Part 12 (1/2)

”Well...”

”That was no lie.” His hand was resting on the top rail of the crib, and she placed hers gently atop it.

”Tell me about it,” he said.

She leaned against him. ”I went from one house to another, looking for someone to love me, and making sure I never found that person by being as obnoxious and as much a troublemaker as I could possibly be.”

”You? That's hard to believe,” Stan interrupted, his tone soft and soothing.

”Perhaps,” she admitted. ”It took me years to understand what I was doing, and I'm still not sure I do. Let's just say I was used to people sending me away because they didn't like me, and I didn't like them. But what if I found someone to love, and thought they loved me...and then they still sent me away? How could I cope? I was so afraid of that happening, of the rejection I'd feel, that I made sure it never did.”

She went on to explain how, at age eighteen, the state stopped paying for her keep. Since her foster parents needed the income, she had to leave their home, her bed was no longer available to her. It never had been ”hers,” she realized. Nothing ever was.

She worked in Los Angeles a few years-first McDonald's, then a couple of waitressing jobs. Tired of it, getting nowhere, she moved to San Francisco and hooked up with some girls and guys who invited her to sleep on the floor of their flat in the Haight-Ashbury. The job situation, she quickly learned, was a lot worse than in L.A. She wasn't the only one bedding on the floor. Everyone who could contributed a little money toward the rent.

Things went on in that apartment she didn't like to think about, but she managed to stay out of everyone's way. It was a roof over her head, and that was all that mattered.

One day, Hannah was panhandling at Fisherman's Wharf when Gail Leer spotted her. Gail looked at her strangely, and Hannah later learned it was because she reminded Gail so much of her sister. Gail's husband owned the Athina, and she offered Hannah a job.

”It was surely nice of Gail to do all that for you,” Stan said.

”She's a good person. I once asked her about it, and she said she and Eugene couldn't have children. If they had, they'd probably have a daughter my age, so I was taking the place of the child that never was. It was a strange thing for her to say, though, because I later learned they'd only been married about twelve years. I guess she was just trying to come up with an excuse for helping me.”

Hannah dropped her hands from the crib and moved away from Stan. ”I don't know what's come over me, jabbering about myself like this. I'm sorry. I don't mean to be such a bother.”

”I'm glad you told me. Look, Kaitlyn's awake,” he said. ”Look at her smiling at us.”

”She can't smile yet, Stan,” Hannah said with a laugh as she picked up the baby and held her to her chest.

Unfortunately, as soon as she did that, all Stan could think about was that her b.r.e.a.s.t.s might start to leak, right there in front of him, and the previously tender moment vanished.

”Time for dinner,” he said, and stumbled quickly into the kitchen, hoping to clear his head. He never realized women were so...drippy.

He found a frozen macaroni and cheese container and plopped it into the microwave at the same time as he dropped some hot dogs into a pot to boil.

Meat, starch, and...vegetables! That's what was needed.

He grabbed the head of iceberg lettuce Angie insisted he buy, hacked it into fourths, placed two quarters on plates, and smothered them with Thousand Island dressing. Chef Emeril, move over!

He was dis.h.i.+ng out the mac and cheese when the doorbell rang. It had to be Angie. He wasn't expecting anyone.

”Can you get that, Hannah?” he called.

”Sure.”

He heard a female voice say, ”I'm sorry, I thought this was where Stan Bonnette lives.”

”It is,” Hannah said. ”Won't you come in?”

Just then, Stan stepped into the living room, a dinner plate in each hand. He saw Hannah in a robe, the baby in her arms, and Nona Farraday at the door.

Her eyes widened, then narrowed as she gawked at him. ”I'm sorry,” she said to Hannah. ”I've got the wrong Stan Bonnette. Good-bye.”

Dinners at four of the city's top restaurants were among the ”big” prizes to be awarded each night at the public television auction, and it was Angie's job to read the pitch that would get donors to open their wallets wide.

Her voice quivered and her hands shook the first time she read the script aloud for the TV producer. By read number three, however, she was bored and calm. Her pitch would take place before, during, and after three hours of Julia Child reruns.

Before the show began, Angie went in search of the restaurant owners who would be part of the first night's auction.

Two of them she'd met before, but nevertheless, as she spotted each one, she walked up, held out her hand, and announced, ”The name is Amalfi, Angie Amalfi.” The first time she said it she felt like she was part of a Bond, James Bond movie, but she needed to be sure the owners distinctly heard her name, since she was hoping for a reaction such as, Oh, my-we're holding your engagement party at our restaurant!

It didn't happen. Not even when she added, ”Have you met my mother, Serefina Amalfi? I believe she mentioned you to me.”

They hadn't.

The evening didn't work out the way Angie had wished, but she had two more nights of this. She'd never had beginner's luck anyway, so why expect it now?

For her first appearance, she was given a cue and nervously made the pitch. By the end of the third hour, she was so far beyond being nervous she even ad-libbed and was ready to do more of it when she saw the director scowling at her.

She went back to the script.

When her job was over, she put in a call to Yellow Cab and asked for Peter Leong. He'd picked her up at her apartment to bring her to the studio and when she told him she'd be making the same round trip three nights in a row, he said to ask for him and he'd make sure she was safe.

KQED was located in a small building south of Market Street. Unfortunately, it wasn't in the central SoMa area that was being gentrified and revitalized, nor was it in the eastern area with the Pac Bell baseball stadium and other new office buildings. Instead, it was in the still-decrepit western sector. That was the reason she decided to take a cab instead of driving. The parking lot would be pretty lonely this time of night, and anyone could be lurking in it since public TV's security wasn't top-notch, nor needed to be. Besides that, it wasn't the type of area to leave a Mercedes CL-600, alarms and GPS notwithstanding.

She took the stairs from the studio to the lobby and huddled at the door to the main entrance, looking out the gla.s.s doors to the street for her taxi. Before long, she saw headlights. Peter got out of the cab and opened a back door. She hurried to it, glad to see him.

”Did you make a lot of money for public TV?” he asked as he drove.

The auction had gone surprisingly well. As they talked, she learned he'd been driving a cab for over twenty years, ever since his restaurant business bellied up. It had been a lunch spot in the Financial District, but there was so much compet.i.tion, he couldn't make a go of it. Still, it gave them a lot to talk about. Angie had never wanted to open a restaurant. Too well did she know about the long hours, hard work, and struggle to make a profit. Only if one was very lucky and developed the kind of word-of-mouth that resulted in steady customers could a restaurant make money. If not, the waste of food was phenomenal.

”I don't want to make you nervous,” Peter said suddenly, ”but is there any reason a car might be following us?”

”What?” She turned and saw a car some distance behind them. ”Not that I know of.”

”I'm going to turn, just to see what he does,” Peter said.

The car turned where they did. The residential streets were quiet this time of night. The coincidence of the only other car out there going in exactly the same direction was worrisome.

He made another left and watched from the rearview mirror. The other car made the left as well. Peter drove another couple of blocks and then made another left.

So did the car following.

”Sometimes taxis are robbed because these punks know we carry cash,” Peter said. ”Buckle up. I'm going to get rid of whoever it is.”

”Go for it,” Angie encouraged.