Changing Lanes: A Novel (12 page)

“Where are you headed today, honey?” she asked, ever the queen of diversion.

“I’m meeting a contractor over at my house.”

“Have a nice day,” she called out as I headed for the hall.

She could pretend to be June Cleaver all she wanted, but sooner or later, she was bound to crack.

A few minutes later, I climbed out of the Beast and headed up the center walk toward my house. An unfamiliar pickup truck sat parked in the gravel driveway.

I followed the sound of voices around to the back of the house, where Mick stood deep in conversation with Chuck Matthews, a local contractor.

“There she is now,” Mick said. He leaned close as I stepped up to shake Chuck’s hand. “Nice hat, Halladay.”

I shot him a glare, but he’d already looked past me, pointing to where the back wall of the house met the foundation. “Let’s get started.”

Chuck tapped the wall with the toe of his work boot and nodded in my direction. “Frank was right; there’s a definite problem with the sill. You’d better come here.”

Mick squatted down, and I matched his move. Chuck pointed out the weakened areas of board that topped the foundation, detailing how each would have to be reinforced or replaced.

My stomach sank. If the foundation held up the house and the damaged board sat between the foundation and walls, surely this couldn’t be good.

“How bad is this?” I asked.

Mick reached over and squeezed my knee, the move taking me by complete surprise. “Not good,” he said under his breath as he pushed to standing.

“I pulled some boards in the basement this morning. Chuck took a look before you got here.” His focus zeroed in on the contractor. “Trouble in the joists? Or do you think our troubles are mainly here?”

Mainly here?
Wasn’t here bad enough? I mean, we were looking at a damaged piece of wood that appeared to bear the load of the entire house.

I wasn’t a builder—or an architect—but I suddenly found myself filled with the realization that I might be living under the Halladay roof a lot longer than I’d anticipated.

“You’ve definitely got trouble,” Chuck said, heading for the basement entrance. “I’ll show you.”

He disappeared down the steps and Mick moved to follow, but then he stopped, apparently realizing I hadn’t moved a muscle.

If the basic support structure of the house was damaged, what was to prevent the entire thing from collapsing?

Jessica had been right about moving to Paris. I’d pushed Fred to agree that the small Victorian was a good investment. But this…How would I ever tell him about this?

I swallowed, a quick wave of queasiness washing through me.

“Come on.” Mick held out his hand. “You can fix this. Remember?”

I met his gaze and saw the kind patience I’d clung to all those years ago, each time he tried to teach me to play baseball, or master the rope swing, or go tubing on the river.

But then I saw something else.

I saw Mick, the man.

He was no longer the boy I’d followed around like a puppy dog. He was a man who had built a life for himself on the opposite coast, even if that life hadn’t played out the way he’d hoped.

He was a man who had come home to take care of his mother, and now stood at the entrance to termite hell, doing his best to help me.

I snapped myself from my trance and nodded, even though I wanted nothing more than to run the other way and leave Mick to fix this without me.

I followed him into the basement, staring numbly, watching as Chuck spot-checked boards that revealed an area of subfloor and support joists that looked more like lace than they did lumber capable of supporting a house.

“Abby?”

Mick’s voice pulled me from the downward spiral of my thoughts, and I blew out a breath.

“What’s your thought on time line? I was just telling Chuck that I’m only here for moral support. This house belongs to you. Well…you and Fred.”

The three of us knew I was in completely over my head. Literally. Yet there Mick stood, trying to infuse me with a sense of authority and competency I didn’t feel.

“What do you think, Chuck?” I asked. “What have you found with other cases like this one?”

Chuck snapped his tongue and shook his head. “Never seen one this bad, but I’m thinking we can replace these joists and the flooring above in two weeks. Maybe a month if the first-floor walls are involved.”

I chose to ignore the fact the house held the worst termite damage he’d seen and focused on the positive. He could fix this.

“Okay, then. I’d like to see an estimate and your plans by Monday.” I turned to leave, wanting to be safely inside the Beast before the sheer horror of seeing the destroyed beams and boards hit me. “I’ve got a cab to drive.”

I waved over my shoulder. “Mick, thanks for your help today. Chuck, I’ll speak to you Monday.”

I waited until I’d driven down the street and onto Stone Lane. Then I pulled the cab to the side of road, cut the ignition, and cried.

Later that afternoon, the gray skies opened and a heavy spring rain inundated Paris.

The Beast and I had run a fare down to the Trenton train station and were taking a shortcut back to Jessica’s for a quick cup of coffee when the atmosphere crackled with thunder.

A medium-size border collie raced to the curb, perilously close to the street. I braked hard, but the dog sat, apparently never intending to dash into traffic. He raised a paw and tipped his lovely head to one side, as if he wanted me to stop.

A gray-haired gentleman stepped to the curb behind the dog. He held a folded newspaper over his head and smiled even though the skies had opened and the deluge had begun.

