AUREN MADE IT A WHOLE TWENTY-FOUR HOURS without seeing her son. She took no chances at all. Whenever a nurse came into her room, she said, I'm the birth mother; talk to the Malones about the baby, before the nurse could say a thing.

By the end of the next day, she was feeling good enough to hate being here. The food was terrible, the view sucked, the television hardly got any channels, and worst of all, she could hear the nursery. Every time a baby cried, Lauren had to blink away tears. She tried rereading the USC catalog over and over, but it didn't help.

She kept hearing the high-pitched, stuttering newborn wail. Somewhere along the way she'd started thinking of her baby as Johnny, and she'd sit there, eyes squeezed shut, fists clenched, saying Someone take care of Johnny....

She was having a hard time of it, to be sure, but she would have been okay if Angie hadn't visited her last night.

Lauren had been asleep, but barely. She'd heard the highway noise outside and tried to pretend it was the ocean, lulling her to sleep.

"Lauren?"

She'd expected a night nurse, someone checking on her one last time before lights out. But it was Angie.

She'd looked terrible, ravaged almost. Her eyes had been swollen and red and her attempts at smiling were miserable failures. She'd talked to Lauren for a long time, brushing her hair and bringing her drinks of water, until she finally said what she'd come to say.

"You need to see him."

Lauren had looked up into Angie's eyes and thought: There it is. The love Lauren had looked for all of her life.

"I'm afraid."

Angie had touched her then, so gently. "I know, honey. That's why you need to do it."

Long after Angie had left, Lauren thought about it. In her heart, she knew Angie was right. She needed to hold her son, to kiss his tiny cheek and tell him she loved him. She needed to say good-bye.

But she was afraid. It hurt so much to think about leaving him. How would it feel to actually hold him?

It was nearing dawn when she made her decision. She leaned sideways and rang the nurse's bell. When the nurse showed up, Lauren said, "Bring me my baby, please."

The next ten minutes seemed to last forever.

Finally, the nurse returned, and Lauren saw her tiny, pink-faced son for the first time. He had David's eyes, and her mother's pointed chin. And her own red hair. Here was her whole life in one small face.

"Do you know how to hold him?" the nurse asked.

Lauren shook her head. Her throat was too tight for words. The nurse gently positioned the baby in Lauren's arms.

She barely noticed when the nurse left.

She stared down at this baby of hers, this miracle in her arms, and even though he was so tiny, he seemed like the whole world. Her heart swelled at the sight of him until it actually hurt to breathe.

He was her family.

Family.

All her life she'd been looking for someone who was related to her, and here he was, snuggled in her arms. She'd never known a grandparent, a cousin, an aunt or uncle, or a sibling, but she had a son. "Johnny," she whispered, touching his tiny fist.

He held her finger.

She gasped. How could she ever leave him? The thought made her cry.

She'd promised--

But she hadn't known, hadn't understood. How could she have known how it would feel to love your own child?

I'm not Sarah Dekker, she'd said to Angie only a few weeks ago. I'd never hurt you like that.

Lauren squeezed her eyes shut. How could she betray Angie now?

Angie. The woman who was waiting and ready to be the best mom Johnny could have. The woman who had shown Lauren what love was, what a family could be.

Slowly, she opened her eyes and gazed down at her son through a stinging blur of tears. "But I'm your mommy," she whispered.

Some choices, no matter how smart and right, just couldn't be made.

DAVID WAS AT HER BEDSIDE THAT AFTERNOON. HE looked ragged, tired; his smile was faded around the edges.

"My mom thinks he looks like her dad," he said after another of their long, awkward silences.

Lauren looked up at him. "You're sure about all this, right?"

"I'm sure. It's too soon for us."

He was right. It was too soon for them. And suddenly she was thinking of all their time together, all the years of loving him. She thought of their years together; the way he always rambled on about car capabilities and talked nonstop through movies, how he sang off-key and never seemed to know the words; mostly, she thought about the way he always seemed to know when she felt scared or lost and how he held her hand then, tightly, as if he could keep her steady. She'd always love him. "I love you, David," she murmured, hearing the thickness of her voice.

"I love you, too." He leaned forward, pulled her into his arms.

She was the first to pull back. He took her hand, squeezed it.

