N A RAINY MONDAY IN LATE APRIL, MARIA DECIDED that Angie needed to learn how to cook. She showed up early, carrying a big cardboard box full of supplies. No amount of arguing could change her mind. "You are a married woman... again. You should cook."

Lauren stood in the doorway, trying not to laugh at Angie's protests.

"What are you laughing about?" Maria demanded, putting her hands on her hips. "You are learning, too. Both of you get dressed and be back in this kitchen in ten minutes."

Lauren ran upstairs, changed out of her flannel nightgown and into a pair of black leggings and an old Fir-crest Bulldogs T-shirt. When she skidded back into the kitchen, Maria looked up at her.

Lauren stood there, smiling uncertainly. "What should I do?"

Maria walked over to her. Shaking her head, she made a small tsking sound. "You are too young to have such sad eyes," she said quietly.

Lauren didn't know what to say to that.

Maria grabbed an apron out of the box and handed it to Lauren. "Here. Put this on."

Lauren did as she was told.

"Now come here." Maria led the way to the counter and began pulling ingredients out of the box. By the time Angie made it back to the kitchen, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, there was a mound of flour on the butcher block and a metal bowl full of eggs alongside it.

"Pasta," Angie said, frowning.

For the next hour, they worked side by side. Maria taught them how to scoop out the center of the flour and fill the hole with just the right amount of eggs, then to work the dough carefully so it didn't get tough. While Lauren was learning to roll the dough into sheets, Angie went into the living room and turned on the music.

"That's better," she said, dancing back into the room.

Maria handed Lauren a metal sunburst with a handle. "Now cut that pasta into strips, maybe two inches square."

Lauren frowned. "I might screw up. Maybe Angie should try."

Angie laughed at that. "Yeah. I'm certainly the better choice."

Maria touched Lauren's face gently. "You know what happens if you make a mistake?"

"What?"

"We roll it out and try again. Cut."

Lauren picked up the scalloped pastry wheel and began cutting the pasta into squares. No chemistry lab had ever been undertaken with more care.

"You see this, Angie?" Maria said. "Your girl has the gift."

Your girl.

For the rest of the morning, those two words stayed with Lauren, warmed her. As they filled the tortellini and finished the pasta, she found herself smiling. Laughing sometimes, for no reason.

She hated to see the cooking lesson come to an end.

"Well," Maria said at last, "I must go now. My garden is calling to me. I have planting to do."

Angie laughed. "Thank God." She tossed a wink at Lauren. "I think I'll stick with the restaurant's leftovers."

"Someday you will be sorry, Angela," Maria sniffed, "that you ignored your heritage."

Angie put an arm around her mother, held her close. "I'm just kidding, Mama. I appreciate the lesson. Tomorrow I'll get out a cookbook and try something on my own. How would that be?"

"Good."

Maria hugged them both, said good-bye, and left the house. Lauren went to the sink and started washing the dishes. Angie sidled up beside her. They washed and dried in the easy rhythm they'd created recently.

When the dishes were dried and put away, Angie said, "I need to run down to Help-Your-Neighbor House. I have a meeting with the director. The coat drive went so well, we're trying to come up with another promotion."

"Oh."

Lauren stood there, drying her wet hands, as Angie hurried through the house and then left. The door slammed shut; in the yard, a car started up.

Lauren went to the window and stared out, watching Angie drive away. Behind her, the CD changed. Bruce Springsteen's gravelly voice started up.

Baby, we were born to run...

She spun away from the window and ran for the stereo, clicking the music off hard. A sharp silence descended. It was so quiet that she thought she could hear the tapping of Conlan's fingers on the laptop upstairs, but that was impossible.

She tried not to think about her mother, but now that was impossible, too.

"I thought kids your age loved the Boss," Conlan said from behind her.

She turned around slowly. "Hey," she said.

In the weeks since the wedding, Lauren had tried to keep her distance from Conlan. They lived in the same house, of course, so it wasn't easy. But she sensed a hesitation in him, an unwillingness to get to know her.

