Changing Lanes: A Novel (16 page)

I’d contacted his parents, who had told me that their son was safe, happy, and needed to be left alone. The Newtons had never been the warm and fuzzy sort, but even for them, their response had been a bit harsh.

I snapped myself back to reality.

“You do know I may not be able to afford to stay here even if I can find a way to get the materials for repairs.”

Destiny nodded. “It’ll all work out the way it’s supposed to.”

I squinted at her. “You’re not going soft on me, are you?”

Destiny stepped close and grasped my shoulders. “Are we friends?”

I nodded.

“Do you trust me?”

“You’re the most painfully honest person I know,” I said.

She laughed. “Then relax.”

Emotion lodged in my throat, and I dropped my gaze to what remained of my home’s once-beautiful floor. Tears filled my eyes and I squeezed them shut.

Much to my astonishment, Destiny wrapped me in her arms and held on tight until I calmed down. Then, she held me out to
arm’s length and brushed my hair out of my face. In her eyes, I saw a kindness and love that only a true friend could offer.

And then she said, “Now get the hell out before you get your tears all over what little floor we have left.”

Fortunately for me, Miller’s Apothecary owned a machine capable of printing good, old-fashioned photographs.

Unfortunately for me, Ted Miller felt compelled to enlighten me with his wisdom the entire time I waited there on my way home.

I’d dropped off the film on my way out of town that morning, hoping to be able to avoid Ted when I came back to pick up prints. No such luck.

Ted, who apparently had nothing better to do with his time, said he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about my job predicament. Even more astonishing was the fact he’d hit upon the solution to all my problems—a new career as a pharmacy technician.

While I had nothing against either pharmacists or their technicians, I did have an aversion to working with Ted. Listening to him was bad enough. Working with him would require me to be either a masochist or deaf.

As he blathered on and I ignored him completely, I realized that during the past hour with Destiny, some of her honesty had rubbed off.

My thoughts on my so-called conversation with Ted were anything but nice. As a matter of fact, my thoughts were blunt. Painfully blunt.

When Ted launched into an extended diatribe on the definition of edgy as it applied to syndicated columns, and how I would
never achieve edgy or a syndicated column, I decided the time had come to channel my inner Destiny.

“I find your conversation tiresome and rude, Ted.”

Ted Miller blinked. His mouth opened, but no additional words came out. I gave myself a mental high five, even though I knew I’d been less than kind.

When he regained his composure and launched into additional thoughts on my communications ability, I thought about saying shut up. But I didn’t say it. I wasn’t quite ready to be that rude to someone’s face.

I did, however, hold up my hand in the universal sign for will-you-please-stop-talking-now-for-the-love-of-all-that-is-holy?

When his photography technician announced that my prints were done, I slapped down my cash and left without saying good-bye.

I drove home feeling proud of myself, albeit guilty, for my behavior.

When I walked through the kitchen door five minutes later, my mother turned to face me, crossing her arms and raising one brow.

Nan stood behind Mom’s back and gave me the thumbs-up sign. “Macaroon, no matter what your mother says, I’m glad you stood up to the blowhard.”

“Who?” I asked, pulling my stack of prints out of their cardboard sleeve.

“Ted. Miller.” My mother spoke the name slowly, as if fashioning two distinct sentences from the man’s name. I might be
thirty years old, but apparently “my house, my rules” had no statute of limitations.

Even for Paris, news of my transgression had spread at record speed.

“Sorry, Mom. I couldn’t take it anymore.”

She hesitated for a beat, and Nan made her move. “What have you got there?”

“The pictures from Don and Riley’s visit.”

Mom said nothing more about my remarks to Ted, so I shifted my attention to the stack of prints. I flipped through the photos, studying each shot and realizing they were not the memory-capturing masterpieces I’d imagined they would be.

Far from it.

The photos were just that.
Photos
. I’d failed to capture the importance of Don and Riley’s visit. Somehow, I’d missed the mark.

There were shots of Frankie, sure. But they were nothing more than pictures of a young woman playing a guitar. They failed to communicate how it had felt to witness the blend of Frankie’s music and Detta’s voice, and how Frankie had beamed as she strummed her guitar.

“It’s a good start, honey,” Mom said over my shoulder.

I blew out a slow breath. “What do you mean?” Although I knew exactly what she meant.

She tapped a group shot of Frankie, Detta, and Riley, pointing to the scenery. “Your composition and lighting are excellent, but you need to capture the heart of the shot. Keep trying.”

I thought of her photo, hidden upstairs in my bedroom, and understood exactly what she meant. When Grandpa had taken the shot, he’d seen her pure elation and joyful spirit and had preserved her emotion forever with the click of a camera’s shutter.

What had she called it?
The heart of the shot?

“How do you know so much about photography?” I asked, testing to see how much information she’d volunteer.

Mom offered nothing but a shrug. “I really don’t,” she answered. “Just making a suggestion.”

Nan said nothing, standing by quietly, watching as Mom slid the stack of photos out of my hands and flipped through the images, one by one.

