Changing Lanes: A Novel (28 page)

In the picture, Detta clutched a fistful of mauve tulips. Her eyes shone with the joy and strength I remembered so vividly from her younger days.

“Do you remember how she used to sneak up to the tree house and leave us food?” Mick’s question was barely audible.

I nodded. “She was incredible.”

“I miss her.”

His words broke my heart, and I fought against the tears that blurred my vision.

“Not just the old her.” Mick tapped his finger to the photograph. “This her.”

I swallowed down the knot in my throat. “I’m sorry you didn’t have more time.”

He dropped his chin, looking down at the ground.

“Here.” I reached to flip open the first page. “Mom and I put this together for your mother, but we hadn’t finished it yet.”

Mick refocused on the book and the images of the first time Don and Riley visited.

“These aren’t the best ones,” I said, turning ahead two pages.

Next were the photographs taken during our picnic. In them, Detta’s face appeared relaxed and happy, as if she’d been transported to a time when she hadn’t a care in the world.

I turned the page, revealing a photo spread devoted to Detta and Frankie as they sang together one sunny, spring afternoon.

I reached to turn the next page, but Mick placed his hand atop mine.

“Why did you do this?” he asked.

I remained motionless, letting the weight of his touch press against my skin.

“I wanted to save her moments,” I said.

“Her moments?”

I nodded. “She had that amazing moment in Dad’s cab when she sang, and she knew all of the words. She was so happy.”

I turned to study the line of his jaw and the way his eyelashes splayed against his cheeks as he fought to hide his pain.

“But a few minutes later, she’d lost it,” I continued. “I could remember how happy she’d been, but she couldn’t. I wanted to help her keep her moments, even if they were only in pictures.”

Mick shut the book and pushed to his feet, keeping hold of my hand as he pulled me up beside him. My pulse quickened, and I trembled with nerves.

“Take a walk with me,” he said.

We cut between yards, crossed Third Avenue on a diagonal, then turned down Stone Lane. We silently walked the two blocks to Bridge Street before he steered me left toward Artisan Alley.

The streets and sidewalks of Paris were empty, and I wondered momentarily if this were another of my dreams in which Mick would vanish as soon as I’d found him.

Neither of us a said a word as we walked, our hands clasped tightly, as if neither of us wanted to let go.

A chill had slipped into the air, and the sun had shifted toward the edge of town and the trees that lined the river.

Partway down Artisan Alley, we stopped in front of the Paris Gallery. Mick tipped his head toward the window, where a display of stained glass dazzled with its brilliance and beauty.

Where before there had been only a handful of pieces, there now hung countless designs and splashes of color, filling the entire window with a beauty that stole both my breath and my words.

And while there were countless floral designs—tulips, daffodils, hydrangeas—it was the stars that left me spellbound.

Varied in size and shape and color, stained-glass stars hung at staggered heights, stunning in their combination of color and pattern.

“Are these yours?” I asked.

Mick nodded. “My mother taught me the process when I was in high school, but after I ran away, I never touched stained glass again.”

“Until you came home.”

He nodded. “Until I came home.”

I pressed my fingers to the window. “They’re amazing.”

“I needed you to see this.” He spoke without turning to face me. We stood, shoulder to shoulder, staring at the beauty of his creativity. “What do you think that means?” he asked.

His voice broke on his last word, and his vulnerability was almost my undoing.

I think I might love you.

The realization slammed my system like a ton of bricks, spiraling through me and weighing me down with that one simple truth.

I love Mick. I always have.

I wanted to scream but instead only stood there, saying, “You always did love show-and-tell.”

Mick let out a slight laugh, and I wondered whether he knew me well enough to know what I’d really been thinking.

“Do you think about that night?” he asked.

His question took me by surprise, and yet I knew what he meant. The kiss. The fire. The arrest.

“I tried not to for a long time,” I said.

I sneaked a sideways glance, spotting the upturned curve of his lips.

“I hadn’t thought about it in years,” he said. “And then you pulled up in your parents’ drive, and I haven’t thought about much else since.”

Mick’s words floored me, knocking me to my emotional knees.

“Why did you lie for me?” I asked.

“Why did you let me?” he answered.

A beat of silence stretched between us. “I had that coming.” I wrapped my arms around my waist to steady myself. “I’m sorry.”

But Mick only turned to face me. “Don’t be. I wanted to protect you.” He cupped my chin and smiled—a tight, cautious smile. “Crazy, huh?”

Not crazy
, I thought, realizing that all I’d thought about since Detta died was protecting Mick.

“What will you do now?” I asked.

He grasped my shoulders and I felt transported back to that fateful night at the Bainbridge Estate when I’d kissed him.

In that moment, I’d wanted to stay frozen in time forever, knowing with all the certainty of a seventeen-year-old heart that no one would ever kiss me that way again.

Perhaps that seventeen-year-old had been smarter than I’d given myself credit for.

“What if I said I wanted to build a life here?” Mick asked.

I blinked, wanting to beg him to stay, wanting to tell him I’d fallen in love with him. But instead, I focused on Mick and the one thing I knew he needed to heal his heart.

I reached for his cheek, tracing my fingertips along the lines of tension that stress and grief had left behind. “I think you should go to Seattle and tell Lily her bedtime story in person.”

