Changing Lanes: A Novel (6 page)

You had to hand it to the woman. She was good. Not only could she avoid talking about topics she chose not to talk about, but she could leave you thinking the decision to walk away had been your own.

“Okay.” I reached for the hallowed keys. “But only because I need a ride.”

“Have a nice day, dear.” Mom reconsidered the muffins and handed me two. “Don’t forget about the Clippers.”

“Clippers,” I muttered beneath my breath. “This whole town’s gone a little Clipper crazy.”

Missy sprang out of her chair, landed in the middle of the kitchen floor, and broke into an elaborate song and dance. “I’m a Clipper. She’s a Clipper. Wouldn’t you like to be a Clipper, too?” She threw out her arms, ending her brief routine with a flourish.

Mom and I applauded. “Your sister saw an old Dr Pepper commercial on the Internet this morning,” she said.

Then she leaned close to me and spoke softly. “I think our Southern belle days may be gone with the wind.”

“Well, I’ll miss her,” I said, “but this new routine is something else.”

Missy beamed and took a deep bow.

I headed out to Checker cab central and climbed inside the Beast, as I liked to call good old Bessie. Immaculate as always, her wood paneling gleamed. Somewhere along the way, Dad had wrapped the steering wheel in leather.

I turned the key in the ignition, amazed at how smooth the car sounded.

My father loved this automobile, and it showed.

I reached for the pedal to release the parking brake and pulled on the old-fashioned gearshift, crossing my fingers I’d shifted correctly.

Dad had taught me how to drive on Bessie. While I hadn’t appreciated his efforts at the time, I did now. The way I saw it, if I could drive Bessie, I could drive just about anything.

I maneuvered the huge car down the driveway and out onto Third Avenue. I headed left on Front Street, driving well below the speed limit. My every muscle tensed; I feared I’d misjudge the Beast’s girth and sideswipe another car…a bike rider…a building.

I took a left on Bridge Street and another quick left on Stone Lane, a sense of dread building inside me. Second Avenue loomed on my right and I braked to let an orange cat cross my path before I took the turn. With any luck at all, Frank Turner would have good termite news for me, if there were such a thing.

I pulled the Beast to the curb, cut the ignition, and made my way up the center walk. Frank was nowhere in sight, but I found his crew near the back section of the porch, preparing to drill the foundation of the house.

“He left,” said Barney, Frank’s right-hand man.

I swallowed my sigh, knowing an apology was in order. “I’m sorry I’m late. Can you reach him on the phone for me, at least?”

“He asked not to be disturbed,” Barney explained. “Important meeting.”

“Another client?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Clippers. He said you could meet him over at the café, but don’t interrupt the Booty Bonanza. It’s Frank’s week to pull the winning numbers.”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “Booty Bonanza, got it. I’ll be able to move back in later today, right?”

Barney’s features turned serious and he shook his head.

“Damage?” I asked.

Barney nodded. “Major. But he wants to tell you himself.”

My left eye twitched again. This time I did nothing to hide the offending lid.

Barney winced. “Try to act surprised.”

“Act surprised,” I repeated.

Not a problem.

A warm mix of rich and buttery scents wrapped around me as I stepped into the Paris Café. Even more than the scents of Jessica’s restaurant, it was the ambiance that made me feel at home whenever I stopped by. I loved the laughter, the animated talk, the camaraderie that filled the air.

Most of Paris considered Jessica’s a home away from home. Never was that more evident than right now.

The café buzzed with activity. Families gathered. Couples talked. And the Clippers congregated in the back half of the dining room.

“Argh, argh, argh,” Mona Capshaw cried out. No less than thirty other so-called adults answered, “Argh. Argh. Argh.”

Jessica stood behind the gleaming breakfast counter and poured a mug of her to-die-for coffee. She grinned as she slid the mug in my direction. “Have you seen the error of your non-clipping ways?”

I gave a tight shake of my head. “Looking for Frank.”

She pointed toward the far wall. “Careful. He’s on his third cup, and I’m not pouring decaf.”

Super. Frank Turner was a fast talker—a ridiculously fast talker. I had trouble understanding the man when he
wasn’t
hyped up on Jessica’s famous high-test brew.

I headed for the group of tables where the Clippers had spread their loot. The frenzy had begun. Members exchanged sale flyers and cut coupons with dizzying efficiency.

I waved to Frank, but he shook his head, his eyebrows pulling together.

“Time for the Booty Bonanza,” Mona called out.

I reached Frank’s table just as Mona handed him a jar full of red tickets.

“Not now, Abby,” he said. “It’s my week to call the numbers.”

“But this will only take a minute.”

“Step aside, landlubber,” Mona said.

I thought about shooting Jessica’s grandmother my best death glare, but instead I leaned down close to Frank and dropped my voice. “If you could just bring me up to speed on the damage, I’ll—”

“I heard it’s major,” said Polly Perkins, owner of the Paris Clip and Curl.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to Frank—”

Ted Miller, town pharmacist and the guy who had taken me to my first homecoming dance, interrupted me. “I heard they canceled your column.”

“That’s just a temporary setback. I’m sure I’ll—”

“I heard that accountant boyfriend of yours left town,” Mona chimed in.

“I heard he left the country.” Frank made a
tsk
ing noise as he readied to pull the winning bonanza tickets.

I pulled my cap a bit lower over my face and threw back a mouthful of Jessica’s brew to fortify myself. I stepped away from Frank. “Maybe you could just give me a call later on.”

