Changing Lanes: A Novel (3 page)

My father visibly relaxed, as if he were happy I’d limited my initial conversation to pest control. “It’s a two-hundred-year-old house, Abby. You can’t wait for Fred. Hire Frank.”

Frank Turner had been a fixture in my hometown for as long as I could remember. As a kid, I’d called Frank “The Bug Man” in deference to the giant ant that graced the roof of his company van.

Mom nodded. “He’s very fair.”

“His crew can be there by nine tomorrow morning,” I said.

Dad waved his fork in my direction. “I’ll give him a call and take care of it.”

I blew out a sigh. “Thanks,” I said. I figured I might as well keep talking while we were on a problem-solving roll. “What about Fred? He does own half of the house. Shouldn’t I check with him before we do any work?”

My father stared at me blankly. “He’s an accountant, Abby. Profit and loss. The sooner you kill those termites, the sooner you stop the damage.”

He was right, and I nodded. Then I decided to give the conversation one more push.

“His message says he’s out of contact for thirty days.” I arched my brows. “What do you make of that?”

“Drugs,” Nan said with a hint of enjoyment. “They always go silent for thirty days when it’s drugs.”

I rubbed my face. “I don’t think it’s drugs—”

“I never liked that Fred,” my father said around a mouthful of meat loaf.

“You said
yes
when ‘that Fred’ asked for my hand in marriage.”

Another wave of his fork, this time at me. “I never said I liked him.”

“Drugs,” Nan repeated. “It’s always the quiet ones.” Then, as if all my concerns had been addressed by her comment, “Macaroon, how about a lift to the library later, since you’re not doing anything?”

Nan had nicknamed me after her favorite cookie years earlier. I’d gotten used to the term of endearment. The since-you’re-not-doing-anything line was a bit more difficult to swallow.

“Sure, Nan,” I said, shoving down my frustration at my family’s inability to have a real conversation.

“Take Bessie.” My father pointed a dinner roll in my direction. “See how she handles for you.”

Some families handed down heirloom watches or tea sets. My family handed down monstrous, gas-guzzling automobiles. Bessie was Dad’s pride and joy, a 1968 Checker cab that had once been my grandfather’s pride and joy, the building block of the Halladay Cab Company, which Grandpa Gus and my father had built into something of a legend. Dad had sold off the business and the fleet last year to a solid offer from a competitor. Unwilling to go into full retirement, however, he’d kept Bessie, making short runs most afternoons to stay busy.

Hearing him tell me to take his beloved antique cab was almost as shocking as hearing Fred say he’d jetted off to France.

Almost.

“Thanks, but I have a perfectly good car,” I said.

“I’m talking about work.” Dad nodded, a man of few words. “You’ve got a mortgage to think about now.”

As if I hadn’t given
that
any thought since the phone call from Max, my editor.

“You can’t sit around moping,” Mom singsonged. “Best to get right back up on the horse.”

Frustration edged through me. “I’m a columnist, Mom, not a cattle herder.”

My mother clucked her tongue and smiled. “Tone of voice, Abigail.”

Frankie’s entire demeanor had improved. She’d pushed aside her meat loaf and devoured her green beans, her eyes bright, attention rapt. Apparently not being the center of the familial nagging had done wonders for her mood.

I narrowed my eyes at her, and she stuck out her tongue.

Nan bit into one of my mother’s rolls and gave it a good yank. Her upper partial sailed into the mashed potatoes and landed with a
splat
.

“Nan, I think you lost something, sugar,” Missy drawled.

Mom reached for a napkin and the bowl of mashed potatoes simultaneously.

“Gross.” Frankie groaned as she pushed away from the table and headed for the stairs.

My sister had started fleeing the dinner table sometime during her thirteenth year, and my father had long since stopped yelling at her to come back and sit down. He waved his fork at Frankie’s departing backside. “What’s the matter with Her Grace this time?”