"This is the end for us." She said it softly. Each word hurt to say out loud. She wanted him to laugh, to take her in his arms and say, No way.

Instead, he started to cry.

She felt the burning in her own eyes. She longed to take it back, tell him she hadn't meant it, but she'd grown up now and she knew better. Some dreams simply slipped out of your hands. The worst part was that they might have made it, might have loved each other forever, if she hadn't gotten pregnant.

She wondered how long it would hurt to love him. She hoped it was a wound that one day healed itself, leaving only the palest silver mark behind. "I want you to go to Stanford and forget about all of this."

"I'm sorry," he said, crying so hard she knew he'd take the out she offered. And though that knowledge hurt, it saved her, too, almost made her smile. Some sacrifices had to be made for love.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pink piece of paper. "Here," he said, offering it to her.

She frowned. The paper felt whisper thin between her fingers. "It's the title to your car."

"I want you to have it."

She could barely see him through her tears. "Oh, David, no."

"It's all I have."

She would remember this moment for all of her life. No matter what, she would always know that he'd loved her. She handed him back the pink slip. "Kiss me, Speed Racer," she whispered, knowing it would be the last time.

THE MINUTE ANGIE PASSED THE NURSE'S STATION, SHE knew.

"Mrs. Malone?" one of the nurses said. "Ms. Connelly would like to speak with you."

Angie pulled away from Conlan and ran. Her sandals snapped on the linoleum floor, sounding obscenely loud. She shoved the door open so hard it cracked against the wall.

Lauren's bed was empty.

She sagged against the doorframe. A part of her had known this was coming, had been waiting for it, but that didn't make it any easier. "She's gone," she said when Conlan came up beside her.

They stood there in the doorway, holding hands, staring at the perfectly made bed. The scent of flowers lingered in the room. It was the only evidence that last night a girl had been here.

"Mrs. Malone?"

She turned slowly, expecting to see the plump face of the hospital's chaplain. He was the first person who'd shown up in Angie's room when Sophia died.

But it was Ms. Connelly, the woman who'd been appointed guardian ad litem. "She left about an hour ago." The woman glanced down. "With her son."

Angie had expected that, too. Still the pain came fast and sharp. "I see."

"She left you a letter. And one for David."

"Thank you," she said, taking the envelopes.

The guardian said, "I'm sorry," and walked away.

Angie looked down at the stark white envelope. The name--Angie Malone--was scrawled across the front. Her hands were shaking as she took it, opened it.

Dear Angie,

I never should have held him. [Here she'd scratched something out.] All my life I've been looking for a family and now that I have one, I can't walk out on him. I'm sorry.

I wish I were strong enough to tell you this in person. But I can't. I can only pray that someday you and Conlan will forgive me.

Just know that somewhere, a new mother is going to sleep at night, thinking about you. Pretending-- wishing--that she had been your daughter.

With love,

Lauren

Angie folded up the letter and put it back in the envelope. Then she turned to Conlan. "She's out there all alone."

"Not alone," he said gently. She knew when she looked in his eyes that he'd expected this all along.

"Too alone, then."

He pulled her into his arms and let her cry.

THEY FOUND DAVID IN THE WAITING ROOM WITH HIS mother.

At their arrival, David looked up.

"Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Malone."

His mother, Anita, smiled. "Hello again."

An awkward pause fell. They all looked at one another.

"He's beautiful," Anita said, her voice cracking only a little.

Angie wondered how it must feel to say good-bye to your son's son. "Lauren has left the hospital," Angie said as gently as she could. "She took the baby with her. We don't..." Her throat closed; she couldn't finish.

"We don't know where she went," Conlan said.

Anita crumpled into a chair, saying, "Oh, God," and covering her mouth with her hand.

David frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"She left with her son," Angie said.

"Left? But..." David's voice broke.

Angie handed him the envelope. "She left this for you."

His hands were unsteady as he opened the letter.

They all stood there in silence, watching him.

Finally, he looked up. Standing there, crying, he looked so young. "She's not coming back."

It took all of Angie's strength not to cry with him. "I don't think she can." It was the first time she'd dared to say it, even to herself. Conlan squeezed her hand. "She thinks we'd all be better off not knowing where she is."

David reached for his mother's hand. "What do we do, Mom? She's all alone. It's my fault. I should have stayed with her."