She kept her back to the window and stared at him, twisting her hands together nervously. "Angie went to town. She'll be back in a while."

"I know."

Of course she would have told her husband. Lauren felt like an idiot for having said anything.

Conlan crossed the room, came up closer. "You're nervous around me."

"You're nervous around me."

He smiled. "Touche. I'm just worried, that's all. Angie is... fragile sometimes. She leads with her heart."

"And you think I'll hurt her."

"Not purposely, no."

Lauren had no answer to that, so she changed the subject. "Do you want to be a father?"

Something passed through his eyes then, a sadness, maybe, that made her wish she hadn't asked the question. "Yes."

They stared at each other. She saw the way he was trying to smile and it wounded her, made her feel closer to him. She knew about disappointment. "I'm not like that other girl, you know."

"I know." He backed up, as if he wanted to put some distance between them, and sat down on the sofa.

She went to the coffee table and sat down on it. "What kind of father would you be?"

The question seemed to jolt him. He flinched, looked down at his hands. It took him a long time to answer, and when he finally did, his voice was soft. "There, I guess. I wouldn't miss a thing. Not a game, not a school play, not a dentist appointment." He looked up. "I'd take her--or him--to the park and the beach and the movies."

Lauren's breath caught in her throat. Longing tightened her chest. She hadn't realized until just then, with that quietly spoken answer, that what she'd really been asking was: What does a father do?

He looked at her, and in his eyes, she saw that sadness again, and a new understanding.

She felt transparent suddenly, vulnerable. She stood up. "I guess I'll go read. I just started the new Stephen King book."

"We could go to the movies," he said gently. "To Have and Have Not is playing downtown."

She barely had a voice. "I've never heard of it."

He stood up beside her. "Bogart and Bacall? The greatest screen pair of all time? That's criminal. Come on. Let's go."

MAY ROARED ACROSS WESTERN WASHINGTON. DAY AFTER day dawned bright and hot. All over town roses burst into fragrant bloom. Overnight, it seemed, the baskets that hung along Driftwood Way went from spindly, gray, and unnoticeable, to riotous cascades of color. Purple lobelia, red gardenia, yellow pansies, and lavender phlox. The air smelled of fresh flowers, and salt water, and kelp baking beneath a hot sun.

People came out of their homes slowly, blinking mole-like at the brightness. Kids ripped open their closets and burrowed through everything, looking for last year's cutoffs and a shirt without sleeves or a fleece lining. Later, their mothers stood in those same bedrooms, hands on hips, staring at the piles of winter clothes, hearing the whirl of bike wheels outside and the laughter of children who'd been hiding from the rain for too many months.

Soon--after Memorial Day--the town would begin to fill up with tourists. They would arrive in hordes, by car, by bus, by recreational vehicle, carrying their fishing gear, reading tide charts. The empty stretch of sandy beach would call out to them inexorably, drawing them to the sea in words so old and elemental the visitors could no longer say what had brought them here. But come they would.

To those who had lived in West End always, or to those who had survived a few wet winters, the tourists were good news/bad news. No one doubted that their money kept this town going, fixed the roads and bought the school supplies and paid the teachers. They also caused traffic and crowds and lines ten people long at the grocery checkout.

On the first Saturday in May, Lauren woke up early, unable to find a comfortable position in which to sleep. She slipped into clothes--a pair of elephant-waisted stretch leggings and a gauzy tent blouse with bell-shaped sleeves--then looked out her bedroom window.

The sky was a beautiful lavender-pink that seemed to backlight the black trees. She decided to go outside. She felt closeted-in here, too confined. She tiptoed past Angie and Conlan's closed door.

She crept downstairs, grabbed the soft angora blanket off the sofa, and went outside. The gentle, lapping sound of the surf was an instant balm to her ragged nerves. She felt herself calming down, breathing evenly again.

She stood at the porch railing for all of ten minutes before her feet started hurting.