Mom fished Nan’s partial out of the potatoes and smiled. “Just a phase, dear. You remember Abby at the same age.”

I shook my head, sliding my meat loaf into my napkin and wishing fervently, not for the first time, that my parents had a dog. “I never—”

My father held up a hand to cut me off. “I have distinct memories of bailing you out of jail.”

Missy gasped and clutched a hand to her throat, doing a perfect imitation of a tiny Southern woman stricken with the vapors.

“Once.” I looked at the ceiling, praying for divine intervention, a move that had yet to yield results for me.

“You did time, Abigail Marie,” my mother said.

“Two hours.”

Missy clucked her tongue, sounding exactly like our mother. I slumped in my chair, knowing better than to argue my case.

“Sit up straight, dear,” my mother called out over her shoulder as she headed for the kitchen to rinse Nan’s teeth.

I inhaled slowly through my nose and shut my eyes.

Nan pushed back from the table. “You ready to roll, Macaroon?” she asked, her words garbled by her temporary lack of teeth.

“Absolutely.” I nodded.

After all, it wasn’t like I was doing anything.

I dropped Nan at the library a little while later. She made the short walk over and back every night after dinner, claiming the library’s new café made better tea than my mother, which was perfectly plausible.

While most every other building in town was Victorian and small, the Paris branch of the Hunterdon County library system was anything but. A sprawling wonder of full-wall windows, cathedral ceilings, and light, the building held a place of prominence along Race Street and attracted patrons from surrounding communities.

I suspected Nan came for the quiet. She and Grandpa used to spend their afternoons at the library together. Maybe she felt close to him here, a bit like revisiting their place for a little while each evening.

I watched until she disappeared through the front doors and then I headed for Bridge Street, turning left before the road climbed up and over the Delaware River. I parked in the municipal lot beside the river and walked across the street to the Paris Inn Pub.

I’d put in a call to Jessica Capshaw and Destiny Jones. The three of us had been friends since first grade, and if anyone could
help me make sense of my day, perhaps they could. Jessica and I spoke on the phone regularly, but Destiny and I typically saw each other only when the three of us got together—which hadn’t been that often during the past two years.

Not a single set of headlights came across the old suspension bridge that spanned the Delaware as I crossed the street. As a child, I’d thought the bridge monstrous, a green steel gateway to the world outside Paris. But now I laughed at my realization that the Pennsylvania side of the river was little more than a stone’s throw away.

Funny how a person’s perspective changes from childhood to adulthood.

I carefully navigated the narrow steps that led from the cobblestone sidewalk down to the Pub’s original gated entryway. Motivated by a desire to look as if I had my act together—even though nothing felt further from the truth—I’d dressed in the classic sweater dress and chunky-heeled boots I’d planned to wear out tonight with Fred.

Paris, France
.

The words taunted me and a wave of loss hit me with such force I grabbed for the wrought-iron railing and held on tight.

Two months. We were getting married in two months. How could he do this? Why would he do this?

Beside me, hitching posts still held their place from the inn’s former stagecoach-stop days, and I thought about turning around, driving back to my parents’ house, and hiding in my old room. But, as I pulled open the Pub’s heavy wooden door, the sound of laughter and music embraced me like a long-lost friend.

All of Paris turned out to sing and laugh and drink on Wednesday nights. In high school and college, I hadn’t missed a single karaoke night, but in recent years my visits had been few and far between.

A fire roared in the majestic brick hearth, and I wondered why I hadn’t visited more often during the years I’d lived nearby, in Hopewell. On the rare occasion I’d convinced Fred to make the drive to meet me, we’d merely sat and watched others sing.

Manny the barber and Pete the grocer belted out the chorus to “Mack the Knife” while the rest of the patrons at the Pub’s weekly karaoke night sang along.

I thought about writing my name on the sign-up sheet, suddenly craving the days when I’d participated during karaoke night, but I shook off the urge, focusing instead on finding my friends. Plus, it was a well-known reality that once the Pub’s karaoke night got under way, the sign-up list was basically worthless.

