OD HELP HER, ANGIE'S FIRST REACTION WAS ENVY. It stung her heart; she felt its poison begin to spread.

"Nine weeks," Lauren said, looking miserable, and young.

So desperately, impossibly young.

Angie pushed her feelings aside. There would be time, late at night, she supposed, when she was vulnerable and lonely, to think about why the world was sometimes so unfair. She scooted backward and sat on the coffee table. She needed some distance between them. Lauren's pain was so palpable, Angie wanted to make it go away, but this wasn't one of those times. A hug wouldn't do it.

She stared at Lauren. The girl's red hair was a tangled mess, her round, puffy cheeks were paler than usual, and her brown eyes were steeped in sadness.

If ever a girl was in need of mothering...

No.

"Did you tell your mother?" Angie asked.

"That's why she left. She said she raised one mistake and wouldn't do it again."

Angie sighed. It had, over the years of her infertility and losses, occurred to her often that motherhood was too random. Too many women that shouldn't raise a child were granted that gift, while others lived with arms that felt empty.

"I tried to have an abortion."

"Tried?"

"I thought I'd just take care of the problem, you know? Be mature. But I couldn't do it."

"You should have come to me, Lauren."

"How could I come to you with this? I knew it would hurt you. And I didn't want you looking at me the way you are."

"How's that?"

"Like I'm stupid."

Angie was drawn forward in spite of her best intentions. She tucked a stringy lock of hair behind Lauren's ear. "I'm not looking at you like that. I'm sad and scared for you, that's all."

Lauren's eyes filled slowly with tears. "I don't know what to do. David says he'll bag Stanford and marry me, but it won't work. He'd start to hate me. I don't think I could stand that."

Angie wished there were some string of magic words that would ease this poor child's heart, but sometimes life backed you into a corner and there was no easy way out.

Lauren wiped her eyes, sniffed, and sat up straighter. "I don't mean to dump all this on you. I'm just scared. I don't know what to do, and now I have to find a new place to live."

"It's okay, Lauren. Take a deep breath." Angie looked at her. "What do you want to do?"

"Go back to October and use a condom."

Angie laughed, but it was sad and a little strained. "Do you and David want to keep the baby?"

"How can I know something like that? I want..." She sagged deeper in her chair and bowed her head. Angie could tell that she was crying. She made almost no sound, as though she'd learned to keep her tears inside. "It's my mess. I got myself into it; I have to get myself out of it. Maybe Mrs. Mauk will let me stay here for a while longer."

Angie squeezed her eyes shut, feeling tears of her own. Memories came at her hard--Lauren at Help-Your-Neighbor House, freezing cold, but asking for a coat for her mother... in the grocery store parking lot on a rainy night, pressing flyers on windshields... saying softly I can't go to the homecoming dance and then hugging Angie for something as simple as a borrowed dress and some makeup.

Lauren was alone in the world. She was a good, responsible girl, and she'd do the right thing or die trying, but how could a seventeen-year-old possibly find the right way on so treacherous a road? She would need help.

She's not your daughter, Angela.

You be careful with this girl.

It was good advice, and now, at this moment, Angie was terrified not to take it. She'd worked so hard to come out of the darkness of baby-wanting; how could she let herself slide backward? Could she stand by Lauren and watch her belly grow and grow? Could she survive the intimacies of another woman's pregnancy-- the morning sickness, the dreams that expanded with every gained pound, the wonder in tiny words like: She kicked me... he's a little gymnast... here, touch my stomach...

And yet.

How could she turn Lauren away at a time like this?

"I'll tell you what," Angie said slowly, unable, really, to say anything else. "Why don't you come live with me?"

Lauren gasped, looked up. "You don't mean that."

"I do."

"You'll change your mind. You'll see me get fatter and you'll--"

"Have you ever trusted anyone?"

Lauren didn't answer, but the truth was in her eyes.

"Trust me. Come to the cottage for a while, until you figure out your future. You need to be taken care of."

"Taken care of."

Angie heard the wonder in Lauren's voice. It was such a simple thing--caring--but what a crater in the soul its absence must leave.

"I'll clean your house and do the laundry. I can cook, too, and if you'll show me what are weeds--"

"You don't need to clean my house." Angie smiled. Though the fear was still there, the nervous can I watch this up close tension, she felt good, too. She could make a difference in this girl's life. Maybe she'd never be a mother; that didn't mean she couldn't act like one. "Just show up for work when you're scheduled and keep your grades up. Okay?"