This pregnancy was really starting to suck. Her feet hurt, her heart burned, her head ached half the time, and her baby was starting to hurl through her stomach like a gymnast. The worst part of it all was the Lamaze classes that she and Angie attended every week. The pictures were terrifying. Poor David had gone to one class and begged to be let go. In truth, she'd been glad to let him. She wanted Angie beside her when the time came. Lauren was pretty sure that breathing hard in a ha-ha-ha pattern wouldn't get her through the pain. She'd need Angie.

Last night she'd had the dream again, the one in which she was a little girl dressed in a bright green J.C. Penney dress and holding her mother's hand. She felt so safe with that strong hand wrapped around her tiny fingers. Come on now, her dream mother said. We don't want to be late.

What they were going to be late for, Lauren didn't know. Sometimes it was church, sometimes it was school, sometimes it was a dinner with Daddy. All she knew was that she would have followed that mommy anywhere....

Last night, in her dream, the woman holding her hand had been Angie.

Lauren sat down in the big old oak rocker on the porch. The curved seat seemed made for her. She sighed in comfort. She'd have to tell Angie that this would be a great place to rock the baby to sleep at night. That way she (Lauren always thought of the baby as a girl) would grow up listening to the sea. Lauren believed that would have made a difference in her life, being rocked to sleep, listening to the surf instead of neighbors fighting and cigarettes being lit.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she said to her unborn baby, who kicked in response.

She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. The gentle rocking motion was so soothing. Already today she needed that.

This was going to be a difficult day. One in which her whole life seemed to be trapped in a tiny rearview mirror. On this day last year, she'd gone to the beach with her friends. The guys had played football and hacky sack while the girls soaked up the sun, wearing tiny bikinis and sunglasses. When night fell, they built a bonfire and roasted hot dogs and marshmallows and listened to music. She'd felt so safe in David's arms that night, so certain of her place beside him in the world. She'd only just begun to worry that they'd go to different colleges. In one year she'd gone from child to woman. She hoped there was a way to go back again. When she gave her baby to Angie and Conlan, Lauren would--

She couldn't quite finish that thought. It happened that way more and more often lately, this onset of panic. It wasn't the adoption. Lauren had no doubt that she'd made the right choice and no doubt that she'd follow through with it. The problem came after that.

She was a smart girl. She'd grilled the adoption counselor and the guardian ad litem they'd appointed for her. She'd asked every question that popped into her mind. She'd even gone to the library and read about open adoptions. They were better than the old closed adoptions--from her perspective, anyway--because she could still hear about her child's growth. Pictures. Artwork. Letters. Even the occasional visit was the norm in these new adoptions.

But the one thing all adoptions had in common finally, at the end of the day, was this: The birth mother went on with her life.

Alone.

This was the future that haunted Lauren. She'd found a home here with Angie and Conlan, a family in the De-Sarias. The thought of losing that, of being alone in the world again, was almost more than she could bear. But sooner or later she would be alone again. David would go off to college, her mother was gone, and Angie and Conlan would hardly want Lauren hanging around once they'd adopted the baby. Some things in life had a natural order that was obvious to everyone. Good-bye birth mother was one of those things.

She sighed deeply, stroking her distended stomach. What mattered was her baby's happiness, and Angie's. That was what she needed to remember.

Behind her, the screen door screeched open and banged shut. "You're up early," Angie said, coming up beside her, placing a warm hand on Lauren's shoulder.

"Have you ever tried to sleep on top of a watermelon? That's what it's like."

Angie sat down on the slatted porch swing. The metal chains clanked and squeaked at her weight.

Lauren remembered a moment too late that Angie knew how it felt.

Silence fell between them, broken only by the sound of the waves below. It would have been easy--familiar--to close her eyes and lean back and pretend everything was okay. That's what she'd been doing for the past month. They all focused on the now because the future was frightening. But their time for pretense was running out. "My due date is only a few weeks away," she said, as if Angie didn't know that. "The books say you're supposed to be nesting. Maybe we should have a baby shower."