I spotted Destiny sitting at the bar.

She studied me from behind her chunky black glasses as she tucked a wayward strand of purple-striped mahogany hair up under her Trenton Thunder ball cap.

“Where’s Jessica?” I asked as I pulled up a stool.

“Nice to see you, too,” Destiny answered, one eyebrow lifting.

“Sorry. It’s just been an unbelievably bad day, and if I break down and cry…”

Destiny winced.

I pointed at her expression. “She’s better than you at handling emotions.”

Destiny tipped her head from side to side. “True.” Then her expression grew serious. “That bad?”

I nodded.

“Well”—she held up her beer bottle in a toast—“whatever it is, you’d better pull up your big-girl panties and deal with it.”

I blinked, looking around the room. Where
was
Jessica?

Destiny let loose with a belly laugh that turned every head within a ten-foot radius, yet she seemed neither to notice nor mind—an ability I’d always admired.

Destiny had once been the girl who hid from thunderstorms, but after her mother died of cancer partway through our fifth-grade year at Paris Elementary, she never hid from anything again.

While I admired her ability to live life without a safety net, I also found Destiny intimidating. I lived life via plans and to-do lists. I often wondered if we would have been friends if not for Jessica, the glue that held us together.

“She’ll be here any minute,” she said, as if reading my mind. “Want a drink?” She gestured to Jerry, the regular Pub bartender, who gave me a warm greeting, then poured my glass of pinot noir. I downed it in three gulps, eliciting a whistle from Destiny.

“Wow, you did have a bad day, didn’t you?”

I raised my hand, catching Jerry’s attention and pointing to my empty glass.

Jessica slipped into the space between us and looped her arms around our necks. “Hello, ladies.”

As usual, the single mom of seven-year-old Max and five-year-old Bella looked effortlessly beautiful, tired, and happy, all at the same time.

She’d once dreamed of life outside Paris, cooking and catering her way to the top, but all that had changed when she lost her heart—and her life savings—to her first husband, a fellow chef who had promised her the world but had abandoned her instead.

With the help of her family, she’d returned to Paris and had rebuilt the Paris River Café, turning the once-empty storefront into a gathering place for good food and good people.

She slid a small pouch to Destiny, who grinned like she’d been handed a winning lottery ticket.

“Don’t tell me,” I groaned.

“Booty pack.” Jessica gave a quick lift and drop of her shoulders. “Destiny can’t make tomorrow morning’s Clipper meeting, so I figured I’d let her check out my stash early.”

“I can’t believe you two joined the Clippers.” I pointed to the pouch filled to brimming with coupons. “Why can’t you call that a coupon caddy like everyone else?”

Destiny squinted one eye and spoke out of the corner of her mouth. “Argh. Where be the fun in that?”

Founded by Jessica’s grandmother after she’d seen a PBS special on organizing coupon clubs, the Paris Clippers had outfitted themselves with pirate paraphernalia and embraced the art of couponing.

The shoppers of Paris had never been the same.

“Is Mona still the Clipper captain?” I asked.

Jessica smiled. “And damn proud of it.” She leaned over the bar. “Could I get a water, please, Jerry? Max and Bella have a field trip tomorrow afternoon,” she said, turning her focus back to us. “I can’t afford a fuzzy head.” She tapped the stem of my wineglass. “Why are you drinking wine?”

I sat up a bit straighter. “I like wine.”

Jessica frowned. “Since when?”

Since Fred told me wine was more sophisticated than beer. “Since always.”

Jessica and Destiny suddenly wore matching expressions, mixtures of disbelief and anticipation.

“Start talking,” Jessica said.

And so I did. I described my day in detail, starting with the cancellation of my column and ending with Fred’s completely out-of-character flight to Europe.

Neither of them said anything for several long seconds.