Pure heaven.

Then she saw the women. They were working together in the kitchen. Mira was peeling potatoes, Livvy was arranging antipasti on an ornate silver tray, Angie was chopping vegetables, and Maria was rolling out pasta.

They were all talking at once, and laughing often. Lauren could make out only snippets of the conversation.

"Lauren!" Angie cried out, looking up from the mound of vegetables. "You made it."

"Thanks for the invitation." She realized suddenly that she should have brought something, like a bunch of flowers.

Angie looked behind her. "Where's your mom?"

Lauren felt herself blush. "She ... uh ... has the flu."

"Well, we're glad you're here."

The next thing Lauren knew, she was surrounded by women. For the next hour, she worked in the kitchen. She helped Livvy set the tables, helped Mira set out the antipasto trays in the living room, and helped Angie wash dishes.

At any given time, there were at least five people in the kitchen. When they set about the task of serving, there was double that number. Everyone seemed to know exactly what to do. The women moved like synchronized swimmers, serving food and carrying platters from one room to the other. When it was finally time to sit down, Lauren found herself seated at the adult table, between Mira and Sal.

She'd never seen so much food in her life. There was the turkey, of course, and two bowls of dressing--one from inside the bird and one from outside--mounds of mashed potatoes and boats of gravy, green beans with onion, garlic and pancetta, risotto with Parmesan cheese and prosciutto, homemade pasta in capon broth, roasted stuffed vegetables, and homemade bread.

"It's obscene, isn't it?" Mira said, leaning close, laughing.

"It's beautiful," Lauren answered wistfully.

At the head of the table, Maria led them all in a prayer that ended with family blessings. Then she stood up. "It is my first Thanksgiving in Papa's chair." She paused, closed her eyes tightly. "Somewhere he is thinking how much he loves us all."

When she opened her eyes, they were full of tears. "Eat," she said, sitting down abruptly. After a moment of silence, the conversations started up again.

Mira reached for the platter of sliced turkey meat and offered it to Lauren. "Here. Youth before beauty." She laughed.

Lauren started with the turkey and didn't stop there. She filled her plate until it was heaped with food. Each bite was more delicious than the last.

"How are your college applications going?" Mira asked, taking a sip of white wine.

"I've mailed them all out." She tried to inject some enthusiasm in her voice. Only a week ago, she would have been pumped up about her applications. Scared of not getting in, perhaps, scared of being separated from David, but still excited about the future.

Not now.

"Where are you applying?"

"USC, UCLA, Pepperdine, Berkeley, UW, and Stanford," she said, sighing.

"That's an impressive list. No wonder Angie is so proud of you."

Lauren looked at Mira. "She's proud of me?"

"She says so all the time."

The thought of it was an arrow that pierced her chest. "Oh."

Mira cut her turkey into bite-sized pieces. "I wish I'd gone away to college. Maybe to Rice or Brown. But we didn't think like that in those days. At least, I didn't. Angie did. Then I met Vince and ... you know."

"What?"

"The plan was two years at the community college in Fircrest, then two years at Western." She smiled. "In a way, it worked. I didn't count on eight years between my sophomore and junior years, but life follows its own plan." She glanced across the room at the kids' table.

"So a baby kept you out of college."

Mira frowned. "What an odd way to phrase it. No, just slowed me down, that's all."

After that, Lauren had trouble eating or talking or even smiling. She finished her meal--or pretended to-- then helped with the dishes like an automaton. All she could think about was the baby inside of her, how it would grow bigger and bigger and make her world smaller.

And all around her there was talk of children and babies and friends who were having both. It stopped when Angie was in the room, but the minute she left, the women started up with the kid talk again.

Lauren wished she could leave, just slip unnoticed into the night and disappear.

But that would be rude, and she was the type of girl who followed the rules and played nicely with others.

The kind of girl who let her boyfriend convince her that one time without a condom would be fine. I'll pull out, he'd promised.

"Not fast enough," she muttered, taking her piece of pie into the living room.

Her mind was far away as she sat in the living room, tucked between Livvy's little boys. She stared down at her untouched pie. One of the boys kept talking to her, asking her questions about toys she'd never heard of and movies she'd never seen. She couldn't answer any of his questions. Hell, she could hardly keep remembering to nod and smile and pretend she was listening. How could she possibly concentrate on a child's questions when now, this second, a human life was taking root inside her, growing with every beat of her heart? She touched her stomach, feeling how flat it was.

"Come with me."

Lauren jerked her chin up, yanked her hand away from her belly.

Angie stood there, a plaid woolen blanket thrown over her shoulder. Without waiting for Lauren to answer, she turned and headed toward the sliding glass doors.