Angie sighed. "I've nested plenty, Lauren. And I've got lots of baby things."

"You're afraid, aren't you? You think something will be wrong with the baby, like Sophie?"

"Oh, no," Angie said quickly. "Sophie was born too early; that's all. I'm sure your baby is strong and healthy."

"You mean your baby," Lauren said. "We should turn my room into the nursery. I've seen all those boxes in the laundry room. How come you haven't unpacked them?"

"There's time."

"I could start--"

"No." Angie seemed to realize how sharply she'd spoken. It was practically a yell. She smiled weakly. "I can't think about decorating yet. It's too early."

Lauren saw the fear in Angie's eyes and suddenly it all clicked into place. "The other girl. She decorated the nursery with you."

"Sarah," Angie said, her voice almost lost in the sounds of early summer--the surf, the shore breezes, the bird-song. A pair of wind chimes clanged together, sounding like church bells.

It hurt to see Angie so afraid. Lauren went to her, sat down on the swing beside her. "I'm not Sarah. I wouldn't hurt you like that."

"I know that, Lauren."

"So don't be afraid."

Angie laughed. "Okay. Then I'll cure cancer and walk on water." She sobered. "It's not about you, Lauren. Some fears run deep, that's all. It's nothing for you to worry about. For now that's your bedroom. I like having you there."

"One occupant at a time, is that it?"

"Something like that. Now. Don't you have something to tell me?"

"What?"

"Like that today is your eighteenth birthday. I had to find out from David."

"Oh. That." It hadn't occurred to her to tell them. Her birthdays had always come and gone without much fanfare.

"We're having a party at Mama's."

A feeling moved through Lauren. It felt as if she'd just drunk a huge amount of champagne. "For me?"

Angie laughed. "Of course it's for you. Though I warn you now--there will probably be games."

Lauren couldn't contain her smile. No one had ever thrown her a birthday party before. "I love games."

Angie produced a small, foil-wrapped package and handed it to her. "Here," she said. "I wanted to give this to you when things were quiet. Just us."

Lauren's fingers were trembling with excitement as she opened the gift. Inside a white box marked Seaside Jewelry was a beautiful silver necklace with a heart-shaped locket. When Lauren opened the locket, she found a tiny photograph of her and Angie. The left side was blank.

For the baby.

Lauren wasn't sure why it made her want to cry. She only knew that when she hugged Angie and whispered, "Oh, thank you," she tasted the salty moisture of her own tears. Finally, she drew back, wiping her eyes. It was embarrassing to cry so easily, and over a necklace. She went to the porch rail and looked out over the ocean. Surprisingly, it was hard to talk past the lump in her throat. "I love it here," she said softly, leaning forward into the breeze. "The baby will love growing up here. I wish..."

"What do you wish?"

Slowly, Lauren turned around. "If I'd grown up in a place like this, with a mother like you... I don't know. Maybe I wouldn't be shopping for clothes that could double as parachutes."

"Everyone makes mistakes, honey. Growing up loved doesn't shield you from that."

"You don't know what it's like," Lauren said, "not being loved... to want so much from someone."

Angie got to her feet and went to Lauren. "I'm sure your mother loves you, Lauren. She's just confused right now."

"The weird thing is, I miss her sometimes. I wake up crying and realize I was dreaming about her. Do you think those dreams will go away?"

Angie touched Lauren's cheek gently. "I think a girl needs her mother forever. But maybe it will stop hurting so much. And maybe someday she'll come back."

"Needing something from my mother is like waiting to win the lottery. You can buy a ticket every week and pray, but the odds aren't good."

"I'm here for you," Angie said. "And I love you."

Lauren felt the sting of tears. "I love you, too." She threw her arms around Angie and clung to her. She wished she never had to let go.

WITH EACH PASSING DAY, ANGIE FELT HERSELF TIGHTENING. One twist of the spine at a time, until by early June she had a constant headache and it hurt to get out of bed. Conlan kept telling her that she needed to see a chiropractor. She'd nod and say, "You know, you're right," and sometimes she even went so far as to make an appointment.

