Changing Lanes: A Novel (17 page)

Just as I’d done in the O’Malleys’ backyard, I adjusted the settings for light and distance before I took my shots. I captured the barren earth, the upturned roots, the pile of discarded greens, and the smiles on the face of each female as she worked.

But this time, unlike the photos I’d taken earlier in the week, I shifted my focus from images to feelings.

I immersed myself in the emotion of the moment and let it guide me as I clicked off frame after frame of the scene before me.

I captured Mom’s kindness, Frankie’s warmth, and Detta’s purpose.

Yes, I captured the flare of Missy’s skirt as she twirled across the yard, but I also captured the way that spontaneous, once-in-a-lifetime moment made each of us
feel
.

The moment mattered. Our emotions mattered.

And in understanding those two truths, I discovered a purpose all my own.

I set out that morning with an idea that started a fire within me like none I’d ever known.

Images of the town I’d loved all my life swirled through my mind’s eye as I turned the Beast from Front Street onto Bridge. Shopkeepers swept the cobblestones in front of their storefronts and waved as I passed.

I waved back, tipping Dad’s fedora and wondering what
moment
would matter most to each of them that day. Would Manny, the barber, spend his day worrying about whether he’d make this month’s rent, or would he go home tonight warmed by the memory of a child’s smile after a first haircut?

Would Polly down at the Clip and Curl spend every minute wondering why she hadn’t moved to the empty storefront over on Race Street when she had the chance, or would she lose herself in the laughter of her clients, knowing that while they sat in her chair, they felt like queens?

And what about me? Maybe today would be the day I stopped obsessing over what might have been and started focusing on what was right in front of me.

Paris.

I spotted Mona Capshaw on the corner of Front and First.

She sagged beneath two overstuffed tote bags—one slung over each shoulder—even as she balanced a large box in her arm.

I pulled Bessie to the curb and leaned to crank down the passenger window. “Want a lift?” I asked. “On the house.”

“Argh,” she said, and I instantly questioned my selection of passenger. I’d completely forgotten about today’s Clipper meeting.

I scrambled out of the cab and around to the curb, pulling open the back door as I helped Mona place the box and totes inside on the large bench seat.

“Headed to Jessica’s?” I asked.

“Argh,” she answered.

I did a mental eye roll. “Ever say anything other than ‘argh,’ Mona?”

“Argh.” Her pale-blue eyes glimmered with amusement.

“That’s what I thought.” I laughed.

“Does Buddy know you’re giving away free rides?” Mona asked a few moments later as we rounded the turn toward her granddaughter’s restaurant.

I shook my head and wondered what my father would think of my latest idea. “I have a feeling he’s not that concerned about the cab these days.”

“And what about you?” she asked. “You have any plans other than cruising around all day in your father’s fedora?”

I grinned and hoisted the old Minolta from its place on the seat beside me. “I’m going back to real journalism.” I hesitated for a split second, choosing my next words carefully. “And life moments.”

Mona fell silent as I pulled the cab to a stop next to the Paris Café.

She leaned over the seat back between us. “What do you mean, life moments?”

“Life moments.” I gave a quick shrug then shucked the camera free of its leather case. “How about today, for example? What’s been your favorite life moment of today?”

Mona frowned. “You mean memory?”

I gave another shrug. “You could call it that.” I gestured with one hand as I steadied the camera with the other. “But I’m talking about the simple moments. The instants that make each day special, even though we usually don’t give them the credit they deserve.”

Her frown deepened. “You may be spending too much time inside this cab.”

I laughed and aimed the camera at her scowl, focusing the lens as if I knew what I was doing. “What was your favorite part of today?”

I expected to hear something about getting ready for the Clipper meeting, or about her work down at the community gardens, but her answer took me completely by surprise.

“I woke up.”

I blinked. Then a bubble of warmth burst inside me.

Mona Capshaw’s answer was so perfect in its simplicity, I couldn’t think of a better way to start my new project.

Mona’s expression softened and she smiled. “Hell,” she said, “I’m not getting any younger.”

I snapped off the shot, capturing the moment in which she laughed at her own words; then I flipped open the small writing tablet I’d found in a kitchen drawer and made my first entry.

Mona Capshaw. “I woke up.”

I helped Mona carry her Clipper paraphernalia into the restaurant, and she grasped my hand and gave it a quick squeeze.

“You know,” she said with an uncharacteristic softness that left me more than a little unnerved, “you’re more like your mother every day.”

I glanced down at my jeans and sweatshirt, touched a hand to my dad’s hat, and frowned.

I was quite certain my mother wouldn’t be caught dead looking like this. Surely Mona couldn’t be serious.

She patted my arm. “It’s a good thing. You’ll see.”

The Clipper crowd seemed larger than I remembered, and in the middle of the gathering Jessica and Destiny huddled together, deep in conversation, their features even more animated than usual.

“Big crowd today,” I said as I set down Mona’s box.

“I keep telling you to give clipping a try.” Mona snapped her fingers. Excitement danced in her eyes. “Grab your camera.”

“For what?”

She gestured dramatically to the group of Clippers behind her. “For this.”

I laughed, realizing she was absolutely correct. This was a moment.

I dashed out to the cab, grabbed my camera, and rushed back inside.