They stood there, looking at one another. No one knew what to say.

Finally, Anita said, "You'll call us if she comes back."

"Of course," Conlan answered.

Angie watched them leave, mother and son, holding hands. She wondered what they'd say to each other now. What words could be found on a day like this.

At last, she turned to Conlan, gazed up at him.

Their whole life was in his eyes, all the good, the bad, the in-between times. For a while there, it had seemed that love had moved on, left them behind. They'd lost their way because they'd thought their love wasn't enough. Now they knew better. Sometimes your heart got broken, but you just held on. That was all there was.

"Let's go home," she said, almost managing to smile.

"Yeah," he said. "Home."

LAUREN STEPPED OFF THE BUS AND INTO HER OLD world. She tightened her hold on Johnny, who was sleeping peacefully in the front pack; she rubbed his tiny back. She didn't want him to wake up in this part of town.

"You don't belong here, John-John. You remember that."

Night was falling now, and in the darkening shadows the apartment buildings looked less shabby and more sinister.

She realized suddenly that she was nervous, almost afraid. This wasn't her neighborhood anymore.

She paused, looked back at the bus stop with a longing. If only she could turn around, walk to the corner, and take the bus out to Miracle Mile Road.

But there was no going back. She'd known that when she'd left the hospital. Lauren had betrayed Angie and Conlan's trust; she'd done exactly what she'd vowed not to. Whatever love they'd shown her would be gone now. She knew a thing or two about abandonment.

Lauren didn't belong across town anymore, in that cottage perched above the sea or in the restaurant that smelled of thyme and garlic and simmering tomatoes. Her choices in life had led her here again, inexorably, to where she belonged.

At last she came to her old apartment building. Looking up at it, she felt a shudder of loss.

She'd worked so hard to get out of here. But what else could she afford? She had a newborn son who couldn't be put in child care for months. The five-thousanddollar check in her wallet wasn't nearly enough. She wouldn't stay long, anyway, not in this town that would always make her think of Angie. Only until she felt better. Then she'd go in search of a new place.

She set down her small suitcase and straightened, arching her aching back. Everything hurt. The Advil she'd taken earlier had begun to wear off and her abdomen ached. There was a sharp, pinching pain between her legs. It made her walk like a drunken sailor. With a sigh, she grabbed her suitcase again and trudged up the weed-infested path, past the black trash bags filled with garbage and the soggy cardboard boxes.

The door creaked open easily. Still broken.

It took her eyes a second to adjust to the gloom. She'd forgotten how dark it was in here, how it smelled of stale cigarettes and despair. She went to apartment 1-A and knocked.

There was a shuffling of feet, a muffled, "Just a sec," then the door opened.

Mrs. Mauk stood there, wearing a floral housedress and fuzzy pink slippers. Her gray hair was hidden by a red bandana that she wore in an old-fashioned style. "Lauren," she said, frowning.

"Did... my mom ever call for me?" She heard the pathetic neediness in her voice and it shamed her.

"No. You didn't really think she would, did you?"

"No." Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"I thought you got out."

Lauren tried not to react to the word--out--but it wasn't easy. "Maybe there is no out for people like us, Mrs. Mauk."

The heavy lines on Mrs. Mauk's face seemed to deepen at that. "Who's that?"

"My son." She smiled, but it felt sad. "Johnny."

Mrs. Mauk reached out and touched his head. Then she sighed and leaned against the doorframe.

Lauren recognized the sound. It was defeat. Her mother had sighed like that all the time. "I guess I'm here to see if you have an apartment for rent. I have some money."

"We're full up."

"Oh." Lauren refused to give in to despair. She had Johnny to think about now. Her tears would have to be swallowed from now on. She started to turn away.

"Maybe you better come in. It's going to rain. You and Johnny can sleep in the spare bedroom for a night."

Lauren's legs almost buckled; her relief was so big. "Thank you."

Mrs. Mauk led her into the apartment's living/dining room.

For a split second, Lauren felt her past and present collide. It looked so much like her old apartment; same Formica dining set, same shag carpeting. A rose floral sofa was flanked by two blue La-Z-Boy recliners. A small black-and-white television showed an old episode of I Dream of Jeannie.

Mrs. Mauk went into the kitchen.

