HE WORST PART ABOUT IT WAS THAT SHE'D ALMOST forgotten. At least, she believed she had, and in the end, that was pretty much the same thing.

"Denial" was Mira's one-word answer to Angie's long, drawn-out explanation of how she'd handled her emotions after the divorce.

It was, she thought, as good an observation as any. In the months between May and November, she'd allowed herself to think about several of her losses. Particularly her father's death and the loss of her daughter and the subsequent realization that there would be no babies. In fact, she was proud of the way she'd handled her grief. Every now and then it had shocked her, pulled her under its icy surface, but in each instance, she'd swum free.

The divorce somehow had been pushed aside, a little thing in the presence of giants.

Now she saw the whole of it and she couldn't look away.

"There's nothing wrong with denial," she said to Mira, who stood at the stainless steel counter, making pasta.

"Maybe not, but it can fill up and explode one day. That's how people find themselves in McDonald's with a loaded handgun."

"Are you suggesting there's a felony in my future?"

"I'm pointing out that you can ignore your feelings for only so long."

"And I've reached the end of my time, huh?"

"Conlan was one of the good ones," Mira said gently.

Angie went to the window, stared out at the busy street. "I think was is the key word in that sentence."

"Some women choose to go after men they've accidentally let go."

"You make Conlan sound like a dog that broke its leash and ran. Should I put reward posters around Volunteer Park?"

Mira came around the counter and stood beside Angie, put a hand on her shoulder. Together they stared out the window. In the silvery pane, backed by night, they became a pair of watery faces. "I remember when you met Conlan."

"Enough," Angie said. She couldn't go down memory lane right now.

"I'm just saying--"

"I know what you're saying."

"Do you?"

"Of course." She gave her sister a tender smile, hoping it wasn't as sad as it felt. "Some things end, Mira."

"Love shouldn't be one of those things."

Angie wished she could be that naive again, but innocence was one of the casualties of divorce. Maybe the first one. "I know," she answered, leaning against her sister. She didn't say what they both knew: that it happened every day.

LAUREN GOT OFF THE BUS ON SHOREWOOD STREET.

There it was in front of her: a bright, sprawling Safeway.

You know what makes a girl throw up for no reason, don't you?

She flipped the hood of her sweatshirt up and tried to lose herself in the soft, cottony folds. Looking down to avoid eye contact with anyone, she marched into the store, snagged a red basket, and headed straight for the "feminine needs" aisle.

She didn't bother pricing the tests; instead, she grabbed two boxes and tossed them in her basket, then ran to the magazine aisle, where she yanked a U.S. News & World Report out of the stack. The cover story was "How Colleges Compare."

Perfect.

She tossed it on top of her pregnancy tests and made a beeline for the checkout.

An hour later she was home again, sitting on the edge of the bathtub. She'd locked the door, but there had been no need. The sounds that came from her mother's bedroom were unmistakable: Mom wouldn't be bothering Lauren right now.

She stared down at the box. The fine print was hard to read; her hands were trembling as she opened the box.

"Please God." She didn't voice the rest of her plea. He knew what she wanted.

Or, more precisely, what she most fervently did not want.

ANGIE STOOD AT THE HOSTESS DESK, MAKING NOTES on the calendar. For the last twenty-four hours she'd worked from sunup to sundown. Anything was better than thinking about Conlan.

She looked up and saw Lauren standing by the fireplace, staring into the flames. The restaurant was full of customers, and yet there Lauren stood, doing nothing. Angie went to her, touched the girl's shoulder.

Lauren turned, looking dazed. "What? Did you say something?"

"Are you okay?"

"Fine. Fine. I just needed something for table seven." She frowned as if she couldn't remember what she'd just said.

"Zabaglione."

"Huh?"

"Table seven. Mr. and Mrs. Rex Mayberry. They're waiting for zabaglione and cappuccino. And Bonnie Schmidt ordered a tiramisu."

Lauren's smile was pathetic. Her dark eyes remained dull, even sad. "That's right." She headed for the kitchen.

"Wait," Angie said.

Lauren paused, looked back.

"Mama made some extra panna cotta. You know how quickly it goes bad. Stay a few minutes after work and have some with me."

"I hardly need to eat fattening foods," Lauren said, and walked away.

For the next few hours, Angie watched Lauren closely, noticing the paleness of her skin, the woodenness of her smile. Several times she tried to make Lauren laugh, all to no avail. Something was definitely wrong. Maybe it was David. Or maybe she'd been rejected by a college.

By the time Angie had ushered out the final guest, said good-bye to Mama, Mira, and Rosa, and closed out the register, she was really worried.

Lauren stood at the big picture window, staring out at the night, her arms crossed tightly against her chest. Across the street, volunteers were busily hanging turkeys and pilgrim hats from the streetlamps. Next, Angie knew, they'd string thousands of Christmas lights for the celebration that followed Thanksgiving. The annual tree lighting ceremony was an event to be remembered. Hundreds of tourists came to town for it. The first Saturday in December. Angie had rarely missed it, not even during her married years. Some family traditions were inviolable.

Angie came up behind Lauren. "It's only a week until the first lighting celebration."

"Yeah."

She could see Lauren's face in the window; the reflection was pale and indistinct. "Do you guys go to the ceremony every year?"

"You guys?" Lauren uncrossed her arms.

"You and your mom."