Jessica anchored her arm around my shoulders and steered me away from the group.

“I think I hate those Clippers,” I muttered.

She bit back a laugh. “Now, you know they have your best interests at heart.”

“I don’t see how you can say that with a straight face.”

She spun me toward the door. “Sorry to hear about your house. Any word from Fred?”

I shook my head.

Jessica tightened her grip on my shoulder, her features going serious. “Did you ever stop to think you didn’t give him much of a choice about living in Paris?”

“Choice? I didn’t know anything about it.”

Jessica shook her head. “Not Paris, France. Paris,
New Jersey
. Did you really give him a choice?”

I knew she was speaking from experience, having been dragged down to Atlanta as part of her first husband’s scheme. Things between Fred and me had been different, though.

“We had a plan,” I said.

Fred and I had picked Paris as the midpoint between our jobs, found a house we loved, and paid a below-market purchase price. On the ledger sheet of life, our plan made sense.

Jessica searched my gaze, her eyes softening. “You had a plan. Are you sure Fred did?”

I drew in a slow breath, letting her question sink in. Truth was, I couldn’t answer her.

“I’m going for a drive.” I handed her back the oversize coffee mug. “I’ll call you later.”

The morning had turned a bit breezy by the time I fled the Clipper meeting. The sky had darkened, and storm clouds swirled to the west of town.

I headed back toward my parents’ house, not knowing where else to go.

A few pedestrians waved as I maneuvered Bessie through the streets of Paris. I waved back, buoyed by the kindness pervasive in Paris. Whether or not Fred came back, I was staying. Where else would people go so far out of their way to wave to you?

I paused for a stop sign, glancing down at the polished wood dashboard and the gleaming trip meter box. Then I remembered the taxi sign on the roof of the car.

The friendly pedestrians hadn’t waved out of the goodness of their hearts. They’d wanted a lift to their destinations before the impending storm hit.

A smattering of raindrops hit the windshield, stopping as quickly as they’d started. Thank goodness. I had no idea which button turned on the Beast’s windshield wipers.

I glanced down at the grouping of buttons to the left of the steering wheel and frowned. I refocused on the road just in time to see an elderly woman step off the curb directly in front of me. Slamming on the ancient brakes, I silently thanked God when the cab stopped without plowing the woman down.

She wore only a thin housedress and a pair of slippers as she bent alongside the curb, lifting what appeared to be a very dead houseplant from a pile of trash waiting for the weekly pickup.

The woman looked up at me, her stare a bit vacant, a bit lost.

Mick’s mom—Mrs. O’Malley. I’d recognize her anywhere, even if she’d obviously lost weight and seemed to be a bit confused.

I waved and smiled. Mrs. O’Malley waved back, then cradled the dead spider plant in her arm, climbed back to the sidewalk, and began walking away.

Raindrops hit the windshield once more, this time a bit harder and without any signs of letting up.

I pulled close to the sidewalk, shifted the car into Park and reached to crank down the passenger window. “Mrs. O’Malley. It’s Abby Halladay. Can I give you a lift home?”

Mick’s mother slowed to a stop, tightening her grip on the dead plant. The rain picked up in intensity, and brown tendrils of leaves and stems spilled over her arms. A shriveled leaf broke free, fluttering to the cobblestone path beneath her feet.

“Mrs. O’Malley?”

She looked at me then, her brow furrowed as if trying to place me. “Shouldn’t you be in school?” she asked.

“No, ma’am.” I smiled. “I graduated years ago. I went to school with Mick.”

The older woman’s frown gave way to a smile, the skin around her eyes softening, her entire countenance shifting to one of warmth. “He’s a good boy, my Mick.”

I climbed from the cab and slowly walked to where she stood. “Yes, he is.”

“Did you know he’s going to be an architect?” she asked.

I nodded, reaching out my hand. She’d grown frailer since I’d seen her last. I thought back fondly to the days when she’d climbed the ladder to the tree house to bring Mick and me freshly baked cookies or tall, cool glasses of milk. She’d had a smile that could brighten even the darkest corners of a room, and her fiery auburn hair had been the envy of every woman in Paris.

She’d gone to high school with my mother, graduating just a few years ahead, but as I took in the set of her shoulders and the paleness of her skin, Detta O’Malley seemed a decade older than I knew her to be.

I slipped out of my sweater and draped it around her shoulders. When I took her arm in mine, my heart caught at the feel of her bony elbow beneath my fingertips.

She turned to study me, her faded blue gaze searching my face. “Do I know you?”

“Abby Halladay, Mrs. O’Malley. Madeline and Buddy’s girl.” I steadied her as I turned her toward the cab. “Mick’s friend.”

“He’s a good boy, my Mick.” She walked beside me now, more easily led than I would have imagined. “Did you know he’s going to be an architect?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, as sadness bubbled up inside me. So this was why Mick had come home. After years of staying as far away from Paris as he could, he’d come back to take care of his mother. And though I suppose that should have surprised me on some level, it didn’t.

At the core of who he was, one thing had always held true about Mick. He had a heart of gold, even if he did his best to hide it.

I helped Mrs. O’Malley settle into the passenger seat and fastened her lap belt. She held the plant and its crinkled tendrils out of the way.

“Should I put the plant in the back?” I asked.

Detta shook her head fiercely. “She needs me.”

I searched the plant for a sign of life but found none.

“How could someone throw her out?” Mrs. O’Malley asked. “It’s not her time.”