a while before she spoke. "Sometimes I have bad days. Not often, but... you know... sometimes." She sighed again, then looked at Lauren. "Sometimes your life just doesn't turn out the way you dreamed it would. You're too young to know about that. It doesn't matter, anyway."

"You think I'm too young to understand disappointment?"

Angie looked at her for a long, quiet moment, then said, "No. I don't. But some things aren't helped by talking. So tell me about the dance. I've been dying for details."

Lauren wished she knew Angie better. If she did, she'd know whether to drop the subject or keep it up. What mattered was saying the right thing to this sad, wonderful woman.

"Please," Angie said.

"The dance was perfect," Lauren finally said. "Everyone said I looked great."

"You did," Angie said, smiling now. It was the real thing, too, not that fake I'm-okay smile of before.

It made Lauren feel good, as if she'd given Angie something. "The decorations were cool, too. The theme was Winter Wonderland, and there was fake snow everywhere and mirrors that looked like frozen ponds. Oh, and Brad Gaggiany brought this fifth of rum. It was gone in, like, a minute."

Angie frowned. "Oh, good."

Lauren wished she hadn't revealed that. She'd gotten wrapped up in the pseudo-girlfriend moment. She'd forgotten she was speaking to an adult. Truthfully, she didn't have enough experience with it. She never talked to her mom about school events. "I hardly drank at all," she lied quickly.

"I'm glad to hear that. Drinking can make a girl do things she shouldn't."

Lauren heard the gentleness of Angie's advice. She couldn't help thinking about her own mother and how she would have launched right now into her own regrets, chief among them being motherhood.

"And guess what?" Lauren couldn't wait for Angie to guess. She said, "I was homecoming queen."

Angie smiled and clapped her hands. "That is so cool. Start talking, missy. I want to know everything."

For the next hour, they talked about the dance. By eleven-thirty, when it was time to go to the restaurant, Angie was laughing again.