Changing Lanes: A Novel (10 page)

I hesitated for a beat, then finished the call. “Anyway, I hope you’re doing all right.”

I disconnected, and as I put away my phone, I realized that I had a thing or two to learn about appreciation myself.

I found myself at Max Campbell’s office the next morning, asking for my job back.

It had only been six days since I’d listened to Max tell me my column was finished. As I took in my surroundings, it felt as though it had been years.

A lot had happened in the past week.

As I made my case for kindness and decorum in today’s society, Nan’s question still remained lodged in my brain.

What are you going to do now?

Darn the woman.

So here I paced, attempting to start my rebuilding process.

Max, unfortunately, had other ideas.

“I’m sorry, Abby,” he said. “The readers in our market want grit. They want more than some Pollyanna encouraging them to only speak kind thoughts. Let’s face it, edgy you’re not.” He waved one hand dismissively. “No offense.”

“None taken,” I answered, even as I realized I’d been called boring and labeled a Pollyanna, all in one sentence. “I can do edgy,” I insisted, hating the way my voice cracked on the word
edgy
.

I’d shoved Dad’s fedora into my bag and pulled it out now, tugging it down over my hair. “See? I can do edgy.”

Max’s lips quirked, but he had the decency to remain otherwise expressionless. “A plaid fedora does not make you edgy.”

But I wasn’t about to be dismissed so easily. I narrowed my eyes and forged ahead. “This hat is just the beginning of the new me…the edgy me. Let me tell you about my life since we last met.”

His eyebrows arched.

“Fred ran off to Europe. I’ve been chased out of our new house by termite-induced structural damage.” I paced faster, the words pouring out of me. “I’ve taken to driving my father’s cab simply because I like the monster car, and my mother has already invited one of the town’s bachelors to dinner.”

I spun on one heel to face him, planting my palms on the edge of his desk and leaning—dare I say it—edgily toward his amused expression.

“I can do edgy,” I repeated.

Max sat back, probably wanting to put as much space between us as possible. Then he spoke. “Come back to me with some fresh ideas, Abby, and we’ll talk. But your old column is finished.”

I shook his hand and assured him I could deliver exactly what he needed, even as I wondered what in the world that might be. One minute I was selling decorum and the next minute I’d sold out for edgy.

I passed Rosie Henderson, Living Section, on my way to the elevator. She took one look at my fedora and frowned. “Bad hair day?”

Bite me
, I thought. But instead, I said, “Have a nice day, Rosie.”

“Not edgy,” Max called out from his office as I walked away.

I spent the day running short hops between the Trenton train station and nearby towns. I also stopped by the borough clerk’s office to fill out my taxi license application and be fingerprinted. In a town like Paris, the process was more of a formality than anything else, but if I was going to drive Dad’s cab, I was going to do it right.

I noticed movement in the tree house as I pulled into my parents’ drive. I parked the Beast and headed out front, surprised to find Mick, feet dangling over the side, working on a large spiral-bound pad of some sort.

“What are you doing?” I yelled up.

“Hiding from you,” he answered.

I smiled, glad to hear his return to banter. “How’s that working out for you?”

“So far, not so good.” He laughed, shut the notebook, and tucked it behind his back.

“What’s in the notebook?” I pointed.

Mick grinned and shook his head. Then he climbed down the ladder with ease and coordination, two things I had never mastered. “Not everything’s your business, Halladay. Tough day on the roads?”

I thought about how peaceful the return drive to Paris had been. At some point during the past several years, I’d stopped appreciating the beauty of the area. Just today, I’d passed an alpaca pasture, an arboretum, and rolling valleys that quite simply had stolen my breath.

Truth be told, I was enjoying driving Dad’s cab far more than I ever imagined possible.

“It’s not so bad. You meet a lot of interesting people.”

“And they, in turn, meet you”—Mick pointed at my hat—“and your hat.”

“It’s the official cabbie hat for Halladay Cabs,” I said, bluffing on the fly. “How’s your mom?”

“She’s out back with your sister.” He turned and headed for his house.

“I was wrong about snooping in your basement,” I called after him. “I’m sorry.”

Mick came to a stop and turned to face me. His smile faded. “Let it go, Abby. It’s over.”

“I still feel bad about the glass.”

Mick’s throat worked, and I suspected his thoughts had gone to the other damaged areas of his life. A shadow passed across his features. “Things break.” He forced a smile. “That’s life.” He turned away again. “I have to start dinner. See you later, Abby.”