Lauren sat down on the sofa and eased Johnny out of the pack. He immediately started to cry. She changed his little diaper and rewrapped him, but he wouldn't quit crying. His stuttering shrieks filled the tiny apartment.

"Please," Lauren whispered, rubbing his back and rocking him. "I know you're not hungry."

It wasn't until Mrs. Mauk returned, holding two cups of tea and saying, "Are you okay?" that Lauren realized she was crying.

She wiped her eyes, tried to smile. "I'm just tired, that's all."

Mrs. Mauk set the mug on the coffee table and sat in one of the recliners. "He sure is tiny."

"He's only two days old."

"And you're here, looking for your mommy or a place to stay. Oh, Lauren." Mrs. Mauk gave her one of those poor girl looks she knew so well.

They stared at each other. Behind them, the sitcom's laugh track roared.

"What are you going to do?"

Lauren looked down at Johnny. "I don't know. I was all set to give him up for adoption, but... I couldn't do it."

"I can see how much you love him," Mrs. Mauk said, her voice softening. "And the father?"

"I love him, too. That's why I'm here."

"All alone."

Lauren looked up. She felt her mouth tremble and tears fill her eyes. Again. "I'm sorry. It's the hormones. I cry all the time."

"Where have you been, Lauren?"

"What do you mean?"

"I remember the woman who came for you that day. I stood at my kitchen window and watched you get into her car and drive away, and I thought, Good for you, Lauren Ribido."

"Angie Malone." It hurt to say her name.

"I know I'm just an old woman who sits at home all day talking to her cats and watching reruns, but it looked like she loved you."

"I ruined that."

"How?"

"I promised her the baby and then I ran in the middle of the night. She'll hate me now."

"So you didn't talk to her about it? You just ran off?"

"I couldn't face her."

Mrs. Mauk leaned back in her chair, studying Lauren through narrowed eyes. Finally, she said, "Close your eyes."

"But--"

"Do it."

Lauren did as she was told.

"I want you to picture your mother."

She formed the image in her mind. Mom, platinum-haired, her once beautiful face beginning to tighten and go thin; she was sprawled on the broken-down sofa, wearing a frayed denim miniskirt and a cropped T-shirt. There was a cigarette in her right hand. Smoke spiraled up from it. "Okay."

"That's what running away does to a woman."

Lauren slowly opened her eyes and looked at Mrs. Mauk.

"I watched you bust your ass for a chance in life, Lauren. You carried home backpacks full of books and worked two jobs and got yourself a scholarship to Fir-crest. You came up with the rent when your loser mother spent it all at the Tides. I had hope for you, Lauren. Do you know how rare that is in this building?"

Hope.

Lauren closed her eyes again, this time picturing Angie. She saw her standing on the porch, looking out to sea, with her dark hair fluttering in the breeze. Angie turned, saw Lauren, and smiled. There you are. How did you sleep?

It was a nothing little memory; just an image of an ordinary day.

"You have someplace to go, don't you?" Mrs. Mauk said.

"I'm afraid."

"That's no way to go through life, Lauren. Trust me on this. I know where the road ends if it starts with fear. You know where it ends, too. In an apartment upstairs and a mound of unpaid bills."

"What if she can't forgive me?"

"Come on, Lauren. You're smarter than that," Mrs. Mauk said. "What if she can?"

"YOU'RE A REPORTER, DAMN IT. FIND HER."

"Angie, we've had this conversation a dozen times. I don't even know where to start. David spoke to all of her friends. No one has heard from her. The guy at the bus station doesn't remember selling her a ticket. Her old apartment has been re-rented; the landlady practically hung up on me when I asked about Lauren. The admissions director at USC said she canceled her scholarship. I have no idea where she'd go."

Angie hit the button on the food processor. The whirring sound filled the kitchen. She stared down into the crumbly mixture, trying to think of something new to say.

There was nothing. In the past twenty-four hours she and Conlan had said everything that could be said on the subject. Lauren had simply vanished. It wasn't difficult to do in this busy, overcrowded world.

Angie unlocked the bowl and poured the topping over the blueberry mixture. Her sisters swore that cooking was therapeutic. This was her third blueberry cobbler. Any more therapy and she'd probably scream.

He came up behind her, put his arm around her, and kissed the curve of her neck. She sighed and leaned back against him.

