Changing Lanes: A Novel (15 page)

Nan appeared a short while later, wielding a dish of freshly baked oatmeal cookies. The afternoon had gone chilly, and she’d slipped into one of Grandpa’s favorite cardigan sweaters. I’d told her about Detta’s special visitors, and she’d insisted on bringing over a snack.

Don rose from his chair as she approached, and Nan’s steps faltered.

An odd moment passed between them before Don reached for the plate and gestured for Nan to take his seat.

“Have you two met?” I asked, pushing to my feet.

Both shook their heads, and Don said, “Won’t you please join us?”

His features brightened and he pulled himself taller, a definite sparkle of attraction humming to life in his gaze.

As I made the introductions, I imagined how my grandmother must look through the eyes of a stranger, through the eyes of Don Michaels, a widower of similar age.

Nan was beautiful—stunning, actually—inside and out.

As she thanked Don for the seat, a flush of soft pink blossomed in her cheeks.

Yet in her eyes lurked one unmistakable emotion, and my heart gave a sympathetic pang.

Nan’s gaze shone full of fear, as if she might bolt and run at any moment. But she didn’t, and I was thankful.

Instead, she joined our small group and stayed. My grandmother never fully relaxed in Don’s presence, but as the afternoon sun slipped, we sat together—five humans and one canine—in comfortable companionship.

We sang songs. We ate cookies. We settled into one another’s company and created a memory together.

I could only hope the pictures I’d taken would help Detta keep that memory as her own.

I walked along the streets of Paris, gazing longingly into shop window after shop window, my fingertips trailing across the glass and stone, my feet working for balance atop the cobblestones.

The Eiffel Tower loomed in the distance, visible in glimpses from alleyways and turned corners, like a ghost hovering above the city.

This was not the Paris of my home, but rather the Paris of my dreams. The
real
Paris. The Paris Fred had chosen over me.

But even so, the sound of my laughter rose through the early morning mist, teasing at the still, quiet air.

The myriad scents from a nearby bakery beckoned to me, their tendrils reaching out with the promise of warmth, cinnamon, and yeast.

My stomach growled, an intrusion into the land of my sleep. I willed myself to stay in the place my subconscious had conjured.

My mouth watered, and I hesitated at the bakery entrance, tentatively turning the gleaming brass knob as I pushed against the bright blue door.

I eased inside, expecting to find the space alive with activity—bakers bustling about, bread rising, pastries cooling. I found
darkness instead, nothing more than an empty hollow of a store, cold and dark.

A chill swept through me, and I stepped backward, through the blue door and onto the street.

“Abby,” a voice called out.

I blinked, not quite sure whether the voice originated from the bakery or from somewhere beyond the street on which I stood.

I retraced my steps, peered through the door once more, and gasped. My breath caught in my lungs and burned.

Fred stood before me, his face pale, his features set.

“Fred?” I asked.

But he said nothing. He did nothing. He made no effort to return my greeting.

A brightness illuminated the air behind me, and I turned away from Fred’s silent image, searching elsewhere, following the expanse of street behind me in search of the light.

The sun, I surmised. Surely nothing more than the morning sun making its appearance.

“Abby,” a voice called out, this voice different, deeper, stronger.

But this time, unlike the first time, I felt no uncertainty. Without hesitation, I knew where to look, where to turn.

A man’s silhouette emerged from behind the morning mist, rounding the corner, reaching out a hand to me.

The morning sun brightened, chasing away all remaining hints of shadow. The stranger’s face became one I’d known for most of my life.

“Abby?” he repeated, waiting for my response.

I said nothing, unable to push past my surprise and confusion, even though I felt a calm assurance, as if I’d known this moment might come one day.

Mick.

But then he was gone—vanished as if he’d never really stood before me at all.

I blinked my eyes open and stared at the wall of my bedroom. My heart pounded in my chest as if I’d run a marathon or had a shock.

A shock
, I thought.
Most definitely a shock.

I fumbled my way into the bathroom, splashing water on my face. Even so, the smell of the Parisian bakery stayed with me. As a matter of fact, the scents of yeast and cinnamon had grown stronger, as if they came from inside my parents’ house.

Back in my bedroom, I slid my feet into my clogs, pulled a sweatshirt over my nightgown, and glanced at my cell phone. Five thirty in the morning.

I stood in my open bedroom door and listened. The house was silent, evidence of the fact that most everyone else still slept.

Then from downstairs, I heard the sound of ceramic against granite, followed by the squeak of the oven door as it opened and closed.

I made my way down the steps as silently as I could, years of practice guiding me around the creaks intrinsic to hundred-year-old wood.

One, two, step to the left. Three, step wide to the right. Four, step left. Five, six, dead center, and so on, until I eased to the bottom.

Whoever was in the kitchen hummed softly. I suspected that person was not my mother, who had never carried a tune—hummed, sung, or otherwise—in her life.

I rounded the kitchen door half expecting to find Nan in the kitchen, unable to sleep, yet whoever hummed and rattled around sounded far more like…

Buddy Halladay. My father.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

I admit I might have tried a softer approach, but dropping the spoon and clutching his chest was a bit much, even for Dad.

“Abigail.” He staggered backward. “What are you doing?”

“I asked you first.”

