The Things We Do for Love

Always you were obsessive, Mama would reply. We do not understand you.

There was more than a little truth in that, Angie knew. She had always been a woman with laserlike focus. When she started something, there was no halfway, no easy beginning. It was this trait that had broken her. Quite simply, once shed decided I want a child, there had been ruin on the horizon. It was the thing she couldnt have, and the search had taken everything.

She knew this, had learned it, but still she was who she was. When she undertook something, she focused on success.

And to be honest--which she was with herself only in the quiet darkness of the deepest hour of night--it was better to think about the restaurant than to dwell on the losses and failures that had brought her here.

They were with her, of course, those memories and heartaches. Sometimes, as she was reading about management techniques or special promotions, shed flash on the past.

Sophie would have been sleeping through the night by now.

Or:

Conlan loved that song.

It was like stepping barefoot on a sharp bit of broken glass. She pulled the glass out and ran on, but the pain remained. In those moments, she redoubled her efforts at studying, perhaps poured herself a glass of wine.

By Wednesday afternoon, she was exhausted by her lack of sleep and finished with her research. There was nothing more she could learn from secondary sources. It was time to apply her learning to the restaurant.

She put her books away, took a long, hot shower, and dressed carefully. Black pants, black sweater. Nothing that would draw attention or underscore her "big city" ways.

She drove slowly to town and parked in front of the restaurant. Notepad in hand, she got out of the car.

The first thing she noticed was the bench.

"Oh," she said softly, touching the wrought-iron curled back. The metal felt cold against her fingertips . . . just as it had on the day theyd bought it.

She closed her eyes, remembering. . . .

The four of them hadnt agreed on a thing all week-- not the song that should be sung at the funeral, nor who should sing it, not what his headstone should look like, nor what color roses should drape the casket. Until the bench. Theyd been

in the hardware store, looking for citronella candles for the celebration of Papas life, when theyd seen this bench.

Mama had stopped first. Papa always wanted a bench outside the restaurant.

So folks could take a load off, Mira had said, coming up beside her.

By the next morning that bench had been secured to the sidewalk. Theyd never discussed putting an In Memoriam plaque on it. That was the way of big cities. In West End, everyone knew that bench belonged to Tony DeSaria. The first week it was up, a dozen flowers appeared on it, single blossoms left by people who remembered.

She stared up at the restaurant that had been his pride and joy.

"Ill save it for you, Papa," she whispered, realizing a moment later that she was waiting for an answer. There was nothing, just the sound of traffic behind her and the distant hum of the sea.

She uncapped her pen and held the tip poised just above the paper, at the ready.

The brick facade was in need of repair. Moss grew beneath the eaves. A lot of shingles were missing. The red neon sign that read DeSarias was missing the apostrophe and the i.

She started writing.

Roof

Exterior repair

Sidewalk dirty

Moss

Sign