I open the book, snap a photo of the title page and send it to Brea. She sends a text back with every emoji face that exists and a thumbs up. Even in tiny pictures, the girl texts just like she talks.
Forcing myself away from my new treasure, I get to work in the store. After a couple of hours of straightening shelves, dusting, and restocking, I am ready for a break. Besides, all I can think about is that book sitting behind the counter. It calls to me.
I poke my head into Becca’s office. “Hey, I’m going to take an early lunch, grab some food from the diner and sit somewhere quiet and read.”
She shakes her head, amused at my enthusiasm. “Go ahead, kid. Frankly, I’m surprised you held out this long.”
Speed walking through the store, I grab my wallet, new book, and hightail it across the street to the diner. I forget it’s Wednesday. The Reuben special. Of course, the one day I don’t want a distraction, the first thing I see is Lane Holder in a booth by himself. He spots me right away and gestures for me to join him. I look at the ordering station and back to his table. Lane’s eyes question me from across the room and I give in with a sigh.
I slide into the booth across from him, laying my book and wallet on the seat next to me. “Hi,” I say.
“Hey. Were you just thinking of blowing me off for a book?” he asks, one eyebrow arched higher over his thick-rimmed glasses.
“What?” I ask, my voice more falsetto than normal. “How did you know that?”
Lane laughs and throws one arm across the back of the bench seat. “I have a meeting with Becca today. She told me what she had for you.”
“Oh,” I say with an exaggerated exhale. “Well, I guess you know where my priorities lie then, right? Today it’s you, then books. Though tomorrow isn’t looking so good for you.”
He reaches across the table and takes my resting hand into his. “Stella, while I appreciate it, if you want to go read your book, I’m okay with that. I can handle lunch on my own. Besides, I’ll see you at the store after my meeting.”
“But can your ego survive a blow like that?” I tease.
Lane shrugs and releases my hand. “I’m not sure. Could be devastating. I may never recover. Just might run off and join the circus again.”
“Ha. Tell the Bearded Lady I said ‘Hi!’”
A waitress appears, pen and pad in hand. “What’ll you have, hon?” she asks.
I look around for a menu. “I’m sorry, I haven’t even…” Before I’m finished with my sentence, she’s gone. “Wow, everyone that works here is so cheerful. Between her and Frank, how do they keep business in this place?”
“Well, there’s not much competition, so I figure they don’t even bother.” Lane slides his menu over to me. I look it over for a minute while he sips his water. I can feel his gaze lingering on me, traveling over me like soft feathers across my skin. Finally, I glance up and catch him staring. He doesn’t apologize or look away.
“What?” I ask. “Is there something on my face?” I swipe at my mouth.
“No,” he answers, a crooked smirk in place displaying that dimple nearly hidden by a couple of days’ growth of facial hair. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”
I immediately drop my eyes to my lap and shake my head. My hands smooth down the green apron. “What? In this? Yes, I’m sure I’m particularly stunning in my Grace Books uniform apron and dirty hair ponytail.”
Lane leans forward now, halfway over the table. His presence in my space is intense and forces me to focus on nothing but him. “You are stunning in absolutely anything, Stella. It isn’t what you’re in that makes you beautiful, it’s who you are. Didn’t you learn that it’s rude to argue with compliments?”
Sighing, I lean against the back of the seat. “Actually, I did. Those manners are force fed to you starting at an early age. Elbows off the table, say ‘Yes, ma’am’ and ‘No, ma’am,’ always be punctual, bring a gift for the hostess, introduce yourself, hold doors open for the elderly. Some of those were good lessons, and to be truthful, I’m happy I grew up in the South. But there are other lessons, ingrained into women especially, that I’d rather forget.”
The waitress reappears and takes our order, dropping off a glass of water for me. Lane’s face is serious, he watches me, waiting for me to continue our previous discussion. But I’m not sure if I want to go there with him.
“What would you like to forget, Stella?” he finally asks.
I take a deep breath and blow my hair out of my face. “Things like ‘marry your high school sweetheart’, ‘wait on him hand and foot’, ‘abandon your own dreams for his’. It’s just the way it is down there. And I’m not saying it’s bad for everyone and that it doesn’t sometimes work out, but I’m saying for me, I thought there was no other option.”
Lane shakes his head. “Damn. That’s sad. I didn’t realize there were so many cultural expectations.”
“Hey,” I say, jabbing a finger across the table. “Don’t feel sorry for me. I chose that life and I lived it until I couldn’t anymore. But those were always my decisions, as misguided as they were.” I shrug and suck down half of my water. “It’s what happens when you think every guy is as good as your daddy.”
A pang of guilt shoots through my chest as I remember Lane doesn’t know his father. I want to take those words back and shove them into my mouth, swallowing them down. Luckily, the ringing of my phone interrupts us. I pull it from my pocket and see Brea’s face on the screen. She wants to video chat. I hit the green button to accept and greet her with a smile.