I leaned across the massive bench seat, cranked down the window, and shouted, “Do you need a lift?”

“Afraid I left my wallet at home,” he answered.

I glanced from the man to his soaking-wet dog and back again. Dad would kill me if I got wet-dog smell inside the Beast. But he also had a firm policy about helping those in need. This man and his dog were definitely in need.

“On the house,” I called out, gesturing for the pair to climb inside.

The dog bounded across the backseat the instant the door opened.

“Apologies for getting this beautiful automobile wet,” the gentleman said.

I turned to face him and smiled. “No worries. I’m just glad I came along when I did. This isn’t my usual route.”

“Must be our lucky day.” He gave the dog a quick pet. “Eh, Riley?”

Riley rested his chin on the back of my seat, and I stroked his nose. “He’s beautiful.” I shifted my attention to my human passenger. “Where can I take you?”

“We’re headed to the Widow Murphy’s. Are you familiar with that address?”

I nodded. “That I am.”

I pulled away from the curb and thought about a time when the Widow Murphy had been the go-to resource for anything a person wanted to know about Paris—from town politics to inter-familial feuds.

Sadly, time had not been kind to the widow’s health. She’d once run the town museum that sat next to the library, but she now spent most days sitting on her front porch, watching traffic slide past.

I heard my passenger struggle with the drenched newspaper in his lap. “I’m afraid we won’t be doing her puzzles today,” he said.

“Might I ask how you know Mrs. Murphy?”

“Absolutely,” the man answered, reaching out to pet his dog. “Riley and I are a team. He’s a therapy dog, and Mrs. Murphy has become one of his favorite stops.”

“Therapy dog?”

The gentleman nodded. “He’s a great listener.”

I glanced up into the rearview mirror as I drove, catching his nod. The skin around the older man’s eyes crinkled. “Everyone likes to be listened to.”

I thought of Frankie and Mrs. O’Malley. I thought of the messages I left Fred every night. I thought of how Mick had let me call the shots that morning.

My passenger was absolutely correct.

“I’m Abby Halladay,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”

“Don Michaels,” he answered. “I’m renting a place out on Creek Road until I can find a place of my own.”

“How long have you been in town?”

“A few months now,” he answered.

“What brings you to Paris?”

“My wife and I always loved to visit.” He fell silent for a moment. “She’s been gone four years.”

I thought of Nan and her nightly visits to the cemetery and wondered if Don Michaels suffered from a similar grief. “I’m sorry.”

I slowed the Beast for a stop sign, stealing another glance at the mirror.

Mr. Michaels pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and meticulously wiped down the Beast’s leather seat. “The heart never forgets,” he said. “But in time it makes room to live again.” He folded his handkerchief into a neat square and smiled up at me in the rearview mirror.

“Well, welcome to Paris,” I said as I refocused on my driving.

We traveled in comfortable silence as I maneuvered the Beast through the storm toward the outskirts of town near the river. As kids, we used to joke that the Widow Murphy fancied herself the guard of Paris, living on the literal edge of town.

“Fate’s a funny thing, isn’t it?” Don asked.

I gave a slight shrug. Fate hadn’t given me much to laugh about lately.

“If you hadn’t taken a different route today,” he continued, “Riley and I would never have made your acquaintance.”

He was right. I smiled at the simple wisdom of his statement.

“Here we are,” I said, as we pulled in front of the widow’s redbrick colonial. The trees lining the riverbank swayed in the storm’s wind gusts, and the rushing river roared above the noise of the downpour.

Don Michaels opened the door to leave.

“I apologize for my inability to pay you.” He frowned.

“Your company was my payment.” I extended my hand. “It’s been my pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Abby Halladay.” He took my hand and gave it a solid shake. “May our paths cross again someday.”

“I’d like that.”

I watched Don and Riley climb out into the storm.

I waited until they crossed the wide, wet front yard, and then I drove away.

That night, after Nan returned from the library, I found her sitting on the floor of her bedroom, sorting through the contents of a hatbox.

I stood in the doorway for a moment, watching, not wanting to startle her from her task. Her forehead puckered in concentration and her eyes narrowed. She blinked, and then I realized she was crying.

“Nan?” I moved to where she sat on the floor and squatted beside her. “What’s wrong?”

Her expression switched from heartache to embarrassment. “Just felt like taking a trip down memory lane.”

I looked down. Countless photographs lay scattered and spread inside the circular cardboard box. Black and white. Color. Faded. Dog-eared. Polaroid. Glossy prints. The box held just about every type of photo I could imagine as far as paper and media went, yet every picture contained the same thing. Family.

Most of the shots contained the same two people. Nan and Grandpa.

“I saw you leave the library,” I said.

I’d been unsure whether or not I’d ever admit I knew her secret, but perhaps if she knew she had nothing to hide from me, she’d open up.