"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.