“Excuse me,” I tell Lane. He nods. “Hey, lil sister,” I say. “How’s it going?”
“We’re out of ice cream and I suddenly hate eggs,” she says, whining. Brea sticks her bottom lip out, making a pathetic face for the camera. I can see her curly brown hair pulled up into a messy knot on top of her head and dark circles under her eyes.
“Oh, the woes of pregnancy. You look tired,” I say. “But, this is not your first time through it, I’m sure you can manage a few months without scrambled eggs.”
“But I love them,” she says. “Or I used to. Ugh. Why do babies make you crazy and weird? And do you know I can smell the neighbor’s cooking from here? What kind of torture is that when I’m so tired that we’re eating sandwiches every night for dinner. Where are you anyway?”
“I’m on my lunch break. With Lane,” I admit that last part kind of wishing I hadn’t.
“Oh my god, he’s there?” she squeals. Her expression is beaming.
“Yes, Brea.”
“Hand the phone over. I want to meet him.”
I panic and look at Lane, but he looks as cool and calm as ever. “Umm, okay. Do you mind?”
He grins and shakes his head, taking the phone from me. “Hi,” he says.
“Holy mother fluffer,” she says, her loud voice echoing through the diner. I slap a hand over my face. “Does everyone look like you up there? Because count me in. You are country sausage hot.”
“Uh, thanks,” Lane says, grinning. “I’m assuming that’s a compliment.”
“It is,” she says. “And not just because I’m hungry and hormonal. Are you being nice to my sister?”
“I am being very nice to your sister,” Lane answers, giving her his charming grin.
“Oh Lord, I could just eat you up,” Brea says, covering her mouth to stifle a yawn. “If I had any energy, that is.”
“Momma, can I have a snack?” I hear my niece’s voice.
“Just grab a pack of goldfish from the pantry,” Brea calls out. “So, that was my daughter Scarlett. And this,” Lane turns the phone so we both see her swing the camera down to her baby bump, “is Ashley.”
“Are you a Gone with the Wind fan?” he asks.
“Yes!” Brea says. “Oh my god, hand me back to my sister, please. So nice meeting you, Lane.” Brea gives a visible shake of her shoulders. “Ugh. Going to have to get used to that name all over again.”
Lane hands the phone over and I see my
own face reflected back in the tiny top window. “He’s hot and smart? Is he any good in bed?” she asks.
“I’m hanging up now,” I say.
“No! Stella! Give me something. Have you no pity for the pregos?”
Lane interjects, trying to change the subject and I am forever grateful. “Hey, Brea. Why don’t you come up for a visit sometime?” he asks, ducking his head across the table. I turn the phone so she can see him.
“A visit? Did you not see the large basketball attached to my abdomen? I mean, maybe one day. When it’s not cold. Is it ever not cold? And I mean, do you guys even have sweet tea up there? What about Waffle House? I need my hashbrowns scattered, smothered and covered every Sunday after church.”
“Scattered and what?” Lane asks, clueless about hashbrown consumption in the south.
I turn the phone back to my face and give her the same look I’ve been giving her since she was old enough to understand its meaning. “Bye, Brea.”
“So that’s a no on the Waffle House?” she says, as I hit the end call button.
Tucking the phone back into my pocket, I fold my hands together on top of the table. “So sorry about that. Manners say it’s rude to accept phone calls during a meal, but I miss her so much.”
Lane waves a hand at me and slides his lips sideways on his face. “No worries. I understand.” There’s a pause while our waitress silently delivers our food and leaves again. We look at each other over diner food. “So, you married your ex because it was expected of you?”
I pour the Italian dressing over my salad and stab at the lettuce. “Yes. I thought that he was it. Like I’d never find another decent man.” I take a bite and chew thoroughly before swallowing. Lane tosses a french fry into his mouth. “My world was so small then. Who knows what I could have done or been if I’d only known I had the option?”
“So, who are you outside of a reader and engine aficionado?”
His question hits me like a blow to the chest. My mind blanks and I shake my head. “Who I am beyond those two things is a mystery,” I say. “I was a wife. And that was all I was. Playing a perfect little part like a character in a book. I used reading to escape what I didn’t even realize I was trying to escape. I guess… I guess I don’t know who I am.”
He grins. “Well, your options are endless now, Stella. And it’s about time you found out.”
“You know,” I say, pointing my fork in his direction. “You’re right. I could learn to bake or garden, take up yoga classes or painting. I’m going to try a little bit of everything until I find what fits me, what makes me happy.”
“I only hope I make the cut.”
I take another bite and chew slowly, making him wait it out. “I’d say your odds are good to excellent.”
“I like those odds,” Lane says before taking a bite of his sandwich.
We finish our meals over other small talk and town gossip. When I ask for the check, Lane insists on paying.
“I can pay for my meal,” I say.
“I insist,” Lane replies.
