Changing Lanes: A Novel (2 page)

“I’m in Paris.”

“Great. Then meet me at my parents’ or the Pub and we can talk about it.”

“France,” he said.

I took a sideways step to regain my balance.

Mick grasped my elbow and I jerked my arm away so sharply I staggered three steps in the opposite direction.

Nervous laughter started low in my belly and spiraled upward and outward until I laughed so hard a tear slid down my cheek. “You’re in Paris,
France
?”

“See?” Fred answered. “You think that’s funny. For your information, I drove to JFK last night and took the first plane out.”

No wonder he was late.

“You’re in
France
? I’m dealing with termites and losing my job and you’re in France?”

My tone bordered on yelling, but I caught myself, dropping my voice and shifting even farther away from Mick’s curious stare.

“Termites? And you lost your job? Abby, what—” He stopped himself, and a long-suffering sigh filtered across the line. “No, I’m sorry—I just don’t have the energy for this right now. Give me some time, Abby. Please.”

My mouth went dry. The soft ringing of my mental alarm turned into a full-out clanging bell. I stared down at the tasteful
diamond on my left hand and considered the ramifications of what my typically predictable Fred was saying.

The line clicked dead in my ear, but I made no move to press the disconnect button. Mick’s hot stare burned into the back of my head.

I’d be darned if I was going to let Mick know my fiancé had just hung up on me…from Paris. The
real
Paris.

“Okay, that sounds like a great opportunity,” I said. “Sure, sweetie. I’ll talk to you later tonight. I love you, too.”

Anger and disbelief swirled inside me, but I pasted on my best I-am-loved-and-cherished smile and disconnected, all the while wishing for a magic reset button to return things to the way they’d been this morning—prior to the infestation discovery, the end of my column, and Fred’s sudden departure for Paris,
France
.

Suddenly, I was having trouble wrapping my brain around what was left of my life.

Mick’s dark brows pulled together as if he had a window into my jostled mind. “Trouble in paradise?”

I shook my head and gave a quick shrug. “Nope. Fred—my fiancé—was offered the opportunity to do some consulting in Paris, France, so he jumped at the chance.”

“So he’s a bit of a risk taker?” Mick asked.

I nodded. “Regular daredevil.” I swallowed loudly.

Mick reached for my elbow, and his touch brought back a rush of memories. Racing bikes. Climbing trees. Going to jail.

Tears clouded my vision, and for a split second I wasn’t sure whether they were for Fred…or for the past.

Emotions crashed inside me.

The man I thought I’d be seeing that night had left the country. Hell, he’d left me.

The man I thought I’d never see again stood before me like a ghost from years gone by.

My thoughts slammed to a halt as a short blur raced across the lawn and hit me at full speed—coppery hair, hot-pink leggings, and phony Southern accent flying.

“Abby, sugar. When did you get home?”

My baby sister, Melissa, born as late in the marriage of Madeline and Buddy Halladay as I’d been born early, had seen ten minutes of
Gone with the Wind
a week earlier, and had been channeling a middle-aged Southern woman ever since.

I pulled her up onto my hip, relishing the feel of her small arms around my neck and the scent of her favorite strawberry shampoo. “How about a hug?” I asked.

“Anything for you, sugar.” Missy squeezed her arms tight, then allowed me to breathe as she turned her attention to Mick. She batted her ridiculously long eyelashes. “Afternoon, Mr. Mick.”

Mick shot Missy a wink, then bowed. “Afternoon, Miss Melissa.”

I rolled my eyes and turned toward the front door. “Good talk, Mick. Have a nice day.”

“I declare,” Missy whispered into my ear, “that is one fine man.”

I stumbled on the bottom step as we headed for the wraparound porch. “I think we need to talk to Mommy about upping the parental controls on the television.”

But as I reached the front door and sneaked a glimpse at Mick O’Malley climbing back up the ladder, I had to admit my little sister had a point. My old friend had grown into a man…an apparently fine man.

My left eye twitched again, and I refocused on the front door and my imminent reentry into my childhood home.

My chest tightened. Moving home—no matter how temporarily—had never been part of my long-term plan. But then again, nothing about this day had been part of my plan.

I stepped into the house, standing for a moment in the center hall, letting my eyes adjust to the change in light. Missy catapulted out of my arms. Frankie, the middle of we three Halladay sisters, sat on the bottom step of the impeccably painted staircase that led to the home’s second floor. She’d pulled her unnaturally black hair into a severe ponytail and sat, chin on fists, visibly seething.

Her appearance drew a sharp contrast to the vase of fresh flowers my mother had set on the hall credenza. Freshly picked tulips in shades of lavender, pink, and yellow brightened the space. My mother took pride in the house and her garden, making both the showcase of the block. I’d hoped to someday make the yellow Victorian shine like my parents’ home, but now…

I studied Frankie. Today’s choice of clothing included her preferred shades of black, black, and black.

“Tough day?” I asked.

Frankie raised her focus long enough to shrug.

I thought about sitting down beside her to find out what was going on in her world, but as usual, she looked more interested in being left alone.

“Where’s Mom?” I asked.

Frankie jerked a thumb at the kitchen door, then stared back at the space between her feet. I followed the sound of Mom’s humming, my frazzled nerves instantly soothed by the off-key tune.

I hesitated in the doorway of the kitchen, taking in the sight of my mother in the split second I had before she sensed my presence.

She stood at the kitchen sink peeling apples, stunning in a fitted black shirtdress, perfectly pressed floral apron, perky blond-on-blond precision haircut, and coordinated turquoise jewelry.

My mother was impeccable, from her perfectly decorated house to her flawless sense of style.

Then she turned, her smile spreading wide across her face. “Sorry about the termites, honey, but it’s good to have you home, even if it’s only temporary.”

