Changing Lanes: A Novel (18 page)

Having tasted my dad’s baking, I had no doubt he was killer with a spatula. “But why didn’t you tell anybody?”

Dad shook his head. “At first the cooking seemed silly, but after a while, I realized I loved what I was doing. My mornings are magic.”

His moments
, I thought.

I studied the man sitting next to me—my first love. Dad.

I turned my hands to hold his and stared into his eyes.

Back when I’d been four or five, I’d vowed to marry him someday, not fully grasping the whole rules-of-marriage thing. For me, there had been no one who could measure up to my dad.

“Good food fast.” I repeated.

Dad nodded, and then he breathed out a sigh. “I should have told your mother what I was doing.”

“You think?”

He smiled and unwrapped the sandwich.

“Did you make this?” I asked.

Another nod.

“How do you feel about cooking dinner from now on?”

And then we laughed, sitting together to share one of the best sandwiches I’d ever eaten.

When we were finished, I balanced my camera on the Beast’s fender and used the timer setting to take a picture of Dad and me. Then I made another entry in my notebook.

Dad and me. Good food fast.

Perhaps everyone walked around with an unfulfilled dream inside them. Truth was, I was proud of Dad for acting on his when the opportunity presented itself.

Was he wrong in hiding his new job from Mom? Yes. But the fact he’d finally gone after what he wanted made him an even bigger hero in my eyes than he’d been all those years ago when I’d thought him the most wonderful man alive.

I wasn’t looking forward to telling Jessica the truth about Johnny Testa’s new cook, but then my mind hit on something else that I couldn’t wait to tell her.

I thought about Dad’s words.
Everyone’s in a hurry.

But were they? Really?

Maybe it didn’t matter if Johnny’s Test Kitchen served good food fast, because maybe Jessica’s Paris Café served something Johnny’s Test Kitchen never could.

“Good food slow,” I called out as I barreled through the café’s front door.

Jessica spotted me and set a steaming mug of coffee at my favorite seat at the counter.

“Screw good food fast,” I said, a bit too loudly, based on the frowns of her customers.

Jessica looked down at the counter to hide her laugh. “I think that whole
edgy
thing’s coming together for you just fine.”

I waved a hand dismissively as I slid onto the stool and set my camera on the spotless countertop. I jerked my thumb toward Johnny Testa’s restaurant across the street. “He might have good food fast, but you’ve got what matters. You said it yourself. Good food.
Slow
.” I leaned forward. “Years of special moments.”

“Special moments?” Jessica’s squinted.

I nodded.

She took a backward step and frowned, visibly mulling over what I’d said. “Based on the way customers are flocking to him, they don’t care about special moments.” Her forehead wrinkled. “I need to do something drastic.”

I took a long swallow of coffee before I pressed my palms to the counter and leaned forward. “Maybe this town’s big enough for two restaurants. Maybe you need to keep things exactly as they are.”

I twisted on the stool, craning my neck to study the other patrons. One of my mother’s garden club buddies sat talking and laughing with her three grandchildren. From where I sat, it looked as though they were about halfway through their grilled cheese sandwiches and vanilla milk shakes.

I grabbed my camera and slid off my stool.

“What are you doing?” Jessica asked.

I pretended I didn’t hear her. I popped off the lens cap and chose an automatic setting as I approached the booth. “Afternoon, Mrs. Jackson.” I tipped my hat. “Rory, Matt, Josh. Mind if I take your picture?”

Sue Jackson’s smile warmed. “I suppose not.”

“Cheese!” Josh Jackson, the youngest of the three, struck a dramatic pose, arms flexed in a familiar little-boy show of strength.

Sue laughed. “I guess that’s a yes. Snap away.”

As I clicked off several shots, the small group’s laughter grew. The children mugged for the camera, hugging one another, making faces, hamming it up as if they’d never posed for a photograph before.

When they changed sides of the booth to wrap their arms around their grandmother’s neck, I knew I had my
moment
shot.

I pointed to the wall beside the counter where a framed print of the Paris Bridge now hung. “The next time you come in, you’ll be able to see your picture. Matter of fact, you’ll be the first on Jessica’s new photo wall.”

Whether she knew it or not
, I thought.

Then I glanced over to where Jessica stood. Her features had brightened, and she smiled as she watched the small group beside me.

The Jackson grandchildren were still chattering excitedly as I made my way back to the counter and my mug of coffee. “Good food slow,” I said as I sat down.

Jessica was still staring at the Jackson family, and if I wasn’t mistaken, her eyes held a spark of interest.

It wasn’t the oh-my-goodness-you’re-a-genius-Abby response I might have hoped for. But I’d take what I could get.

Frankie sat with Mick’s mother on the front porch of the O’Malley house later that afternoon. I spotted them as I pulled the Beast into our driveway and shifted the car into park.

The freshly painted steps had dried, as if infused with new life. The contrast between the restored risers and Detta O’Malley’s frail frame made my heart ache.

No matter how many coats of paint Mick used, he’d never be able to stop the slow march of his mother’s dementia; nor would he be able to erase the years he’d been gone.

As I walked across the lush spring grass of my parents’ front lawn, Mrs. O’Malley wrung her hands. Frankie leaned close to the older woman, talking softly and regarding her with such palpable concern, the sight momentarily stole my breath.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

Detta shook her head and sighed. Frankie looked up at me and mouthed two words.
Trash day
.