Lauren followed her out to the back deck. They sat side by side on a wooden bench, both of them resting their feet on the deck railing. Angie tucked the blanket around their bodies.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

The gentleness of the question was Lauren's undoing. Her resolve faded, leaving behind a pale gray desperation. She looked at Angie. "You know about love, right?"

"I was in love with Conlan for a long time, and my folks were married for almost fifty years. So, yeah, I know something about love."

"But you're divorced. So you know it ends, too."

"Yes. It can end. It can also build a family and last forever."

Lauren knew nothing about the kind of love that stayed firm in shaky years. She did know how David would react to news of their baby, though. His smile would vanish. He would try to say it didn't matter, that he loved Lauren and that they'd be okay, but neither one of them would believe it.

"Did you love your husband?" Lauren asked.

"Yes."

Lauren wished she hadn't asked the question; that was how hurt Angie looked right now. But she couldn't stop herself. "So he stopped loving you?"

"Oh, Lauren." Angie sighed. "The answers aren't always so clear when it comes to things like that. Love can get us through the hardest times. It can also be our hardest times." She looked down at her bare left hand. "I think he loved me for a long time."

"But your marriage didn't last."

"We had big issues, Lauren."

"Your daughter."

Angie looked up, obviously surprised. Then she smiled sadly. "Not many people dare to bring her up."

"I'm sorry--"

"Don't be. I like talking about her sometimes. Anyway, when she died, it was the beginning of the end for Con and me. But let's talk about you. Have you and David broken up?"

"No."

"So it must be college-related. You want to talk about it?"

College.

For a second she didn't understand the question. College seemed distant now, not like real life at all.

Not like a girl who was pregnant.

Or a woman who would have given anything for a child.

She looked at Angie, wanting to ask for help so badly the words tasted bitter. But she couldn't do it, couldn't bring this problem to Angie.

"Maybe it's more serious than that," Angie said slowly.

Lauren threw back the blanket and got to her feet. Walking toward the railing, she stared out at the dark backyard.

Angie came up behind her, touched her shoulder. "Is there some way I can help you?"

Lauren closed her eyes. It felt good to have someone offer.

But there was no way anyone could help. She knew that. It was up to her to take care of it.

She sighed. What choice did she have, really? She was seventeen years old. She'd just sent out college applications and paid every dime she had for the privilege.

She was a teenager. She couldn't be a mother. God knew she understood about mommies who resented their babies. She didn't want to do that to a child. It was a painful legacy that she'd hate to pass on.

And if she were going to take care of it--

Say it, her subconscious demanded. If you can think it, identify it.

And if she were going to have an abortion, should she tell David?

How could she not?

"Believe me," she whispered, seeing her breath in lacy white fronds, "he'd rather not know."

"What did you say?"

Lauren turned to Angie. "The truth is ... things are bad at home. My mom is in love with yet another loser-- big surprise--and she's hardly working. And we're ... fighting about stuff."

"My mom and I went at it pretty good when I was your age. I'm sure--"

"Believe me. It's not the same thing. My mom isn't like yours." Lauren felt that loneliness well up in her throat again. She looked away before Angie could see it in her eyes. "You know how we live."

Angie moved closer. "You told me your mom is young, right? Thirty-four? That means she was just a kid when she had you. That's a tough road to walk. I'm sure she's doing the best she can." She touched Lauren's shoulder. "Sometimes we have to forgive the people we love, even if we're mad as hell. That's just how it is."

"Yeah," Lauren said dully.

"Thanks for being honest with me," Angie said. "It's hard to talk about family problems."

And there it was--the feeling worse when you thought you'd hit the bottom. Lauren stared out at the darkness, unable to look at Angie. She tried to think of something to say but nothing came to her except a soft, thready "Thanks. It helps to talk."

Angie put an arm around her, squeezing gently. "That's what friends are for."

EIGHTEEN

SO HE STOPPED LOVING YOU? For the whole of that night, Angie found herself thinking about Lauren's question. It stayed with her, haunted her. By morning it was all she could think about.

So he stopped loving you?

He had never said that to Angie. In all the months it had taken to dismantle their marriage, neither one of them had said, "I don't love you anymore."

They'd stopped loving their life together.

That wasn't the same thing at all.

The tiny seed of what if took root, blossomed.

What if he still loved her? Or if he could love her again? Once she had that thought, nothing else mattered.

She called her sister. "Hey, Livvy. I need you to work for me today," she said without even bothering to say hello.

"It's Thanksgiving weekend. Why should I--"

"I'm going to see Conlan."

"I'll be there."

Sisters. Thank God for them.

Now it was almost noon and Angie was on the outskirts of Seattle. As always, the traffic was bumper to bumper in this city that had built its freeways too many years ago.