Mona had gathered the Clippers into a tight group. There they sat—neighbors, friends, family—all waiting to have their picture taken by me.

“It’s a bit like herding cats,” Mona called out, and the entire group burst into laughter.

I clicked off a quick shot, then three more, before someone yelled, “Are we clipping coupons or posing for portraits?”

As the group dispersed and I turned to leave, Mona reached for my elbow, stopping me in my tracks.

“Thank you, Abby.”

I blinked back the moisture that had suddenly blurred my vision and gave the older woman a hug. From across the room, Destiny winked.

Then a flash of color from across the street captured my attention.

Pink.

My pink.

My pink Schwinn.

I gave the Clippers a wave and a smile and broke into a jog, focused only on reaching the Beast as quickly as possible.

Dad handled the old pink Schwinn like a pro as he emerged from the alley next to Johnny’s Test Kitchen and headed toward Race Street.

He made a left just as I jumped inside the Beast and cranked on the ignition. I was about to attempt a covert tail while driving a bright yellow classic cab as big as a small school bus. Who was I kidding?

Fortunately, there were no rearview mirrors on the bike. Unfortunately, Dad moved pretty well for a middle-aged guy.

He zipped along Race Street, headed for Bridge. In all likelihood, he’d make a right on Front and then another right on Third, toward home.

Surprise filled me when he reached the end of the street and turned left just before he hit the river, heading south on Front.

I slowed Bessie to a stop and signaled a left turn.

My father stood on the opposite corner, the bike parked beside him. He stared directly at the cab, hands fisted on his hips, dark brows lifted toward his still-full head of hair.

So much for my covert abilities. Of course, I’d never fully mastered that skill set.

I flashed back on countless nights Dad had adopted the same pose, standing on our front porch as I tried to sneak in after curfew.

Exhaling slowly, I made the turn and pulled the Beast to the curb. I cut the ignition and leaned across the seat to roll down the passenger window. “Dad? What are you doing here?” I said, doing my best to feign innocence.

He raised one hand and crooked his finger.

Fueled by the knowledge that he was the one who needed to do some explaining and not me, I slid across the seat and climbed out onto the curb.

The midafternoon sun beat down, doing nothing to abate the shiver that slid through me nonetheless at the thought of confronting Dad.

“Well?” I said, taking the offensive.

He pointed at me, and I spotted the flash of Irish temper in the color of his cheeks. “Well, yourself.” He took a quick pace to one side and then back again. “Is that any way to drive Bessie? It’s a wonder you haven’t been pulled over for reckless endangerment.”

I thought about backing down, but instead refocused on the task at hand.

“Oh, no you don’t.” I pointed at
him
. “What were you doing, zipping through downtown Paris on my old bike?”

He narrowed his eyes. “I’ve been thinking about painting her a new color.”

“Not the point, Dad. Where have you been going every morning?” I threw my arms up in the air as I spoke. Two could play the Irish-temper game. “And don’t say
exercise
.”

“Abigail Marie,” he said. “There are some things that are a man’s business and his private business alone.”

“Dad”—I closed the space between us—“your
little
rides last for hours.” I leaned close and gave him a good sniff. “What is that smell?”

The Buddy Halladay lack-of-poker-face phenomenon was in full effect. “Rosemary?” He said the word as if asking a question. “Maybe basil?”

And then I realized the answer to where Dad had been going every morning had been percolating in my brain all along.

“Have you been cooking?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Cooking?” I repeated. And then the puzzle pieces snapped into place. “At the new restaurant? Johnny’s?”

Dad nodded. “I help with the breakfast crowds.”

He walked toward the bike and pulled an oblong brown bag from the basket. Then he headed for a bench, sat, and patted the slats beside him.

“What is that?” I asked.

“Turkey, provolone, roast beef, Jersey tomatoes, and…”

“Rosemary and basil?”

He nodded. “That young man from New York can make one hell of a sandwich. He’s taught me a lot.”

I thought of my conversations with Jessica and her fears about losing business to Johnny’s Test Kitchen.

“Good food fast?” I asked.

Another nod. “He understands what people want. Everyone’s in a hurry.” Dad shrugged. “Why not cater to them?”

I sat beside him and clasped my hands in my lap out of frustration. “Why would you keep this a secret?”

Dad placed his hands on top of mine and held on tight.

“The first time I took out your bike, I really was just going for a ride. I figured, I’m not so busy now, I should get in shape.” He
shrugged. “I rode a few miles, then checked out the new restaurant for breakfast.”

I shook my head. “Instead of Jessica’s?”

Dad’s gaze softened. “There’s plenty of room in Paris for two restaurants.”

He was probably right, but that didn’t answer my main question. “How on earth did you start cooking for him?”

“A long time ago, I had a summer job as a short-order cook. I loved that job.” He laughed.

“When I saw how busy Johnny was, I offered to step in. Just for that morning.” He waved his hand dismissively. “But I’ve been going back ever since.”

My dad. A short-order cook.

His eyes shimmered as he told me the story, and I realized he loved being in the kitchen. Cooking made him happy. Didn’t we all deserve to do the thing that made us happy?

“It was something I always wanted to do,” he continued. “But once I took over Halladay Cabs, I set that aside.”

“But now you have time,” I said.

“Now I have time.” He bumped his shoulder against mine. “And I can make one hell of an omelet.”