Changing Lanes: A Novel (20 page)

She sank against the back of her chair and smiled, wrapping her arms around herself. “Someday I want a dog just like Riley.”

Over the past few years, I’d watched Frankie’s expression and presence shift slowly from one of prepubescent wonder to one of pubescent isolation. Yet tonight, I found myself carried away from my own thoughts and questions of life by the excitement she conveyed for her work with Riley and Don.

It seemed I wasn’t the only one who’d found my passion during the past few weeks. Frankie had found a passion of her own, and I couldn’t be prouder.

Mom’s eyes widened, and I realized she’d shifted from enjoying Frankie’s chatter to imagining life with a dog.

“I say go for it,” I said, drawing a sharp look from my mother. “Dreams are for chasing.”

“Dreams
are
for chasing,” Mom repeated. “But you have to be realistic. I’m not sure now’s a good time for a dog.”

The light in Frankie’s eyes slipped, and my father’s expression shifted from entertained to thoughtful. I wondered if he’d realized the same thing I had about Frankie’s passion.

“I have to agree with Abby,” he said. “Maybe now’s a great time for a dog.”

“Buddy?” Mom went a little pale.

“We should let her chase her dream, Madeline,” Dad said with a nervous laugh. “We should all chase our dreams.”

Mom’s eyes narrowed, and my pulse quickened. Was he finally going to tell her how he spent his mornings?

Frankie, who typically bolted at the first sign of confrontation, sat and waited for Dad to say whatever it was he was about to say.

“I should have told you weeks ago”—Dad sat up a bit taller—“but I took a new job.”

Mom said nothing. Her brows lifted marginally.

“I’m the morning cook at Johnny’s Test Kitchen,” Dad said, answering her unspoken question.

“This is where you go on the bike?” she asked.

Dad nodded.

Mom drew in a sharp breath and blinked, as if Dad’s delay in telling her had affected her more than his actual news.

“Why
didn’t
you tell me weeks ago?”

My father, who was no doubt accustomed to my mom questioning nothing, looked taken aback. Then his features softened, and I recognized the same open expression I’d witnessed the day he and I sat by the river.

“I’d like to tell you now.”

Mom sat quietly for a moment and then she nodded. “I’d like that.”

And then they sat and talked, my mother and father, as I hadn’t heard them talk in years.

That night, I sat and wondered how many other teens did the sort of work Frankie had discovered. How many would want to, if they had the opportunity? How many seniors, like Don, spent their afternoons and weekends attending to the needs of others? How many stories were out there, like Frankie’s and Don’s, just waiting to be told?

Inspired, I put together a proposal for a series of feature articles for Max Campbell at the paper. With any luck at all, he’d give me a shot and help me launch my freelance career.

After I hit the send button, I sat back and stared at my wedding date, marked with a pink heart on the calendar. May eighteenth. Five weeks away.

I’d accepted the fact that—short of a miracle—there might not be a wedding.

I went through most days so focused on seeking out everyday moments and adding to the gallery of emotion and life inside the Beast, that I gave the impending date less and less thought.

My earlier conversation with Jessica ran through my mind, and I realized she was right. The more I let go of the life I’d planned, the more I began to love the life I had.

Funny how much a person’s perspective could change over the course of a few weeks.

I headed for Jessica’s café the next afternoon with four new pictures for the restaurant. While I wasn’t sure the photo wall was doing anything to win back customers from Johnny’s Test Kitchen, the project gave Jessica something tangible to focus on instead of staring out the window logging customers as they walked through her competitor’s door.

I arrived just as the Clipper meeting swung into full action. Jessica had framed and hung the group photo I’d taken in the corner where they gathered each week, and I loved the way the picture captured the frenzied camaraderie the group shared every time they met.

“Argh, argh, argh,” Mona Capshaw’s voice sounded from the far corner.

I glanced at the meeting, surprised at the number of people gathered. “Wow, big meeting today.”

Jessica shrugged. “Who doesn’t love to save money?”

I twisted around to steal a look without looking like I was staring. Then I spotted Nan.

I gave her a quick wave, and she headed in my direction.

“How was your day, Macaroon?”

I pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Call me crazy, Nan, but I love driving the Beast.”

She grinned and patted my hand. “Life has a funny way of working out.”

Our gazes held, and in her eyes I saw the wisdom of a woman who had lived her entire life right here in small-town Paris. I knew how much she grieved for Grandpa, but she kept her eyes on the positive and never ceased to amaze me with her unfailing belief in me and my sisters.

“Thanks,” I said softly. Then I drew in a breath and tipped my chin toward the Clippers. “I was about to head home, but I guess you want to stay for your meeting?”

She shook her head. “I was out for a walk and did a quick pop-in. Come on, you can drive me home.”

A few moments later, Nan and I were settled inside the Beast, headed back toward Third Avenue.

“Any word from Fred?” she asked.

