AUREN WAS AWAKE LONG BEFORE THE ALARM CLOCK sounded. She'd gotten up around five to go to the bathroom, and after that, she hadn't been able to go back to sleep. She would have started cleaning, but she didn't want to wake Angie.

It was so quiet here. The only sounds were the surf whooshing against the sand and rocks and the occasional tapping of wind against the windowpane.

No car horns honking, no neighbors screaming at one another, no bottles breaking on the sidewalks.

In a bed like this, with heaping blankets and a down comforter, a girl felt safe.

She glanced over at the clock. It was six. Still dark outside. In these first weeks of winter, the days were short. If she'd been going to Fircrest on this Monday morning, she would have needed to wear her woolen tights with the uniform.

Not that it mattered anymore.

Today would be her first day at West End High. A pregnant transfer student who would be around only until the end of the semester. The popular girls were sure to love her.

She threw the covers back and got out of bed. Gathering her stuff together, she went into the bathroom and took a quick shower, then carefully dried her hair until it lay straight.

Back in the bedroom, she searched her drawers for something to wear.

Nothing seemed right for the first day at a new school.

Finally, she settled on a pair of flare-legged, low-rise jeans with a fringed suede belt and a white sweater. As she was putting the sweater on, one of her hoop earrings popped free and skittered across the floor.

David had given her those earrings for her last birthday.

She dropped to the floor and started looking, spreading her hands across the boards.

There it was.

She scooted under the bed and found the earring... and something else. Tucked way in the back was a long, narrow wooden box. It looked so much like the floorboards, you'd have to be this close to see it.

Lauren grabbed the box and dragged it out from underneath the bed. Opening it, she found a heap of old black-and-white family photographs. Most of them featured three little girls in pretty dresses gathered around a dark, well-dressed man with a smile that lit up his whole face. He was tall and almost elegantly thin, with eyes that closed into slits when he laughed. And he was laughing in most of the pictures. He reminded Lauren of that actor from the old days--the one who always fell in love with Grace Kelly.

Mr. DeSaria.

Absurdly, Lauren thought of him as Papa. She looked through the pictures, saw the images of a childhood she'd dreamed of: family road trips to the Grand Canyon and Disneyland; days spent at the Grays Harbor County Fair, eating cotton candy and riding the roller coaster; evenings at this very cottage, roasting marshmallows at a bonfire near the water's edge.

A knock pounded at the door. "It's six-thirty, Lauren. Rise and shine."

"I'm up." She pushed the box back under the bed, then made her bed and picked up her room. When she left it and closed the door behind her, there was no visible evidence that she'd even been there.

Downstairs, she found Angie in the kitchen. "Good morning," Angie said, scooping scrambled eggs from a frying pan to a plate. "You're just in time."

"You made me breakfast?"

"Was that okay? Do you mind?"

"Are you kidding? It's great."

Angie smiled again. "Good. You'll need to eat well in the next few months."

They stared at each other in a sudden, awkward silence. The distant hum of the ocean seemed to grow louder. Lauren couldn't help touching her stomach.

Angie winced. "Maybe I shouldn't have said that."

"I'm pregnant. There's no point pretending I'm not."

"No."

Lauren couldn't think of anything else to say. She went to the table and sat down, scooting in close. "Breakfast smells great."

Angie handed her a plate with a couple of scrambled eggs, two pieces of cinnamon toast, and some cantaloupe slices on it. "That's about the only thing I can cook."

"Thank you," Lauren said softly, looking up.

Angie sat down across from her. "You're welcome." Finally, she smiled. "So, how did you sleep?"

"Good. I'll have to get used to the quiet."

"Yeah. When I moved to Seattle, it took me forever to get used to the noise."

"Do you miss the city?"

Angie looked surprised by the question, as if maybe she hadn't thought of it before. "I don't, actually. I've been sleeping amazingly well lately; that must mean something."

"It's the sea air."

"Excuse me?"

"Your mama told me that if a girl grows up smelling sea air, she can never really breathe inland."

Angie laughed. "That sounds like my mother. But Seattle is hardly inland."

"Your mother thinks everything except West End is inland."

They talked a bit more about this and that, then Angie stood up. "You do the dishes. I'll shower and meet you in ten minutes, then we'll go to school."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm driving you, of course. The restaurant is closed today, so carpool is no problem. Hey, by the way, I thought Fircrest had a uniform."

"They do."

"Why are you in civilian clothes?"

Lauren felt the heat on her cheeks. "They took back my scholarship. Uniforms don't come in elephant sizes, I guess."

"Are you telling me they kicked you out of school because you're pregnant?"

"It's no big deal." She hoped her voice didn't betray how she really felt.

"The hell you say."

"I don't know--"

"Do the dishes, Lauren, and put on your uniform. We're paying Fircrest Academy a little visit."

AN HOUR LATER, THEY WERE IN THE COUNSELOR'S OFFICE. Lauren stood with her back to the wall, trying to disappear into the rough, white stucco.