Lauren made a sound that might have been a laugh. "Mommie Dearest isn't one to stand in line on a cold night to watch lights turn on."

A grown-up's words, Angie realized; the explanation given to a child who longed to see the Christmas lights. Angie wanted to place a hand on the girl's shoulder to let her know that she wasn't alone, but such an intimacy felt unwelcome right now. "Maybe you'd like to come with me. I should say with us. The DeSarias descend on the town like locusts. We eat hot dogs and sip hot cocoa and buy roasted chestnuts from the Rotary booth. It's hokey, I know, but--"

"No, thanks."

Angie heard a defensive edge in the girl's voice; beneath that, she heard heartache. She could also tell that Lauren was ready to bolt into the night, so she chose her words carefully. "What's wrong, honey?"

At the word honey, Lauren seemed to shrink. She made a sound and spun away from the window. "See yah."

"Lauren Ribido, you stop right there." Angie surprised herself. She hadn't known she had the Mom voice in her.

Lauren slowly turned to face Angie. "What do you want from me?"

Angie heard a well of pain in the girl's voice. She recognized every nuance of that sound. "I care about you, Lauren. Obviously you're upset. I'd like to help."

Lauren looked stricken. "Don't. Please."

"Don't what?"

"Be nice to me. I really can't take it tonight."

It was the sort of thing Angie understood, that kind of fragility. She hated that someone so young should be in such pain, but then again, what was adolescence if not acute confusion and overwhelming emotions? The whole thing was probably over a bad test score. Unless... "Did you and David break up?"

Lauren almost smiled. "Thanks for reminding me it could be worse."

"Put your coat on."

"Am I going somewhere?"

"You are."

Angie took a chance. She headed back to the kitchen for her coat. When she returned, Lauren was standing by the door, wearing her new green coat. Her backpack was slung over one shoulder.

"Come on," Angie said.

They walked side by side down the dark street. Every few feet an ornate iron streetlamp tossed light down on them. Normally, these streets would be deserted at ten-thirty on a weeknight, but tonight there were people everywhere, readying downtown for the holiday festivities. The chilly air smelled of burning wood and the ocean.

Angie stopped at the corner, where women from the local Soropotomist Club were giving away cups of hot cocoa.

"Would you like marshmallows?" the woman asked brightly, her breath a feathery white plume.

Angie smiled. "Sure."

Angie cupped her hands around the insulated cup. Warmth seeped into her fingers; steam wafted toward her face. She led Lauren into the town square. They sat on a concrete bench. Even from this distance, you could hear the ocean. It was the heartbeat of the town, steady and even.

She glanced sideways at Lauren, who was staring gloomily into the cup. "You can talk to me, Lauren. I know I'm a grown-up, and therefore the enemy, but sometimes life throws you a curveball. It can help to talk to someone about your troubles."

"Troubles." Lauren repeated the word, made it sound small somehow. But that was part of the teen years, Angie knew. Everything seemed big.

"Come on, Lauren," Angie urged. "Let me help you."

At last, Lauren turned to her. "It's about David."

Of course it was. At seventeen, almost everything was about a boy. If he didn't call often enough, it could break your heart. If he talked to Melissa Sue at lunch, it could make you cry for hours.

Angie waited. If she had spoken, it would have been to tell Lauren that she was young and that someday David would be a fond memory of first love. Not what a teenager wanted to hear.

Finally, Lauren said, "How do you tell someone bad news? If you love them, I mean?"

"The important thing is that you're honest. Always. I learned that the hard way. I tried to spare my husband's feelings by lying to him. It ruined us." She looked at Lauren. "It's college, right?" Angie softened her voice, hoping it would take the sting out of her next words. "You're afraid you and David will be separated. But you haven't even heard back from the schools yet. You need all the facts before you react."

Overhead, the moon came out from behind a bank of clouds. The silvery light fell across Lauren's face, making her look older suddenly, wiser. Her plump cheeks were planed by shadow; her eyes seemed impossibly dark and full of secrets. "College," she said dully.

"Lauren? Are you okay?"

Lauren looked away quickly, as if to hide tears. "Yes. That's it. I'm afraid we'll be... separated." The word seemed almost too much for her.

Angie reached out, placed a hand on Lauren's shoulder. She noticed that the girl was trembling, and she didn't believe it was from the cold. "That's perfectly normal, Lauren. When I was a senior I was in love with Tommy. He--"

Lauren jumped up suddenly, pushed Angie's hand away. Moonlight traced the tear tracks on her cheeks. "I gotta go."

"Wait. At least let me drive you home."

"No." Lauren was crying now and not trying to hide it. "Thanks for the pep talk, but I need to get home now. I'll be at work tomorrow night. Don't worry."

With that, Lauren ran into the night.

Angie stood there, listening to the girl's footsteps until they faded away. She'd done something wrong tonight, either by commission or omission; she wasn't sure which. All she knew was that it had gone badly from the start. Whatever Angie had said, it was wrong.

"Maybe it's a good thing I never had kids," she said aloud.

Then she remembered her own teen years. She and Mama had engaged in daily knockdown, drag-out fights about everything from skirt length to heel height to curfews. Nothing Mama said had ever been right. Certainly her advice about sex, love, and drugs had fallen on deaf ears.

Maybe that had been Angie's mistake. She'd wanted so much to solve Lauren's problem, but perhaps that wasn't what the teenager wanted from her.

Next time, Angie vowed, she would just listen.