"I can't stand the thought of her alone. And don't tell me she's not alone. She's a kid. She needs someone to take care of her."

"She's a mother now," he said gently. "The kid part gets lost in all that."

She turned into his arms, put her hands on his chest. His heart beat beneath her palm, nice and steady and even. Whenever in the past few hours she'd felt dizzy or lost or unsteady, she'd gone to him, touched him, and let him be her anchor.

He kissed her. With his lips against hers, he whispered, "She knows you love her. She'll be back."

Angie could hear in his voice how much he wanted to believe that. "No," she said. "She won't be back. You know why?"

"Why?"

"She's going to think I could never forgive her. Her mother didn't teach her the things that matter. She doesn't realize she's forgiven her mom--or would the second she showed up. She doesn't know how durable love can be, only how easily it gets broken."

"You know what's amazing? You never mention the baby."

"A part of me knew she couldn't do it." She sighed. "I wish I'd told her that. Maybe then she wouldn't have run off in the middle of the night."

"You told her what really mattered. And she heard you. I guarantee it."

"I don't think so, Con."

"I know so. When she had the baby, you told Lauren you loved her and you were proud of her. Someday, when she stops hating herself for what she had to do, she'll remember that. And she'll be back. Maybe her mother didn't teach her about love, but you did. Sooner or later, she'll figure that out."

He could always do it; say just the right thing she needed to hear. "Have I told you how much I love you, Conlan Malone?"

"You've told me." He glanced over at the oven. "How long does that thing bake?"

She wanted to smile. "Fifty minutes."

"That's definitely enough time to show me. Maybe even twice."

ANGIE KISSED HER SLEEPING HUSBAND AND ROLLED out of bed, careful not to disturb him. Dressing in gray sweats, she left the room.

It was so quiet downstairs. She'd forgotten that. The silence.

A teenager made so much noise...

"Where are you?" she whispered out loud, hugging herself. The world out there was so damned big and Lauren was so young. A dozen bad ends came to her, flashed through her mind like images in a horror film.

She headed toward the kitchen for a cup of coffee. She was halfway there when she saw the box. It was in the hallway, tucked in close to the wall. Conlan must have got it out of the laundry yesterday morning before they'd gone to the hospital.

Yesterday: when everything had been different.

She knew she should turn away from it, pretend she hadn't seen it. But that was the way of her former self, and no good came of not looking.

She went to the box, knelt beside it, and opened it up.

The Winnie-the-Pooh lamp lay on top, cradled in a pink cotton blanket.

Angie pulled it out, held it. The amazing thing was that she didn't cry, didn't ache for the lost baby for whom this lamp had been bought. Instead, she carried it to the kitchen and set it on the table.

"There," she said. "It's waiting for you, Lauren. Come home and pick it up."

Her only answer was silence. Now and then the old house creaked and in the distance the ocean grumbled and whooshed, but here, in this house that had gone from three inhabitants to two, it was still.

She walked out to the porch, stared down at the ocean. She was so intent on the water that it took her a moment to see the girl standing in the trees.

Angie ran down the steps and across the wet grass, almost falling twice.

Lauren stood there, unsmiling, her eyes swollen and red. She tried to smile. Failed.

Angie wanted to throw her arms around Lauren, but something stopped her. There was a look in the girl's eyes that was harrowing. Her mouth trembled.

"We were so worried about you," Angie said, moving a step closer.

Lauren looked down at the baby in her arms. "I know I promised him to you. I just..." She looked up. Tears filled her eyes.

"Oh, Lauren." At last, Angie closed the gap between them. She touched Lauren's damp cheek in the gentle kind of caress she'd dared so easily in the past. "I should have told you more about what it was like. It's just... it was so hard to think about the day I had Sophie. The few minutes I held her. I knew when you looked into your baby's eyes, you'd be as lost as I was. That's why I never decorated the nursery. I knew, honey."

"You knew I'd keep him?"

"I was pretty sure."

Lauren's face crumpled just a little, her lips trembled and curved downward. "But you stayed with me. I thought--"

"It was you, Lauren. Don't you know that? You're part of our family. We love you."

Lauren's eyes widened. "Even after how I hurt you?"

"Love bangs us up a bit in this life, Lauren. But it doesn't go away."