Suddenly, I thought of part two of my rebuilding plan, an area in which I definitely needed help.

“Hey, Mick,” I called out.

This time he stopped without turning.

“Do you think you could help me handle the damage to my house?”

No response.

“Please?” I added.

His face tipped toward the sky, and even though his back was toward me, I could picture the expression on his features.

“Well?” I asked, closing the gap between us.

He turned to face me, his eyebrows furrowed, as if he were debating the issue in his head.

“I’ll never be able to fix my life if I can’t fix my house,” I said. He’d once told me I had a way of wearing people down. With any luck, I hadn’t lost my touch.

Mick chuckled softly. “You always loved the drama.” Then he hesitated before he spoke again. “Whose life, Abby? Yours? Or the one you’d planned with your fiancé?”

The moment of truth. What did they call that in the movies? A turning point?

This moment felt like mine.

“My life,” I said softly, so softly I could barely hear my own words.

I’d set about fixing my life with the vision of Fred’s return front and center in my mind, yet as I’d started to move forward, Fred’s image had started to fade.

My pulse quickened and I pulled myself up taller.

I was fixing my life for
me
.

Mick patted me on the head, bringing back a rush of emotion and memories so thick I felt my knees go weak.

“Meet me at your house at eight o’clock Thursday morning.”

“Okay.” I nodded.

Then he grinned. “
Your
house. Not your parents’ house.”

“Got it.”

“We’re going to assess the damage and do a walk-through with a contractor. You’ll get your house fixed.”

“Thanks, Mick.” I turned to leave before he saw just how deeply our interaction had affected me.

“Abby.”

His voice stopped me in my tracks.

“I’ll help you fix your house,” he said. “Fixing your life is all yours.”

Instead of breakfast with my family the next morning, I headed for Jessica’s café.

The morning crowd was thick, and my friend worked the room expertly, serving up eggs, laughter, and hospitality like no one else could.

She spotted me the instant I cleared the threshold, and my large coffee sat waiting on the breakfast bar by the time I crossed the room.

“Fred?” she asked, soft lines of concern framing her blue eyes.

“Silent,” I answered.

“Work?” she asked.

“Max said he’ll look at some ideas.”

She patted my hand encouragingly. “Termites?”

“Dead.” I frowned. “The damage is major. Mick’s helping me meet with a contractor tomorrow.” I waved my hand dismissively. “Enough about me. Tell me what’s going on in your world.”

Her sigh took me by surprise. “Things have been a little slow, actually. I’m getting worried.”

“Slow?” I looked around the restaurant. Every booth and table but three was busy. “The joint is jumping.”

“Business is down 13.8 percent from this time last year.”

I took a long swallow of coffee. “I think you’re doing great.”

She jerked a thumb toward the new restaurant across the street. We stared through the front window, taking in the view over at Johnny’s Test Kitchen. Johnny Testa, a New York hotshot, had left the bustle of the big city behind to settle in Paris, choosing the corner opposite the Paris Café for his newest venture.

A steady stream of traffic flowed in and out of the competition’s cherry-red front door.

“What can he possibly be doing better than you?” I asked.

“Fast food,” Jessica answered. “Good food.”

“Isn’t that exactly what you serve?”

She shook her head and her blond ponytail swished from side to side. “I serve good food slow. I encourage my customers to come and sit for a while. To visit. To relax. To make the Paris Café their home away from home.”

She’d rebuilt her life here, and in so doing, she’d created a place like no other.

As far as I could tell, her business was as steady as it had ever been, no matter what her numbers said. I couldn’t help but wonder whether she felt threatened by the restaurant competition or by the restaurateur—a man who no doubt brought back memories of her ex-husband.

“I’d pick eating here over fast food any day,” I said.

“Good food fast,” she corrected me. “I’d better get back to work.”

“Jessica?”

Her eyebrows lifted, waiting for the rest of my question.

“When did you feel happy again?”

She smiled and blew out a sigh, knowing instantly exactly what I was asking.

She reached out to take my hand. “When I learned to love the life I had instead of the life I’d lost.”

That night, Madeline Halladay’s parade of unsuitable bachelors continued. In a town as small as Paris, however, even my mother was bound to come up short on available candidates.

“A little off the sides and you’ll be a new woman.” Manny the barber waved his fork at my hair as he spoke. Then he shoveled another forkful into his mouth. “This is delicious,” he said. “What do you call this?”

“Meat loaf,” my mother answered, and I couldn’t help but notice that even she had been left borderline speechless by the speed with which the man put away his food.