She crossed the room and planted a kiss on my cheek, holding her wet hands wide so as not to moisten my blouse. When she straightened, a vertical crease dented the patch of skin between her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

I shrugged, doing my best to hide my dismay. The woman missed nothing. Never had. Never will.

“Termites, Mom. Isn’t that enough?”

Her eyes narrowed. Then she shook her head and pursed her lips. “You never could tell a lie, sweetie. Fess up.”

I took a deep breath. “They canned my column.”

My mother clucked her tongue. “Their loss. You’ll find something even better.”

She took a backward step and studied me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes and back again, tilting her head first to one side, then the other.

“What else?” she asked.

I shrugged as if I had no idea what she was talking about. “Why does Dad have Mick O’Malley up on the roof? And why did no one tell me he was back in Paris?”

She dried her hands on her apron, then lifted my chin with two fingers. “Don’t change the subject, Abigail.” She arched two perfectly plucked brows. “Is it Fred?”

Despite my best efforts, tears welled in my eyes. “He went to Paris.” I spoke the words on an exhale.

“How is that a problem, sweetheart?” she asked.

“France,” I whispered, shifting my focus to the ceiling, the wall, anywhere but the depths of her all-knowing brown eyes. “Paris, France.”

My mother squinted.

This was big. The woman typically showed no emotion in her features other than bliss and contentment.

“He said he was bored.” A tremble started inside me, and I worked to keep my voice steady and my tears in check. “He needs some excitement.”

“So he went to Paris?”

I nodded.

“And what about the…”

A fraction of color drained from my mother’s flawless cheeks. She didn’t have to finish her sentence. I knew exactly what she was thinking. I was thinking the same things.

What about the house? The wedding in two months? What about the down payment your father and I put on the Bainbridge Estate ballroom? What will the neighbors think?

Suddenly I needed space. I needed to be alone. I needed to wrap my brain around the fact that the most stable man I’d ever known had flown off to the most romantic city in the world…without me.

I kissed my mother’s cheek and turned for the hall. “I’ll fix this. All of this. Don’t worry.”

“You always do,” Mom called after me as I headed up the steps. Frankie had vanished, abandoning her sulking post at the bottom of the stairs.

I pushed open the door to my bedroom and stared. The sight never ceased to amaze me. My academic awards still lined the shelf. My lone varsity letter remained pinned to the weathered bulletin board. A faded snapshot of the Terrific Trio—Jessica, Destiny, and me—hung taped to the wall. My room looked exactly as it had when I’d left for college, and although I was glad to have a place to stay tonight, I couldn’t help but wonder, yet again, why my mother hadn’t redecorated.

I stared at my four-poster bed and the Rutgers University pillow placed perfectly against the headboard.

My body was in motion before my brain kicked into commonsense mode. I took a quick double-step and jumped, just as I’d jumped countless times before. I twisted in midair, sailing onto the bed where I’d once spent hours thinking about life, sorting out problems, planning for the future.

Then I landed.

The wood supports gave way. The mattress and box spring crashed to the floor. The house shook with a force that no doubt sent the neighbors scrambling to report an earthquake.

I stayed sprawled on my back, staring up at the dark-blue ceiling and stars I’d painted years earlier—bright spots of metallic and iridescent paint designed to remind me that even if I aimed for the moon and missed, I’d land among the stars.

Some vertebrae in my back made a noise I knew couldn’t be good.

I’d landed among the stars, all right, with termites in my house, my column on the skids, and my fiancé in France.

I expected my mother to yell, but I should have known better.

Instead she merely called up to me, her June Cleaver, singsong tone intact, “Everything all right, dear?”

“Perfect,” I answered.

I pulled my Rutgers University pillow over my face and let my tears come.

Just perfect.

A few hours later, I sat at my parents’ dining room table and pushed my mother’s meat loaf around my plate. Madeline Halladay had never met a spice she liked, relegating most seasoning purchases to sit on the kitchen counter until their contents turned pale khaki. Her meat loaf—like every dinner she cooked—tasted less than exciting.

Maybe Fred was right. I’d grown up in a house with boring food—maybe my entire life wasn’t far behind.

Silverware clattered against my mother’s fine china as my family dined in silence. No one said a word.

Quite frankly, they were freaking me out.

I’d heard my mother, father, and grandmother speaking in hushed tones in the kitchen earlier. I was quite certain Mom had filled them in on the state of my life. Yet, here we sat saying nothing.

Occasionally one of them would glance in my direction, looking away quickly if our eyes met.

You’d think someone would ask me how I felt. Maybe they were too afraid of how I might answer. Of course, there was nothing to stop me from saying how I felt—nothing other than the
time-honored Halladay tradition of keeping our emotions in check.

I had called Fred’s cell phone three more times. My first two phone calls had gone unanswered. My third had gone into voice mail, where Fred’s outgoing message had requested respect for the thirty-day, no-contact policy under which he’d been placed.

A no-contact policy? Had Fred gone to Paris to enter rehab for some unknown addiction? Or, in his efforts to find excitement, had he already been tossed into a Parisian jail?

I pushed another piece of meat loaf frantically across my plate, my shock and anger shifting closer and closer to full-out panic.

What on earth had he done?

I needed to find out what was going on, but how could I if he wouldn’t take my calls?

My insides spiraled into a knot. I set down my fork with a loud clank, unable to take the silence for another moment. “Are we going to talk about this? Any of it?”

Five sets of eyes met mine, the expression on each family member’s face one of shock, as if the idea of communicating were foreign to them.

“How about the termites? Can we talk about those?” I asked. “I planned to go over Frank Turner’s estimate with Fred, but”—I laughed sharply—“that’s not going to happen.”