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Her next thought was: Conlan. And her smile faded. It struck her that there would be lots of moments like this in the coming months. Times when--for a split second, just long enough to hurt--shed forget that she was alone now. She forced herself to smile again, though it felt stretched, unnatural.
That was when she saw the girl. She walked through the front door, looking like a drowned puppy, dripping water from her nose, her hair, her hemline. Her long, soaking wet hair was red, although the exact hue was impossible to tell. Her skin was Nicole Kidman pale and her eyes were a deep and impenetrable brown; too big for her face, they made her look impossibly young. Freckles dotted her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.
It was the girl from the parking lot; the one whod been posting Work Wanted flyers on windshields.
The girl paused at the door. She tightened her coat around her, but the thing was so ragged it was a useless gesture. The coat was too small and frayed at the sleeves. She went to the reception desk.
Dana looked up, smiled, said something.
Angie couldnt help herself. She eased to her feet and moved within earshot.
"I read about the coat drive," the girl said, crossing her arms and shivering just a little.
"We started collecting just last week. Youll need to give us your name and number. Well call you when your size comes in. "
"Its for my mother," the girl said. "Shes a size small. "
Dana tapped the pen against her chin and studied the girl. "What about a coat for you? That one seems . . . "
The girl laughed; it sounded sharp. Nervous. "Im fine. " She bent forward and wrote something on a piece of paper, then shoved it across the desk. "Im Lauren Ribido. Theres my number. Just call me when one comes in. Thanks. " She made a beeline for the door.
Angie stood there, unmoving, staring at the closed door. Her heart was beating too quickly.
Go after her.
The idea came to her full-blown, startling her with its intensity.
It was a crazy idea. Why?
She didnt know, had no answer. All she knew was that she felt . . . connected to that poor teenage girl who was in need of a coat and yet requested one for her mother. She got up, took a step forward, then another. Before she knew it, she was outside.
Rain hammered the grass into submission, collected in brown puddles at the slightest indentation in the ground. The fire-red hedge that outlined the lot glistened with moisture and shook with wind.
Down at the end of the road, the girl was running.
Angie got into her car, turned on the lights and wipers, and backed out of the parking lot. As she drove down the bumpy street, her headlights illuminating the girls figure, she wondered what the hell she was doing.
Stalking, her practical self said.
Helping, the dreamer responded.
She came to the corner and slowed. Stopped. She was just about to roll down the window and offer the girl a ride (no smart girl would say yes to that), when a number seven bus pulled up and parked. Its brakes wheezed; the doors clattered open. The girl bounded up the stairs and disappeared.
The bus drove off.
Angie followed it all the way to town. At the corner of Driftwood Way and the highway, she had a choice: turn for home or follow the bus.
For no reason that she could articulate, she followed the bus.
Finally, deep in the darklands of West End, the girl exited the bus. She walked through a neighborhood that would have scared most people and went into the remarkably misnamed Luxury Apartments. A few moments later, a light came on in a window on the fourth floor.
Angie parked at the curb and stared up at the building. It reminded her of something out of a Roald Dahl novel, all decaying wood and blank, black spaces.
No wonder the girl had been putting Work Wanted flyers on windshields.
You cant save them all, Conlan used to say to Angie when shed cry at the unfairness of the world. I cant save any of them had always been her answer.
Then, shed had him to hold her when she felt like this.