I shook my head, picturing the box of invitations now keeping the wedding binder company on the floor of my closet. I needed a resolution. Sure, I’d moved on with my life, but the uncertainty surrounding Fred’s status hung over me like a cloud that couldn’t decide whether to storm or float away.

“Maybe he’s dead, dear,” Nan said, with a bit too much delight in her voice.

“Nan!”

She snickered. “Sorry, but he deserves to be dead. And trust me, when your father gets a hold of him, he’ll wish he was dead.”

Disbelief washed through me. “I think Dad’s happy Fred’s gone.”

“Maybe so, but no father is happy to see his daughter waffling around after getting her heart stomped on.”

“What do you mean by
waffling
?”

“You’ve got no plans, Macaroon. Your house is under construction, sure, but your love life is in shambles, and you spend your days driving around in your dad’s cab taking pictures.”

I slowed the massive car to a stop at the corner. “Is this one of those reverse-psychology talks? Because I’m not sure it’s working.”

My grandmother laughed before she patted my shoulder. “I call ’em like I see ’em. You’ve had a plan since middle school.” She paused to take a breath. “Yet here you are waffling.”

Waffling.

At first I sulked. But then I smiled.

“I’m living in the now, Nan.”

“The what?” she asked.

“The
now
.”

“Is that what you call this?” She pointed to the array of photos that covered the front third of the cab’s interior above the windshield.

“Yes.” I pointed to the first photo I’d taken. Mona Capshaw. “See this? Mona’s favorite moment that day was waking up.”

Nan snickered.

I pointed to a second photograph. “Manny’s nephew was spending the weekend when he lost his first tooth. Look how excited they both were.”

“A moment?” Nan asked.

“A moment,” I answered. “Life moments, Nan. Snapshots of the things and emotions that matter. The
now
. Not what was. Not what’s supposed to be. Just what is.

“I was so busy planning for my future with Fred that I never stopped to appreciate”—I waved my hand across the line of photos—“this.”

I expected Nan to launch into one of her legendary lectures, but instead she sat quietly, studying each photograph, her smile growing wide. My photography skills were improving, if I did say so myself.

I changed the subject just to be safe. “Keep an eye out for Mrs. O’Malley, please. It’s trash day.”

“Oh, she won’t be out today, dear. She and Mick are coming over for an early supper.”

“Can I help you get dinner ready?”

My mother looked up from tossing the salad, surprise mixing with pleasure in her expression. I wondered whether she was reacting to my question or my appearance.

I’d traded in Dad’s plaid fedora for freshly washed and curled hair. I’d smoothed on a layer of lip gloss and had brushed a single coat of mascara on my eyelashes.

A small voice at the back of my brain questioned why I’d primped for the O’Malleys when I hadn’t worried about my appearance for previous dinner guests.

Possible answers would be that I’d had a long morning and had wanted to freshen up. I wanted to make my mother smile. I wanted to prove I was moving forward with my life and self-esteem. There was also the possibility that I wanted to look good in front of Mick.

The little voice inside my head was having a field day with the question of why I cared about that.

I’d known Mick forever, and heaven knew he’d seen me at my worst. Perhaps I simply wanted to see his reaction to seeing me at my best.

“Why, Abby,” my mom said. “You look lovely.”

She set down the salad utensils and crossed to where I stood. She reached to tuck my hair behind my ears, and I let her. For once in my life I was ready to admit she’d been right all those years she’d told me to get my hair out of my face.

“Did you know we’re having company for an early dinner?” she asked, one pale brow lifting with amusement. “More of a late lunch, actually.”

“I might have heard something about that.” I smoothed the front of the silky cream tunic I’d paired with a classic khaki skirt. “What do you think?”

Mom blinked, no doubt trying to contain her tears of joy at the sight of me wearing anything other than my recent uniform of jeans and a sweatshirt. “You look beautiful, sweetie.”

She leaned in to kiss my cheek. “Beautiful inside and out,” she whispered in my ear. “Don’t ever let anyone make you doubt that.”

Mick and Detta O’Malley arrived a few moments later, and we gathered around the dining room table, my family and our guests. Mom pulled open the blinds to allow the late-afternoon sun to shine into the house, and the play of light against the dishes and glasses was nothing short of dazzling.

No one argued. No one pouted. Frankie stayed through dessert
and
after-dinner conversation. Perhaps it was the company; perhaps it was the roast chicken that Mom let Dad prepare; perhaps it was the endless stream of corny jokes Missy told Mick in her efforts to win his heart, but dinner was as close to magical as a dinner could be, with one major exception.

Mick managed to avoid meeting my gaze for the entire meal. He hadn’t laughed at anything I’d said, and he hadn’t said a word about the fact I cleaned up well. Which I did.

Yet as dinner went on and Frankie hinted for the bazillionth time about wanting a dog of her own to train for therapy visits,
I realized Mick was bound and determined to ignore me. Plain and simple.

Mrs. O’Malley had begun to frown and worked her hands in her lap.

Mick’s brows furrowed, and he pushed back his chair. “I hate to eat and run, but I think I’d better get Mom home. It’s getting late.”