Changing Lanes: A Novel (14 page)

The sun slanted between the trees, warming the look of the dark wood shingles that covered the entire building. Bright green shutters completed the effect, and I smiled at the sight of the front door, painted a brilliant violet that perfectly matched the stripe Destiny wore so blatantly and so proudly in her hair.

I climbed the wooden steps on the outside of the building, and a small wind chime sounded as I pushed through the door to the second floor. The smell of fresh coffee and doughnuts warmed the space—a crowded explosion of color and photographs, plans and worktables.

Rock looked up from the back of the space, his smile growing wide as he spotted me. “Cabby Abby,” he called out. “Nice hat.”

Such was the beauty of living in a small town like Paris. Nothing was sacred. Not even the nickname you’d been given by the town barber in the privacy of your own home.

I gave Rock a wave. “Nice haircut.”

He jerked a thumb behind him. “She went in the back for some supplies. She’ll be right out.”

“What are you working on?” I asked Rock.

He pointed to a series of cabinets staged by the far wall. “New kitchen over on Fourth Avenue. We’re custom matching the stain and installing them tomorrow.”

I crossed to where the cabinets sat, running my hand across the gorgeous woodwork and the lush, satin finish.

“Have you guys ever done floors?”

“No.” Destiny’s voice startled me, but then she pulled me into a hug, which startled me more than her voice.

She took a step back, and I studied her momentarily, deciding to skip the chitchat and hit her with my idea.

“You should restore floors,” I said. “My floors.”

She hesitated, drawing a breath in through her nose. Rock stood up from his work area and busied himself as far away from us as he could.

“Sore subject?” I asked.

Destiny remained silent, doing nothing but breathing in and out. In and out.

“Feel free to answer me anytime at all,” I said.

At that, she smiled. “Good sarcasm.”

“I do my best.”

Then she patted the cabinets beside me. “We do cabinets and furniture, Abby. I’ve never rehabbed a house.”

“So why not start now?” I asked. “You told me business was slow. Just think of the before-and-after pictures we could take.”

She’d twisted her long, dark hair up into a sloppy knot, and a pencil stuck out from behind one ear. Destiny had never wanted for an ounce of confidence, yet here she stood hesitating at the chance to tackle the renovation of my house.

“If you aren’t interested in building up that area of your business, I understand.”

“She’s scared of it,” Rock called out from the other side of the workshop.

I blinked, momentarily unable to wrap my brain around what he’d said. “Scared?” I narrowed my gaze on Destiny. “Since when are you scared of anything?”

“I’m good at small,” she said. “I’ve never tried big.”

“No time like the present.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the envelope from Chuck. “Just take a look. My guess is that you can do this. I have a little bit of savings, and maybe we can find some of the materials at salvage yards or something.”

Destiny laughed. “Salvage yards? Who taught you that one?”

Hope spread through me. If she was laughing, maybe Destiny would go for my crazy idea—a discounted job in return for her first big showcase project.

“Jessica,” I answered.

Destiny reached for the envelope, pulled out the estimate sheet, and shook it open. Her dark brows furrowed, but then they lifted. When she smiled, I knew she’d made up her mind.

I’d never seen or heard Destiny worry about the future or analyze the past. She lived her life. Plain and simple. No pretense. No bullshit.

“Do you think we could be more opposite?” I asked.

“You think too much.” She hooked her arm through my elbow and steered me to a clean workspace.

“Rock,” she called out, “grab the doughnuts and pull up a chair. Let’s look at this bid and then head over to Second Avenue. Maybe it’s time we tried rehabbing a house.”

Mick was painting the front steps of his mother’s house when I got home.

“I passed on Chuck’s estimate,” I said as I stood to the side of where he worked.

He looked up at me, his dark brows lifting in question.

“I went to see Destiny instead.”

His brows furrowed. “Destiny?”

I nodded. “She’s an amazing carpenter. Why not let her try to fix this?”

“Because it’s your house.” He dropped his focus back to his work.

“You won’t believe how thorough she was,” I continued. “She and Rock not only found a larger area of damage up in the joists, but they showed me a section of living room wall that has to go.”

Mick smiled without looking up. “Listen to you. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’ve learned a thing or two.”

He visibly concentrated on his brushstrokes, smoothing fresh white paint across the risers of the home’s front porch steps.

As I watched Mick work, I thought about the photos tacked to the bulletin board in my old bedroom.

His features, circumstances, and life had changed, but deep inside he was still Mick. He was still my friend.

“Need some help?” I asked.

Mick looked up at me, smiled, and did something completely out of character. He said yes.

“There’s a spare brush over by the tray.” He pointed with his elbow.

I took off Dad’s fedora, pushed up my sleeves, and helped Mick paint. We worked side by side, brushing a fresh color over the top of the stripped, sanded wood beneath.

Part of me wondered if somewhere deep inside Mick didn’t wish his mother’s brain were as easy to restore as the steps.

I kept my thoughts to myself, though, staying quiet, knowing exactly how Mick liked to work.

But as the afternoon grew longer, and the sun began to slide in the sky, I broke my silence one last time.