Angie sat in a chair, facing Mrs. Detlas, who was behind her desk, with her hands clasped together on the metal surface.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs. Ribido," Mrs. Detlas said. "I guess there has been some miscommunication about Lauren's future here at Fircrest."

Lauren drew in a sharp breath and looked at Angie, who smiled.

"I'm here to discuss... my daughter's future," Angie said, crossing one leg over the other.

"I see. Well, you'll need to discuss that with the counselor at West End. You see--"

"What I see," Angie said evenly, "is a lawsuit. Or perhaps a headline: Catholic school expels poor, perfect student for being pregnant. I know about headlines because my ex-husband is a reporter for the Seattle Times. You know, he was saying just the other night that the big city papers could use a good small town scandal."

"We... uh... didn't technically expel Lauren. I merely suggested that girls could be cruel to a girl in her kind of trouble." She frowned. "I didn't know about your husband." She started looking through Lauren's file.

Angie looked at Lauren. "You worried about the girls being mean to you?"

Lauren shook her head. If she had a voice, she couldn't find it.

Angie turned back to the counselor. "It was kind of you to think of Lauren's feelings on this, but as you can see, she's a tough kid."

Mrs. Detlas slowly closed Lauren's folder. Then she said, "I suppose she could finish the semester here and take the finals. There's only six weeks left in the term, and Christmas break cuts in the middle of it. She could take her finals in January and graduate early, but I really believe--"

Angie stood up. "Thank you, Mrs. Detlas. Lauren will graduate from Fircrest, which is as it should be."

"You're welcome," Mrs. Detlas said, obviously irritated.

"I'm sure you'll make every effort to help her. And I'll be sure and tell my uncle how well it all turned out for Lauren."

"Your uncle?"

"Oh, did I forget to mention that?" She looked right at the counselor. "Cardinal Lanza is my mother's brother."

Mrs. Detlas seemed to shrink into her chair. "Oh" was how she answered, but it could hardly be heard at all.

"Let's go, Lauren," Angie said, heading for the door.

Lauren stumbled along beside her. "That was amazing," she said when they got outside.

"And fun. The old bat needed a wake-up call."

"How did you know what to say?"

"Life, honey. It all comes in handy."

Lauren smiled. She felt great. Better than great. No one had ever fought for her like that, and the effort strengthened her, made her feel invincible. With Angie on her side, she could do anything.

Even attend classes when she knew people would be staring and talking.

Angie grinned. "I just hope there is a Cardinal Lanza."

At that, they both burst into laughter.

ANGIE STOOD AT THE CORNER, WATCHING LAUREN WALK across campus. She held herself back from shouting: "Bye, honey. Have a good day at school. I'll be here at six to pick you up." She was still young enough to know that such a scene would be the height of uncool. And poor Lauren didn't need any extra attention to come her way. Pregnant in private school was tough enough. A geek wannabe mother might push her over the edge.

Lauren paused at the big building's double door. Turning slightly, she waved at Angie, then disappeared inside.

Angie's chest felt tight. "You little witches better be nice to my girl," she said. Closing her eyes, she said a prayer for Lauren, then she got into the car.

As she was driving home, trying not to imagine the firestorm of gossip at Fircrest Academy, she considered going back, parking by the flagpole, just in case. What if Lauren came out crying, broken by the kinds of petty cruelty that only teenage girls could inflict? She would need Angie...

"No," she said aloud, taking charge of her negative fantasies. Lauren had to get through this day on her own. There was no other way. The road she'd found herself on was dark and scary; there was no way out except straight through.

The bleating ring of her cell phone saved her. She dug into her purse and found it, answering on the third ring.

"Angie?"

She hadn't realized until just then, when she drew in a sharp breath, that she'd been waiting for this. "Hey, Con," she said, trying to sound casual. To be safe, she pulled off to the side of the road. Her heart was going a mile a minute.

"I've been thinking about the other night."

Me, too.

"We need to talk." "That's been true for years," she said. "Do you want to come down to the cottage?" The minute the invitation slipped out, she thought: Lauren.

He would not be happy about the situation.

"Not today, I'm busy," he said. "Maybe..." His voice trailed into the dark woods of uncertainty. He was reconsidering; she could tell.

"It's Monday. The restaurant's closed. I could come up and buy you lunch."

"Lunch?"

"It's a meal. Often characterized by sandwiches and soups." Her joke fell flat. "Come on, Con. You need to eat lunch."

"How about Al Boccalino?"

"I can be there by eleven-thirty." She flicked her turn signal and eased back onto the road.

"See you then. Bye," he said.

"Bye." Angie wanted to smile, but all she could think about was the girl living under her roof. Conlan would not take this news well.

SHE MADE IT TO DOWNTOWN SEATTLE IN RECORD TIME, parked the car, and headed for the restaurant.

Their restaurant.