Mick’s features tensed and his eyes shimmered with sudden moisture.

“I think you should take Detta’s scrapbook and tell Lily about her grandmother,” I continued. I lifted up on my toes and kissed his cheek, cursing myself silently as emotion caught in my throat and a tear slid down my cheek. “I think you should go be the dad your father never was. The dad you already are”—I tapped his chest—“right here.”

Mick dropped his focus to the scrapbook he still clutched in one hand, yet he said nothing.

For once in my life, I knew I was right. Absolutely, positively right, no matter how much my heart hurt at the thought of Mick walking out of my life again.

“Mick?”

He looked at me, inhaling sharply.

“There may be some things in life you can’t fix,” I said. “But this one, you can.”

“Going to the Chapel” rang out sharply, shattering both the quiet and the moment.

Why on earth hadn’t I changed my ringtone or left my phone anywhere but in the front pocket of my jeans?

In Mick’s eyes, all signs of open emotion evaporated. His protective shield slid firmly back into place.

I fumbled in my pocket for my phone, silencing the ringer.

The damage, however, had already been done.

Mick straightened, gave me a sharp nod, and turned away. “Thanks for the book,” he called out.

I thought about going after him, but instead I stood there, watching him walk away even as the beauty of his stained glass sparkled and shimmered in the window beside me.

I thought about counting the stars, but could only muster the strength to watch Mick until he turned the corner and disappeared from my sight.

I took a step to follow but stopped myself.

I needed to let Mick go. That was the right thing to do.

He needed to walk away. He needed to leave me, Paris, and his memories behind.

He needed to go get Lily and build their life together.

For once in my life, I’d done the right thing.

So while a secret part of me hoped what had just happened might be another of my dreams, the rest of me knew my heart hurt too much for this moment to be anything but real.

By the time I woke the next morning, Mick was gone.

He’d closed up the house during the night, and my dad had driven him to the airport for a six a.m. flight to Seattle.

I’d watched them leave, staring out the window as Bessie’s taillights disappeared at the end of Third Avenue.

I supposed it was better this way. I’d survived Mick’s sudden departure once. I could survive it again.

Dad had made blueberry muffins to soften the blow, but all I could do was sit on our back step and stare at the empty space in the O’Malleys’ backyard where the greenhouse had stood just a few days earlier.

The screen door creaked behind me, and Nan emerged from the house, wearing an oversize cardigan that looked suspiciously like one I’d seen Don wear on his last visit.

She sat beside me and wrapped her arm around my waist, pulling me close like she used to do when I was no more than Missy’s age.

“You okay?” she asked.

I nodded slowly. “I will be.”

“For what it’s worth, Macaroon, I think you did the right thing.”

I’d confided to my parents and Nan the night before, feeling a bit like a teenager spilling her guts. It had felt good to share my feelings with the people I loved most, and they’d listened without judgment.

I wanted to answer Nan’s question, but I was afraid that if I tried to talk, I’d start crying. And once I started crying, I feared I’d never be able to stop.

“I think it’s a rare gift to love someone so much you encourage them to do what they need to do, even though you know it’s going to break your heart,” Nan said.

Much as I tried to hold them back, my tears came. Understated in their arrival, they slid down my face and dripped off my chin just the same.

Nan handed me a tissue.

I blew my nose, the noise not in any way graceful or ladylike.

Nan patted my shoulder before she pushed to her feet. “Special Clipper meeting at your house today,” she said. “Better get a move on.”

I looked up at her and frowned, completely confused by what she’d said. “At my house? Why?”

She smiled a gentle smile that somehow soothed the rough edges of my soul. “Guess you’ll have to show up to find out.”

A few minutes later, Nan and I piled into Bessie and headed for Second Avenue.

I carefully maneuvered Bessie down the street, making a wide turn into my driveway. My blue Beetle sat all but forgotten next to Destiny’s van.

Destiny stood at the top of the drive, hands on hips, sporting the biggest smile I’d ever seen.

I parked the car, and Nan climbed out faster than I’d seen her move in years. I followed, my own steps a bit more cautious.

Suspicion tapped at the base of my brain. “What’s going on?” I asked.

Destiny shrugged, holding out her hand. “Guess you’ll have to come inside to find out.”

I followed her around back to the kitchen door, where coffee and boxes of doughnuts sat along the counter. The floor gleamed, refinished to a gorgeous shine.

Numerous voices sounded from the living room, falling silent as someone yelled out, “She’s here.”

I laughed, disbelief washing over me. “You know, it’s not my birthday.”

“It might as well be,” Destiny said, moving behind me and giving me a solid push through the door.

There before me stood Mom, Dad, Missy, Frankie, Mona Capshaw, Manny, Ted Miller, and most every other Clipper, if I weren’t mistaken.

Jessica crossed the room to give my arm a squeeze, holding a fat paintbrush out to her side.

“Who’s running the town?” I joked, but the truth was, I’d never been so touched by the kindness of others in my life.

Destiny and I had gone over colors during the weekend. I’d expected to spend much of this week painting, yet here my home stood—restored, polished, and painted to perfection.

“When did you do this?” I asked.

“Many hands make light work,” Nan answered.