“Hey, Mick? Does your mom like dogs?”

Don Michaels and Riley arrived midafternoon on Tuesday for their first visit with Mrs. O’Malley.

I’d tracked Don down through the Widow Murphy’s nephew, her only living relative. He’d given me the number for the organization where Don and Riley volunteered. They’d only been too happy to put Mrs. O’Malley on their visit schedule.

The day was warm, and the wild cherry tree in the O’Malley’s side yard had burst into bloom. We sat beneath its shade and sweet aroma, settling into the folding chairs Mick had brought up from the basement.

Mick had already excused himself, looking uncomfortable with the extra company, when Frankie emerged through the gap in the hedges.

She’d pulled her black hair into a severe ponytail and, based on her rapid breathing, she’d most likely jogged home from school to get here as early as she had. She’d been nervous about today’s visit ever since we’d made the plans. I knew she was only being protective of Mrs. O’Malley, but I hoped she’d warm to the idea of using pet therapy as much as I had.

Frankie’s guitar brushed against the fabric of her skinny black jeans as she came to a stop. She frowned as she sank into
an empty chair, and I reached over to pat her knee. “Tough day at the office?”

She dodged my touch, saying nothing as she cut her eyes from me to Don and then to Riley. She reached for Mrs. O’Malley, letting her hand come to rest on the arm of the older woman’s folding chair.

I quickly introduced Frankie to Don and Riley, then watched Detta O’Malley brighten as Riley sat beside her.

He wiggled in against the hem of Detta’s skirt, and when she reached to scratch his head, he rewarded her efforts with a slurp of her fingertips.

Detta’s pale cheeks flushed with color, but Frankie’s features tensed and held, her every muscle wound as tight as one of her guitar strings.

I stroked the camera case in my lap, unhooking the magnetic snaps that held the back shut. I’d located a roll of film at Ted Miller’s pharmacy and sat ready, waiting to capture today’s memories for Detta.

Yet, instead of clicking off shots of Detta’s first moments with Riley, I remained focused on my sister’s obvious discomfort.

Mrs. O’Malley giggled, and Frankie looked away.

And then it hit me.

My sister was hurt.

Don and I exchanged a glance. He smiled and mouthed the word
watch
.

Without a word of direction, Riley shifted his focus to Frankie. His black ears pricked to attention, and he tipped his head to one side.

The dog gave Detta’s hand a quick lick before he left her side to trot over to Frankie’s chair.

Instead of sitting beside her, as he’d done with Detta, he put one tentative paw on Frankie’s knee. Without waiting for permission or admonition, he pushed upward, standing on his back legs with both front paws planted squarely in my sister’s lap.

Frankie sat back, her expression startled yet amused.

Riley moved with lightning speed, licking her chin before she had a chance to turn away, react, or flee the scene.

Then Frankie smiled.

She uttered the dog’s name in soft protest, but her arm came around Riley’s neck as he settled against her.

I leaned toward Don and whispered, “Do therapy dogs typically climb up on the patients they visit?”

He shook his head and gave me a quick wink. “He knows better.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Riley knows Frankie’s not sick.” He dropped his voice low. “She just needs reassurance.”

Who didn’t need reassurance when they were fifteen?

Riley settled between Frankie and Detta, and the two friends—the teen with her whole life ahead of her and the woman whose life was slowly fading away—smiled at each other over the top of the dog’s head.

Don repositioned his chair, scooting closer to the small group. He pointed to Frankie’s guitar.

“Do you play?” he asked.

Frankie’s protective mask slid back into place. “A little.”

“
Would
you play?” Don asked when it became apparent Frankie wasn’t going to pick up her guitar without an additional push.

Frankie studied Don carefully, then she gave the fur between Riley’s ears one more scratch and glanced at Detta.

Mrs. O’Malley smiled at the dog, mesmerized by his presence.

My sister typically played in the privacy of her room or alone with Detta. Don’s question put her on the spot and made her visibly uncomfortable.

She studied Detta, Riley, and then Detta once more. Then she smiled, a tentative grin that infused me with pride and hope.

“Okay.” Frankie shrugged, sliding her aloofness securely in place. “Maybe one song.”

She pulled her guitar onto her lap, checked the strings, and began. I slipped the case off my camera and adjusted the aperture and distance settings, just as I’d done back in my youth.

As Frankie’s soft melody rose into the air above the O’Malleys’ backyard, I took my first shot and then my second.

When Detta’s voice rang out, happy and sure, her melody intertwined with the guitar’s chords, I clicked off my third shot and then my fourth.

Frankie beamed as if illuminated by the music. Detta smiled as she sang freely, beautifully. Riley settled in the grass at their feet, his white-tipped tail gently wagging.

I captured every moment, slipping out of my chair to change my position and camera angle, snapping photos until I could advance the film no further.

As for Frankie, her inner beauty and passion flowed from her fingertips to the guitar as she played, her notes becoming one with Mrs. O’Malley’s voice. Any sign of hesitancy or the need for reassurance had vanished, leaving behind a teenager happily lost in her music.