I closed the space between us, taking note of the dusting of flour across the granite counter, the cracked eggshells in the sink, and the flowered, ruffled apron he’d tied around his waist.

“Are you baking?” I asked.

Dad shifted his eyes to the ceiling, a sure sign that whatever he was about to say was less than 100 percent true. “Your mother asked me to keep an eye on things while she…”

“Sleeps like a log upstairs?”

He met my disbelieving glare and sighed. “Something like that.”

“I take it you’ve done this before?” I pointed to the pan of cinnamon buns resting on the counter.

Dad nodded. “Usually not this early. I usually do the setup and leave.” The full ramifications of my father’s words hit me, and I took a backward step.

Dad said nothing. Instead, he turned, placed a plate flat over the pan of pastries, and expertly flipped them. He lifted the pan clear, holding it steady as warm, caramel-colored syrup streamed off the edges, dripping down to coat the rolls below.

“You do the baking?” My voice had gone flat with disbelief. “And Mom takes the credit?”

He shrugged. “Everyone knows she can’t cook, but they think she can do this. Let her have this one thing, Abby.”

He set the pan in the sink and hoisted the plate in my direction. “Cinnamon roll?”

I considered reminding him about the perils of deceiving your children, but after a quick mental toss-up between the lecture and the cinnamon rolls, I chose the latter.

I had my priorities, after all.

“I’ll make the coffee,” I said.

Dad nodded. “I’ll grab the napkins.”

So there we sat, sharing cinnamon rolls before dawn in the kitchen where I’d spent my entire life believing my mother to be some sort of idiot savant in the kitchen—a woman incapable of preparing an edible meal yet gifted beyond words when it came to melt-in-your-mouth pastries, cakes, and pies.

I realized that sometimes the things you held as absolute fact weren’t fact at all, and sometimes that was all right.

I found it rather sweet, actually, that Dad baked for Mom.

But then I thought about something else he’d said.

I usually do the setup and leave.

“Where do you go when you leave?”

Dad looked at me blankly.

“On my bike,” I said. “Where do you go?”

He gave me a slight shrug, as if the answer was obvious. “I ride, Abby. I’m fifty years old. You’ll see someday. Exercise is important.”

I shook my head. “Do you honestly think I believe that?”

He studied me then, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “No,” he answered.

“So are you going to tell me the truth?”

Dad shook his head. “Someday, maybe. Not today.”

Disappointment rolled through me, but I respected his answer.
Someday
was better than never. And maybe
someday
would come sooner than I thought.

We each polished off one more roll before I waddled back to bed, needing a few more hours of sleep before I donned Dad’s fedora and started my rounds.

I spent the day driving fares between Paris and Trenton. I’d settled into a pattern that had not only become comfortable but also afforded me time to think.

I hadn’t decided if that was a good thing or not.

The images from my dream remained sharply focused in my brain, and the downtime between fares gave me plenty of opportunity for psychoanalyzing myself.

What the hell was I doing dreaming about Mick?

Luckily, my cell phone rang just in time to interrupt my latest deep thoughts.

I pressed the button on my Bluetooth, smiling when I heard the excitement in Destiny’s voice.

“We’re ready for you,” she said. “How soon can you come by the house?”

I was fifteen minutes outside of town in light traffic. “Twenty minutes.”

“See you then.”

I knew Destiny and Rock had begun demolition on the damaged areas of my house that morning. We’d settled on a price I could afford, and our plan was to find the materials we’d need at a discounted cost.

Demolition.

Just the sound of the word gave me chills.

But when I arrived at the house, the scene was even worse than I’d imagined.

Much of the living room floor was missing, the wide pine planks I’d fallen in love with gone, ripped from where they’d once been the crowning beauty of the first floor.

The wide molding was shredded, and Rock worked at cutting away wallboard, exposing the damaged studs and support pieces.

I stared at what was left of the home Fred and I had bought as-is and thought only one thing. Nothing about this scene would fall in the assets column on Fred’s ledger sheets.

“You okay?” Destiny asked. “You look a little pale.”

“I guess I hadn’t realized it would look so—”

“Terrifying?” she asked. “This is the worst it will be.” Then she laughed. “If you’re freaked out by this, don’t even think about going down to the basement.”

She led me over to a makeshift workbench where she’d spread out notes, diagrams, and blueprints for the areas to be replaced and restored.

As she spoke, her words swirled around my brain, not fully registering. While I appreciated her enthusiasm and her obvious preparation, the magnitude of the job left me shaken. I began to wonder if I’d made a mistake by talking Destiny into taking on my house.

I pivoted slowly, taking in the full effect of the ripped-up pine planks and the portions of wall in which everything but the studs and framing had been stripped away. The radiators sat disconnected and lined up against the kitchen wall, and I knew the basement held the horror of damaged beams and joists.

“It’s so much,” I said, failing miserably at hiding my dismay at the state of the house.

Destiny nodded slowly, the lines of worry unmistakable around her eyes. “Focus on how great your house is going to look after we’re done.”

A wave of sadness washed through me, pushing aside my concerns about Destiny’s abilities.

I could picture how beautiful the finished product would be, but the truth was, I wasn’t sure I’d be the one living in the house. I still hadn’t heard from Fred, so who knew if he was ever coming back?