Lauren stared up at her. "When I was little, I used to have a dream. The same one, every night. I was in a green dress and a woman was there, reaching down to hold my hand. She always said, 'Come on, Lauren, we don't want to be late.' When I woke up, I was always crying."

"Why were you crying?"

"Because she was the mom I couldn't have."

Angie drew in a sharp breath, then released it on a ragged sigh. Something inside her gave way; she hadn't realized how tightly she'd been wrapped until the pressure eased. This was what they'd come together for, she and Lauren. This one perfect moment. She reached out for Lauren's hand, said gently, "You have me, Lauren."

Tears streaked down Lauren's face. "Oh, Angie," she said. "I'm so sorry."

Angie pulled her into her arms. "There's nothing to be sorry about."

"Thank you, Angie," she said in a quiet voice, drawing back.

Angie's face softened into a smile. "No. Thank you."

"For being nothing but trouble and keeping you up at night?"

"For showing me how it feels to be a mother. And now, a grandmother. All of those empty years I dreamed of my little girl on a merry-go-round. I didn't know..."

"Didn't know what?"

"That my daughter was already too old for playgrounds."

Lauren looked up at her then. It was all in her eyes, the years spent in quiet desperation, standing at her window, dreaming of a mother who loved her, or lying in her bed, longing for a bedtime story and a good-night kiss. "I was waiting for you, too."

Angie felt her smile shake. She reinforced it, wiped her eyes. "And who is this barnacle on your chest?"

"John Henry." Lauren eased the baby out of the front pack and offered him to Angie. She took him, held him in her arms.

"He's perfect," she whispered, feeling a heady combination of love and awe. Nothing filled a woman's arms like a baby. She kissed his soft forehead, inhaled the baby-sweet scent of him.

"What do I do now?" Lauren asked in a quiet voice.

"You tell me. What do you want to do?"

"I want to go to college. I guess it'll have to be community college for now. Maybe if I work for a few months and really save up I'll be able to take classes in the spring. It wasn't what I dreamed of, but... things change."

"Even that will be hard," Angie said gently. Harder still would be watching all her friends--and David--go off to college in the fall. She'd lose them all. One by one, they'd go on with their lives. They'd have nothing in common with a girl their age who'd become a mother. It would break Lauren's heart.

"I'm used to hard. If I could have my job back..."

"Would it help if you had a place to live?"

Lauren gasped; it was a sharp, brittle sound, as if she'd just washed ashore. "Really?"

"Of course, really."

"I wouldn't--we wouldn't have to stay for long. Just until I had enough money for an apartment and day care."

"Don't you understand, yet, Lauren? You don't need day care. You're part of a loud, loving, opinionated family now. Johnny won't be the first baby to grow up in the restaurant, and he won't be the last." She grinned. "And as you might imagine, I could find time to babysit. Not every day, of course. He's your son, but I could certainly help."

"You'd do that?"

"Of course." Angie gazed down at Lauren sadly. The girl looked so young right now; her eyes were full of a hope that seemed brand-new. Angie pulled her into a fierce hug. For a heartbeat, she couldn't let go. Finally, she took a deep breath and stepped back. "You're here just in time. Today is Aunt Giulia's birthday. I've made three blueberry cobblers--which no one except you and Conlan will eat." She reached out for Lauren, and then said quietly, "Come on. We don't want to be late."

Lauren swallowed hard. A quivering smile curved her lips even as she started again to cry. "I love you, Angie."

"I know that, honey. It hurts like hell sometimes, doesn't it?"

Together, hand in hand, they walked across the wet grass and went into the house.

Lauren immediately went to the stereo and turned on the music. It was still set to her favorite station. An old Aerosmith song pulsed through the speakers, rocked the house with sound. She turned it down quickly, but not fast enough.

Conlan came thundering down the stairs, stumbled into the living room. "What the hell's the racket?"

Lauren froze, looked up at him. Her smile slipped. "Hey, Conlan, I--"

He ran across the room and pulled her into his arms. He twirled her around until both of them were laughing. "It's about time," he said.

"She's back," Angie said, patting the baby gently, smiling at the noise. She looked over at the Winnie-the-Pooh lamp on the counter. At last it would light a baby's room. "Our girl's come home."