Lauren threw herself into Angie's arms, holding her in a death grip. "Okay."

LAUREN PACKED HER CLOTHES AND SCHOOL UNIFORMS (unnecessary now), her makeup and her mementos, and still there was room left over.

The last thing she packed was a small, framed photograph of her and her mother. In it, they looked like a pair of showgirls, with their faces poked through painted openings. In truth, Lauren didn't remember ever posing for this picture. According to Mom, they'd been in Vegas at a truck stop on the way west. For years Lauren had tried to create a memory that matched the image, but one had never come.

It was the only picture of them together. She placed it safely between the layers of clothes and closed the suitcase. On the way downstairs, she stopped at Mrs. Mauk's apartment.

"Here are the keys," she said.

"Where are you going?"

Lauren grabbed the woman's arm and led her to the window. Outside, on the street, Angie stood beside her car, looking up at the building. "That's Angie Malone. I'm going to live with her." She heard the wonder in her voice.

"I remember her."

"You'll sell the furniture for back rent, okay?"

"Okay." Mrs. Mauk looked down at the keys, then up at her. Her smile was sad. "I'm sorry, Lauren. If there's anything I can do to help..." She let the sentence trail off. They both knew it had nowhere to go.

Lauren appreciated it all the same. "You were good to us. Letting the rent be so late and everything."

"You got a bum deal, kiddo. Your mom was a real piece of work."

Lauren handed the manager a piece of paper. On it, she'd written Angie's home address and phone number, as well as the restaurant's information. "Here," she said softly. "When my mom comes home, she'll want to know where I am." She heard the old neediness in her voice, that raggedy edge; she couldn't help it.

"When?"

"When it falls apart with Jake--and it will fall apart--she'll be back."

"And you'll be waiting." Mrs. Mauk made the words sound pathetically sad.

What could Lauren say to that? All of her life, she'd been waiting for her mother's love. There was no way she could simply put her hope aside. It was a part of her, that faith, as ingrained as the beat of her heart or the flutter of her pulse. But it didn't hurt as much anymore; the sense of her loss was duller, almost distant.

She glanced down at Angie again, who was waiting to take her home.

Home.

Then she looked at Mrs. Mauk and said, "I'm okay now."

"You're a good kid, Lauren. I'll think good thoughts."

"Maybe I'll see you around."

"I hope not, Lauren. Once you're out of this part of town, you stay out. But I'll be here if you ever need me." With a last smile, Mrs. Mauk said good-bye.

In the hallway, Lauren grabbed her suitcase off the floor and hurried outside and down the steps.

"You want me to get the rest of it?" Angie asked, moving toward her.

"This is everything," Lauren said, patting the suitcase.

"Oh." Angie stopped. The merest of frowns darted across her brow, then she said, "Well, then. We're off."

On the drive through town and along the beach and up the hill, Lauren stared out the window, saying nothing. Every now and then the moonlight hit just right and she found herself staring into her own reflection. She couldn't help but see a smiling girl with sad eyes. She wondered if they'd always be sad now, always see the chances she'd lost. That had certainly happened to her mother.

She cast a sideways glance at Angie, who was humming along with the radio. Probably she didn't know what to say either.

Lauren closed her eyes. She tried to imagine her life with Angie as her mother. Everything would have been softer, sweeter. Angie would never slap her pregnant daughter or run out on her in the middle of the night or...

"Here we are. Home sweet home."

Lauren's eyes popped open. Maybe she'd fallen asleep for a minute there. It all felt like a dream, that was for sure.

Angie parked next to the house and got out. All the way to the front door and into the house, she talked over her shoulder to Lauren, who hurried along, dragging her suitcase.

"... oven's about twenty degrees hotter than the indicator. No microwave. Sorry. These rusty old pipes..."

Lauren tried to take it all in. Besides the information Angie was giving her, she noticed a few other things. The windows needed to be washed, for instance, and there was a rip on the sofa's arm. These were jobs Lauren could do to help out.

Angie kept talking as they went upstairs. "... great water pressure. I recommend lashing yourself down or you'll fly out of the shower. The pipes ping a little at first, and definitely don't flush the toilet just before your shower." She stopped, turned. "It's okay to share a bathroom, isn't it? If not--"

"It's fine," Lauren said quickly.

Angie smiled. "I thought so. Good. Well, here's your room. All of us girls used to sleep here." She opened the door at the end of the hall.