But she knew the source of her problem didn't reside in her bones. It was a heart thing. Every sunrise brought her closer to the baby she'd always wanted... and closer to the day Lauren would leave.

The truth was, it was chewing Angie up inside; these two needs of hers couldn't coexist.

Conlan knew this, of course. His recommendation of a chiropractor was purely out of form, a man's need to find solutions. When they lie in bed at night, as fitted together as long lost puzzle pieces, he asked the questions that mattered. She answered each one, no matter how it hurt.

"She'll be leaving soon," he said tonight, drawing Angie closer, stroking her upper arm with his thumb. "She wants to go to Los Angeles early to find a job. The counselor thinks arrangements can be made for her to housesit a sorority for the summer."

"Yeah."

"It's the way it has to be," Conlan said.

Angie closed her eyes, but it didn't help. The images were carved into her mind: Lauren packing up, kissing them good-bye, moving out. "I know," she said. "I just hate to think of her being all alone."

Conlan's voice was gentle when he said, "I think she'll need to get away."

"She doesn't know how hard it's going to be. I've tried to tell her."

"She's eighteen years old. We're lucky she listens to us about anything." He tightened his hold. "There's no way you can prepare her for this."

"There's a chance..." Angie marshaled her strength to finish. "She won't be able to do it."

"Are you ready for that? Last time--"

"This isn't last time. With Sarah, I thought about the baby all the time. I used to go sit in the nursery and imagine how it would be. I'd call her Boo; she'd call me Mommy. I dreamed every night about rocking her to sleep, holding her in my arms."

"And now?"

She looked at him. "Now I dream about Lauren. I see us at her college graduation... her wedding... then I see us waving good-bye and she's always crying."

"But you're the one who wakes up with wet cheeks."

"I don't know if I can take her baby from her," Angie said, finally daring to voice her deepest fear. "And I don't know how I could possibly refuse. All I know is either way, our hearts get sliced open."

"You're stronger now. We are." He leaned over to kiss her.

"Am I?" she said as soon as he drew back. "Then why am I afraid to get Papa's cradle from the boxes?"

Conlan sighed, and for a moment she saw the fear in his blue eyes. She wasn't sure if it belonged to him or if it were a reflection of hers. "The Field of Dreams bed," he said quietly, as if he'd just remembered it.

Her father had built it by hand, polishing each bit of wood to a satin finish. He'd said he got the idea from the Kevin Costner movie.

There had been tears in Papa's eyes when he presented the cradle to his Angelina. I build it, he said. Now she will come.

"Just hold on to me," Conlan said at last. "I'll keep us steady no matter what."

"Yeah," she answered. "But who will hold on to Lauren?"

IT RAINED ON THE SECOND SATURDAY IN JUNE. ALL THE prayers for sunshine had been ignored.

Lauren couldn't have cared less about the weather. It was the mirror image that depressed her.

She stared at herself. The good news was her hair. Pregnancy had given her coppery hair, always her best feature anyway, a new shine.

The bad news was everything else. Her face had begun in the last week to gain weight, and her always apple-round cheeks were edging toward plate size. And forget about her stomach.

Behind her, a pile of clothes covered her carefully made bed. In the past hour she'd tried on every conceivable maternity-wear combination. No matter what she wore, she looked like a soccer mom blow-up doll.

There was a knock at the door. Angie's voice said, "Come on, Lauren. It's time to go."

"I'll be right down."

Lauren sighed. This was it. She went to the mirror and checked her makeup for the fourth time, fighting the nervous urge to layer more color on her face. Instead, she grabbed her purse, slung it over her shoulder, and left the bedroom.

Downstairs, Angie and Conlan were waiting for her. They looked absurdly gorgeous, both of them. Conlan, dressed in a black suit with a steel blue shirt, looked like the new James Bond, and Angie, in a rose-colored wool dress, was every bit his match.