Finally Mom paused, setting aside a picture of Don.

In the shot, he rested his chin on his fists, apparently unaware I’d taken his photo.

His focus fell not on Detta, or Riley, or Frankie, but on a point somewhere beyond the camera’s field of vision. Attraction, however, shone clearly in the set of his features and the softness of his gaze.

“That’s emotion.” Mom tapped the print. “What was he looking at?”

I released a soft laugh. “Not what…who.”

Nan cleared her throat and headed for the center hall, fleeing the kitchen before I said another word.

“Who?” Mom asked.

I pointed to the empty spot where Nan had just stood. “He was watching Nan.”

Mom turned the print to get a better look before she smiled and nodded. “That’s interesting. Very interesting.”

And as usual, she was right…again.

A flash of color in my parents’ front flower bed captured my attention as I set out the next morning to cruise the streets of Paris in the Beast.

I slowed the monster cab, confusion twisting my gut with a slight flip. Someone was in the garden. Why?

And then I saw the intruder more fully. Detta O’Malley.

I pulled the Beast to a stop and cut the ignition.

“Detta?” I crossed the front lawn as quickly as I could, anxiety tripping inside me. Was she hurt? Confused? Ill?

A handful of yellow tulip petals fluttered up into the air from where Mrs. O’Malley sat bent over in the middle of my mother’s prizewinning garden.

“Mrs. O’Malley?”

I reached for her elbow, but she pushed me away, her reaction speed and strength both taking me by surprise.

I sat back on my haunches to put a bit of space between us. “Mrs. O’Malley,” I repeated more softly. “What are you doing?”

“Weeding,” she answered. “I have to pull these weeds.” A second handful of plants flew—my mother’s prized peach tulips, if I wasn’t mistaken.

“Mrs. O’Malley.” I worked to keep my tone gentle. While I didn’t want to frighten her, I had to stop her before she destroyed my mother’s entire flower bed. “These aren’t weeds.”

I reached for her again, tugging lightly at her arm. This time she pulled free and moved sideways, away from me.

I scrambled to my feet and headed for the front door, calling out as I flung the door open, “Frankie! I need you out front.”

Back in the garden, Mrs. O’Malley had moved on to Mom’s ivory, pink, and red tulips, last year’s first-place winner in the Paris Garden Club theme competition. All that remained was a scattered mess of petals and leaves, trampled and plucked from the earth.

Mom appeared at the opened front door, her pansy-print apron now tied neatly around her waist instead of Dad’s.

Frankie stumbled out from behind her, wiping sleep from her eyes. Missy barreled past them both, gleefully raising her hands at the sight of petals floating on the morning breeze.

“Confetti!” she hollered, dancing down the steps to twist and turn in the pile of discarded flowers.

My mother paled and Frankie’s eyes widened. “Detta,” they both said in unison.

“I tried to stop her.” My words sounded lame and ineffective. I looked from my family to Detta and back again.

Frankie reached the garden first, gently snaking one arm around Mrs. O’Malley’s waist. “Morning, Detta. Want to come sit with me?”

I found my sister’s calm composure humbling. Her love for Mick’s mother lit my sister from within. Never was that more apparent than in that moment.

“I have to pull these weeds,” Detta said, frustration evident in her tone. “I have to pull these weeds.”

I glanced at my mother, who moved slowly, descending the front porch steps at a snail’s pace, as if gathering her thoughts and formulating her plan of action as she went.

Her expression shifted from one of horror to one of compassion as she neared. Then she knelt beside Frankie and Mrs. O’Malley.

“I have to pull these weeds,” Detta repeated.

My mother wiped her hands on her apron and brushed an invisible hair from her eyes. “Where shall we start?”

Frankie and I exchanged puzzled glances. Mrs. O’Malley pointed to an untouched bed of lavender-tipped blossoms.

My mother swallowed, but as her throat visibly worked, her eyes shimmered with kindness. “Let’s get to work.”

Frankie and I sat in stunned silence momentarily. I could barely believe my ears. Mom had just declared war on the garden she loved and nurtured as if it were a fourth child.

As Missy danced and twirled, spinning freely across the front yard with youthful abandon, Mrs. O’Malley instructed the rest of us on what to pull and where.

I saw something in Detta O’Malley’s eyes I hadn’t seen since I’d first found her, standing beside the curb on Bridge Street, cradling a dead spider plant in her arms.

Purpose.

While my initial reaction had been to correct Mick’s mother, Mom’s reaction had been to encourage her. Instead of saving the garden, my mother had chosen to let Detta have this small moment in which she felt control.

In that instant, there were no worries about appearances or memory loss. There was simply the moment—a moment in which we pulled apart a garden in order to let Detta know her wishes still mattered.

“I’ll be right back,” I said.

I raced inside and up the stairs to my room, snagging the old Minolta from where I’d last set it down. Then I returned to the front garden to document the desecration of Madeline Halladay’s award-winning tulips.