It was a big, beautiful room with a steeply sloped ceiling and timber beams. Pink wallpaper--tiny rosebuds and vines--covered the walls. Matching bedspreads were on the two sets of bunk beds. A small oak writing desk was tucked in one corner; to its left three expansive rectangular windows looked out over the ocean. Tonight moonlight tarnished the silvery waves. "Wow," Lauren said.

"The sheets haven't been washed in a while. I can do that now--"

"No." Lauren sounded harsh. She hadn't meant to. It was just... overwhelming. "I can do my own sheets."

"Of course. You're an adult. I didn't mean to imply that you didn't know how to do laundry. It's just that--"

Lauren dropped the suitcase and ran to Angie, throwing her arms around her. "Thank you," she said, burying her face in the warm, sweet crook of Angie's neck.

Slowly, Angie hugged her back. When Lauren felt herself start to cry, she tried to pull back, but Angie wouldn't let her. Instead, she stroked Lauren's hair, murmured that it would be okay. Over and over, It's okay now, Lauren. It's okay.

All of her life Lauren had waited for a moment like this.

"WHAT?"

The word was spoken in unison. Shouted, actually.

Angie fought the urge to step back. "Lauren moved in with me."

Her sisters and Mama stood in a line in Mama's kitchen. They were staring at Angie.

"This is you being careful with the girl?" Mama demanded, slamming her hands on her hips.

"I think it's great," Livvy said. "They'll be good for each other."

Mama waved her hand impatiently. "Be quiet. Your sister isn't thinking straight." She took a step forward. "You just don't go around inviting redheaded strangers into your home."

"She's hardly a stranger," Livvy said. "She's been working in the restaurant. She's good, too."

"Until she just didn't show up for three days," Mama said. "For all we know, she was on a crime spree."

Livvy laughed. "Right. Driving from town to town, robbing mini-marts, stopping only long enough to refill her ammo and take a math test."

Angie moved nervously from foot to foot. She hadn't expected such a reaction to the moving-in news.

What came next would be a different matter. The word ballistic came to mind.

"Angie," Mira said, moving closer, studying her. "There's something you're not telling us."

Angie winced.

"What? You're keeping secrets, too?" Mama made a snorting sound. "You know Papa will tell me everything."

Angie was cornered. There was nothing she could do. Pregnancy wasn't the kind of secret that stayed secret. She glanced down the row of women, then said, "There is one more thing. Lauren's pregnant."

Ballistic turned out to be an understatement.

THE ARGUMENT HAD GONE ON FOR HOURS. BY THE TIME it came to a tired, sputtering end, Mama had called in reinforcements. Both of Angie's brothers-in-law were there, along with Aunt Giulia and Uncle Francis. Everyone in the room had an opinion on whether Angie was making a mistake.

In a move that surprised everyone, Livvy voiced the lone dissent. "Let her do what she wants," she said sometime in the second hour. "None of us knows what it's like for her."

That had brought the pseudo-town meeting to a crashing halt. At the oblique reference to Angie's childlessness, everyone looked quickly away.

Angie shot Livvy a grateful look. Livvy winked and smiled back.

Then it started up again.

Angie couldn't stand it anymore. While they were arguing the pros and cons of the decision, she slipped out of the room and went upstairs.

In her old room, she closed the door. The blessed silence soothed her. She figured she had about six minutes of solitude before Mama or Mira came after her.

Less.

The door opened. Mama stood in the doorway, wearing her disappointed face. It was a look her daughters knew by heart. "Two minutes," Angie noted, scooting sideways on the bed. "That's a new record."

Mama closed the door behind her. "I sent everyone home."

"Good."

Mama sighed, then sat down on the bed beside Angie. The old springs pinged beneath their weight. "Your papa--God rest his soul--would have yelled at you tonight. Him, you would have listened to."

"Papa never yelled at us. You did."

Mama laughed. "He didn't have to yell. He let me rant and rave for a while and then he drew a line in the sand. 'That's enough, Maria,' he'd say." She paused. "It's hard now, with no lines in the sand."

Angie leaned against her mother. "I know."

Mama laid her wrinkled hand on Angie's thigh. "I worry about you, that's all. It is a mother's job."

"I know. And I love you for it."

"You will be careful, yes? I have seen your heart broken too many times already."

"I'm stronger now, Mama. Honestly, I am."

"I hope so, Angela."