"Are you sure about this?" Angie asked.

"I'm fine," Lauren said. "Let's go."

The drive to Fircrest Academy seemed to take half its usual time. Before Lauren was quite ready, they were there, parking in the school lot.

In an awkward silence, the three of them walked across campus. All around them people were laughing and talking and snapping photographs.

The auditorium was a hive of activity.

At the door, she paused.

She couldn't go in there, couldn't lumber up those bleachers and sit down with all the parents and grandparents.

"You can do it," Conlan said, taking her arm.

His touch steadied her. She looked up at the crowd, then at the decorations strung across the walls.

Class of 2004.

Boldly into the Future.

In what now felt like her other life, she would have been in charge of those decorations.

The gym was full of kids in scarlet satin gowns, their faces scrubbed and shiny, their eyes bright with promise. Lauren wanted to be down there with her friends, a laughing, teasing girl again. The longing was so sharp she almost stumbled. Tonight would be the grad night party; she'd waited years to attend.

Angie took her arm, led her up the bleachers to a seat in the middle. The three of them sat close together, tucked in amid all the other friends and family of the graduating class.

Lauren found David. He stood out from the crowd and melted into it at the same time. He wasn't even looking up here. He was living the moment, loving it.

It pissed Lauren off that he should be down there, a boy with his whole life ahead of him, while she was here, stuck in the audience, a pregnant girl-woman who'd lost so much.

As quickly as the anger blossomed, it faded, leaving her with the sad longing she'd felt all day.

The noise blurred into one loud, pulsating roar. Lauren balled her hands, hung on to her composure by the thinnest thread.

She couldn't help looking for her mother. Even though she knew Mom wouldn't be here. Hell, she would have missed it if Lauren were graduating.

Still... she had this tiny, aching hope that her mother would come back, that Lauren would look up one day and see her.

Angie put an arm around Lauren, pulled her close.

The music started.

Lauren leaned forward. Below, the kids ran for their seats.

One by one the graduates of Fircrest Academy walked across the stage, took their diplomas from the principal, and moved their tassel from one side to the other.

"David Ryerson Haynes," the principal said.

The applause was thunderous. The kids cheered for him, screamed his name. Lauren's voice was lost in the crowd.

He walked across the stage as if he owned it.

When he was back in his seat, Lauren relaxed. She didn't tense up again until they reached the Rs.

"Dan Ransberg... Michael Elliot Relker... Sarah Jane Rhenquist..."

Lauren leaned forward.

"Thomas Adams Robards."

She sat back, trying not to be disappointed. She'd known they wouldn't call her name. After all, she'd graduated last semester, but still...

She'd hoped. She'd worked so hard for so many years. It didn't seem right that now she sat up here while her friends were down there.

"It's just a ceremony," Angie whispered, leaning close. "You're a high school graduate, too."

Lauren couldn't help feeling sorry for herself. "I wanted it so much," she said. "The cap and gown... the applause. I used to dream I'd be class speaker." She laughed bitterly. "Instead I'm the class joke."

Angie looked at her. There was a heavy sadness in her eyes. "I wish I could make everything okay. But some dreams just pass us by. It's the way life is."

"I know. I just..."

"Want."

Lauren nodded. That was as good an answer as any. She leaned against Angie and held her hand as the names droned on.

The ceremony lasted another forty-five minutes and then it was over. The three of them melted into the laughing, talking crowd and moved to the football field, where huge tents had been set up to hold off the rain. So many cameras flashed that it looked like the paparazzi had arrived.

Dozens of friends came up to Lauren, waving at her, welcoming her back.

But she saw the way they wouldn't look at her stomach and the poor Lauren in their eyes, and it made her feel stupid all over again.

"There he is," Angie said at last.

Lauren stood on her toes.

There he was, standing with his parents. She let go of Angie's hand and hurried through the crowd.

When David saw her, his smile faded for a split second. Only that, and then he was smiling again, but she'd seen it, and she knew.