I turned, shifting my gaze from the pair on the steps to the expanse of Third Avenue. Trash and recycling bins lined the curb just as they had the day I’d first found Detta wandering over on Bridge Street.

“Mick’s afraid she’ll walk off.”

I sat down on the other side of Detta, gently placing my hand on her knee.

“Where is he?” I asked.

“At a meeting in town,” Frankie said. “He asked me to sit with her. She’s having a tough day.”

I thought about how happy ripping up the garden had made Mrs. O’Malley, how being in control for just that little while had brought back the light in her eyes.

Couldn’t we do the same for her now?

“Can’t we walk with her?” I asked.

Frankie shook her head. “Mick said there’s bad weather coming. He wants her to stay put.”

I looked up. The sky above the trees to the east remained clear and blue, but a definite darkness hung to the west, most likely the sign of an incoming spring storm.

“What about a ride?” I asked, determined to give Mrs. O’Malley another moment.

Frankie pressed her lips into a thin line and frowned. “Mick said to stay put.”

Another person might have called Mick to ask permission, but I didn’t want to lose a minute in my race against the darkening sky.

I made an executive decision instead. The Halladay Cab Company was taking Detta O’Malley on a search for dead plants.

“Detta”—I took her hand as I spoke—“would you like to go for a ride?”

Frankie’s eyes widened, and I shot her a reassuring smile. “This is on me,” I said. “If he gets angry, I’ll make sure he knows you had nothing to do with this.”

A few moments later, we were all settled inside the cab and on our way.

“Such a lovely car,” Detta said, her voice hoarse, as if she hadn’t spoken yet today.

Her eyes lit as if she’d never seen the car before, even though the memory of her singing along to the Mamas and the Papas would be forever imprinted on my mind.

“This is our dad’s cab.” I met her gaze in the rearview mirror, ignoring the sadness that edged into my heart. “He calls her Bessie.”

“Bessie,” she said, running her hand across the leather seat, repeating the name softly, over and over again. “Bessie…Bessie…Bessie.”

I drove first along Stone Lane then turned onto Bridge, slowing the Beast to a crawl as Mrs. O’Malley studied the trash cans lining the curb in front of the shops and businesses that wove the fabric of Paris’s personality.

The cobblestone sidewalks were empty, a sure sign that both residents and tourists realized a downpour was imminent.

Mrs. O’Malley, Frankie, and I continued our search, undaunted by a chance of rain.

I turned from Bridge to Front, and from Front to First. At the end of each unsuccessful block, we’d release a collective sigh and move on.

I’d been listening to the Mamas and the Papas the last time I’d been in the Beast and powered on the CD player. I smiled as soft harmonies reverberated inside the cab, pushing away some of the anxiousness that had built with each unsuccessful block.

Detta sang along with the music, joy palpable in her smooth voice. Frankie leaned close to Detta, holding her hand and swaying to the music. Yet, even though they sang, Detta’s focus remained unchanged, her attention held steadfastly by the clusters of trash bins and bags awaiting tomorrow’s collection.

The song ended and we fell silent. I pulled to a stop at the end of First Street, realizing I’d grossly overestimated the possibility of finding a plant for Detta.

“Can we go where people die, dear?” Mrs. O’Malley’s question surprised me with the force and lucidity of her words.

“The cemetery, Mrs. O’Malley?” I asked.

I turned to face the backseat. Frankie frowned, apparently as confused by the question as I was. Detta’s features brightened momentarily before they visibly tensed as she tried to answer my question.

“I don’t know,” she said, all traces of vibrancy gone from her voice. Tears welled in her eyes.

“They have flowers at the cemetery.” Frankie spoke softly, patting Detta’s hand. “Do you want to go there?”

Detta shook her head and began to rock—forward and back, forward and back. The sky darkened as storm clouds churned and thickened above us. The first fat drops of rain hit the windshield, and Detta pulled at her seat belt, suddenly twisting against the strap, slapping at Frankie’s hands.

Frankie did her best to hold Detta steady, but Mick’s mother fought back with a strength that took me completely by surprise.

The next track of music began, but this time the voices and harmonies did nothing to soothe the loss of control inside the cab.

Detta connected with Frankie’s cheek, her slap echoing the crack of thunder outside. I shifted Bessie into park and scrambled out of the car. As I opened the back passenger door, Detta clawed at my shirt, knocking my hat to the ground.

The skies had opened and rainwater streamed down upon us, coating the cab with a thick sheet of water, soaking me instantly through my layers of clothes.

“Are you all right?” I called out to my younger sister, hating the stunned hurt I spotted in her eyes.

She nodded, looking up at me helplessly. “Abby,” she said, her one word conveying just how frightened she’d become.

“We’re going home.” I met her gaze and lied, working to hold my voice steady. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

I wrapped Detta in a hug, holding her arms against her sides as I spoke gently, calmly, keeping my lips close to her ear so she could hear me above the storm. “We’re going home. Everything’s going to be all right,” I repeated.

Detta stilled momentarily, but then her crying intensified. She no longer thrashed against the seat belt, but sat calmly in my arms, tears trailing down her cheeks.

“I want to go where people die,” she cried.

My heart pounded in my chest.

What did she mean? Even more important, what had I done?

I’d thought I could make her happy with a cab ride and a search for plants, but instead she was scared and crying, wanting only to go where people died.