At least, it had been once.

She was four blocks away when it started to pour. Raindrops the size of golf balls battered the sidewalk in front of her, formed rushing silver rivers along the curb. She popped open her umbrella and headed for Pioneer Square. In the park, dozens of homeless people huddled in pods, passing cigarettes back and forth, trying to keep dry.

Finally she reached Yesler. The viaduct--that arching concrete overpass that dared a big earthquake to crumble it--held the rain at bay.

She ducked into the restaurant. Al Boccalino was empty this early in the day. The working lunch crowd wouldn't be here for another hour at least.

Carlos, the owner of the restaurant, came around the corner. Seeing her, he smiled.

"Mrs. Malone. It's good to see you again."

"You, too." She handed him her coat and umbrella and followed him into the small, Tuscan-inspired trattoria. Immediately, she smelled the pungent combination of garlic and thyme that reminded her of home.

"You should bring your mama back some time," Carlos said with a smile.

Angie laughed. The one time she had brought her parents here, Mama had spent the whole night in the kitchen, chastising the chef for cutting tomatoes for marinara. Crush them, she'd muttered. That is why God gave us hands. "Sure, Carlos," she said, her smile fading when she saw Conlan.

He rose at her entrance.

Carlos helped her into her seat, gave them each a menu, and then disappeared.

"It feels strange to be here again," Angie said.

"I know. I haven't been here since our anniversary."

She frowned. "I thought your apartment was right around the corner."

"It is."

That silence descended again. They looked at each other.

Carlos appeared at the table, holding a bottle of champagne. "My favorite couple together again. Is good." He filled each fluted glass with glittering, bubbling liquid. He looked at Conlan. "You let me decide your lunch menu, yes?"

"Of course," Conlan answered, still looking at Angie.

She felt exposed by that look, vulnerable. She reached for her glass, needing something in her hand.

I want to tell you about this girl I met.

"Conlan," she said just as Carlos reappeared by the table, holding a plate of caprese salad. By the time they'd oohed and aahed over the food, Angie had lost her nerve. She finished her glass of champagne and poured a second.

She's really great. She's living with me. Oh, and did I mention she's pregnant?

Conlan leaned forward, put his elbows on the table. "This morning I got a call from my agent. I've been offered a book contract." He paused, then said, "And the only person I wanted to tell was you. What do you think that means?"

She knew how much it had cost him to admit that. She wanted to reach for him, take his hand in hers, and tell him that she still loved him, that she'd always loved him and always would, but it was too soon for that. Instead, she said, "I think it means we loved each other for a long time."

"Most of my life."

She touched her glass to his. The brittle clinking was the sound of beginnings. She knew she should tell him about Lauren now, but she couldn't do it. This moment felt magical somehow, full of possibility. "Tell me everything."

He launched into the story of a local man who had been convicted of raping and killing several elderly women in the late nineties. Conlan had done an investigative piece on the story and been hooked. He'd come to believe the man was innocent, and DNA tests had just proven it. "It's a Cinderella deal," he said. "They're giving me a decent amount of money to write this book and another one."

He was still talking about the story an hour later when they finished their dessert and paid the bill.

Angie got to her feet, noticing that she was more than a little tipsy.

Conlan stood beside her, steadied her with his touch.

She stared up at him. His face, creased now in a smile, made her want to cry. "I'm so proud of you, Conlan."

His smile faded. "This can't be good."

"What can't? I--"

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, right there in the restaurant, in front of everyone. It wasn't one of those you-could-be-my-grandma kisses, either. Oh, no.

"Wow," she said when it was over. She realized she was swaying slightly. She tried to remain still. It was difficult; her heart was pounding. She wanted him with a ferocity that surprised her. "But we need to talk," she said, trying to think straight.

"Later," he said in a gravelly, desperate voice. Taking her hand, he pulled her toward the door. "We're going to my place."

She gave in. It was impossible not to. "Can we run?"

"Definitely."

Outside, Angie was surprised to see that it was still light. Then she remembered: It had been a lunch date. They ran through the rain down Yesler Street, turned on Jackson.

Conlan jammed his key in the lock.

Angie pressed up against his back and put her arms around him. She moved her hands down to his waistband.

"Damn," he muttered, trying another key.

The lock clicked open.

He pushed through the door and dragged her toward the elevator. When the doors opened, they tumbled inside, still kissing.

Angie was on fire. She touched him everywhere, kissed him until she felt dizzy.

She couldn't breathe.

The doors opened. He swept her into his arms and carried her down the hall. In minutes--seconds--they were in his bedroom.

Conlan placed her gently on the bed. She lay there, feeling dazed with the kind of desire she'd forgotten about. "Take off your clothes," she said in a husky voice, propping herself onto her elbows. He knelt at the foot of the bed, between her legs. "I can't stay away from you," he whispered. There was both wonder and disappointment in his voice.

She knew there would be a price for this moment.

Right now, she didn't care.