He wanted to be with his friends tonight, wanted to do what the Fircrest grads always did on this night--go down to the beach, sit around a bonfire and drink beer and laugh about their years together.

He didn't want to sit quietly with his whale of a girlfriend and listen to her litany of aches and pains.

She stumbled to a stop in front of him.

"Hey," he said, bending down to kiss her.

She kissed him too long, too hard, clung to him, then finally forced herself to draw back.

Mrs. Haynes was looking at her with understanding. "Hello, Lauren. Angie. Conlan."

For the next few minutes, they stood there, talking about nothing. When the conversation fell into an awkward pause, David said to her, "You want to come to the beach after this?"

"No." She found it hard to say the word.

His relief was obvious, but he said, "Are you sure?"

She couldn't even blame him. She'd looked forward to grad night for years. It was the talk of Fircrest. It just... hurt. "I'm sure."

They talked for a few more minutes, then headed for the car. It wasn't until later, when they were pulling into the driveway, that she realized that no one had taken a picture of her and David.

All their years together, and there would be no senior grad day photograph.

At the house, Lauren got out of the car and went to her room. She thought she heard Angie and Conlan talking to her, but there was a white noise in her head, so she couldn't be sure. Maybe they were talking to each other.

She sat on the bed, staring at the bedpost for a long time. Remembering.

When she couldn't stand it anymore, she went downstairs and walked out to the porch.

The rain had stopped, leaving a scrubbed, robin's egg blue sky behind.

She stood at the railing.

There, down on the beach below, was a bonfire. Smoke puffed into the air.

It probably wasn't the senior party.

Certainly it wasn't.

And yet...

She wondered if she could lumber down the steps to the beach and walk all that way across the sand...

"Hey, you."

Angie came up behind Lauren, put a heavy woolen blanket around her shoulders. "You're freezing."

"Am I?"

"Yes."

She turned around, saw Angie's worried face. "Oh," Lauren sighed shakily. Then she burst into tears.

Angie stood there forever, holding her, stroking her hair.

When Lauren finally drew back, shuddering, she saw that Angie had tears in her eyes, too. "Is it contagious?" Lauren asked, trying to smile.

"It's just... you're still a little girl sometimes. I take it David is going to the grad night party alone."

"Not alone. Just not with me."

"You could have gone."

"I don't belong there anymore." She pulled free and went to the porch swing and sat down. She wanted to tell Angie that lately it felt as if she didn't belong anywhere. She loved this house, this family, but once the baby was born, Lauren wouldn't belong here anymore.

What had the lawyer said to her?

A baby needs one mother.

Angie sat down beside her. Together, they stared down the tangle of overgrown yard to the sandy beach below.

"What happens after?" Lauren asked, leaning forward. She was careful not to look at Angie. "Where will I go?" She heard the fissure in her voice; there was no way she could sound strong.

"You'll come back here. To the house. Then, when you're ready, you'll leave. Con and I bought you an airplane ticket to school. And one to come home for Christmas."

Home.

The word was a dart that pierced deep in her heart. This wouldn't be her home anymore, not once the baby was born.

All her life Lauren had felt alone. Now she knew better. Her mother had been there, and when Mom ran off, Angie stepped in. For these last few months Lauren had felt as if she finally belonged somewhere.

But soon she'd know what truly being alone felt like.

"We don't have to follow someone else's rules, Lauren," Angie said. There was a tinny, desperate edge to her voice. "We can create whatever family we want."

"My counselor doesn't think I should be here after the baby's born. She thinks that would be too hard on all of us."

"It wouldn't be too hard on me," Angie said slowly, drawing back slightly. "But you need to do what's best for you."

"Yeah," Lauren said. "I guess I'll be looking out for myself from now on."

"We'll always be here for you."

Lauren thought of the adoption plan they'd come up with--the letters and photographs and consent agreements. It was all designed to keep the two of them at arm's length.

"Yeah," Lauren said, knowing it couldn't be true.