“Well, what about my corgi prize? At least let me pay you back for that.”
“Not on your life,” he says. “That prize got me more time with you and a night of spooning in that comfortable bed of yours. I don’t know where you got your mattress, but I need one like that in my life.”
I grin. “I’ll tell you about it some time, but I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Of course,” Lane says, standing and offering his hand to help me out as I clutch my wallet and book in my other hand. As we exit the diner, Lane presses a sweet kiss onto my lips and pulls away before I’m ready to let him go. “Hey, I want to take the boat out this weekend. Are you up for it?”
“Won’t it be cold?” I ask.
He laughs. “I’ll bring a blanket and we’ll anchor in the sun. I promise you’ll have a good time.”
“Will you make snacks?” I ask. He nods. “Okay,” I say.
“Saturday,” Lane says.
“Saturday,” I repeat.
It’s not until I enter Grace Books that I even remember I have a book I want to read.
13
MY PHONE RINGS from my apron pocket downstairs. I finish pulling on my yoga pants and hurry down the steps, fully expecting to see Brea’s face staring back at me. Instead, Marley’s name is displayed.
“Hello, love,” I say, trying to imitate her accent and doing an awful job at it. There’s just silence for a few seconds. I check the screen to make sure we’re still connected. It says we are. “Hello? Marley?”
“Stella,” she breathes. Immediately, I can tell something is wrong. “Can I come over?”
A big red flag goes up. Marley never calls first to ask if she can come over. She always just shows up with wine or food or both and takes over my evenings. “Of course,” I say. “What happened? Are you okay?”
I hear a sniffle and a feeling of dread takes over. “He called,” is all she says.
“Who?”
“Him.”
I wrack my brain and remember her mentioning the guy she followed here from England. “Crooked knob and bad credit?”
She gives a laugh, but it’s humorless. “Yes. That’s him.”
“Okay, well. Get over here. Be careful and drive safe. Do you need me to come get you?” I ask.
“Already on the way.”
With that, she disconnects the call. I stare at the blank screen of my phone for a few seconds before realizing what needs to be done. I dial Brea’s number.
“Hey, girl,” she answers in a whisper. “You caught me hiding in the pantry.”
“What the hell are you hiding from?”
“My kid. I don’t want to share my gummy bears.”
“Okay,” I say. “Forget your gummy bears. I’ve got a Red Alert Hen Party on my hands. What do I do?”
“Oh, shortcake. Let me think.”
“You know we’re adults now and actually use curse words, right?”
“I have a five-year-old who thinks she can repeat anything I say. The other day she told me the goddamned postman left our package in the rain again.”
I chuckle, but get back on track. “Focus, Brea.”
“First, get out the booze—whatever she drinks.”
“I think this calls for red,” I say mostly to myself, digging through my wine rack and pulling out two bottles. I rethink my decision and grab another two.
“Make sure there are snacks, all the good stuff. And make sure there is variety—sweet, salty, hot, cold.”
I grab a few things from my cupboard as she talks and put them next to the wine on the counter. “I’ve only got chips, pretzels, Golden Oreos, and a pint of vanilla ice cream,” I tell her, looking through my freezer.
“Slim pickins,” Brea says with a click of her tongue. “It’ll have to do. Next, you need to contact support hens and make sure they’re in. They can bring more goodies. Give them specific assignments or they’ll fork it up.”
“Okay. I think I got it.”
“Good luck. And I expect you’ll call tomorrow and tell me all the dirty details because I’m living vicariously through you now. Practically a Yankee.”
“Bye, Brea.”
I end the call and immediately send out an S.O.S. text message to Kennedy and Reagan. I ask each of them to bring stuff from their stores and to get here as soon as possible. Both ladies confirm that they will be here shortly. I take a deep breath and blow it out.
There’s a knock at the door as soon as I have the first bottle of wine open. I swing the door open to find a still colorful, but sad Marley. Her shoulders are drooped, eyes rimmed in red. There is smeared mascara on her cheeks. Seeing her like this hurts like when you jam your toe into the coffee table leg. It’s painful and such a contrast to her usual demeanor.
“Come here,” I say, opening my arms. She falls into me and I wrap her up, squeezing tight. “Let’s get you inside.”
I take her bag from her shoulder and place it on my c
oat rack before guiding her to sit on my sofa. Marley kicks out of her glittered flats and curls up, wrapping her arms around a pillow.
“You want a drink?” I ask, running my hand over her pink hair. She just nods. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”
Pouring us each a glass of wine, I return to find Marley swiping at her eyes. I hand over her glass and grab a box of tissues from the bookshelf, placing them on the coffee table. By the time I turn to sit with her, Marley’s glass is empty. She still doesn’t say a word, just holds the empty glass out and looks at me with her bloodshot eyes.
I give her my glass and take the empty one. “I’m going to refill this, but let’s slow down, okay?” Marley nods. Once I’ve filled my glass, I join her on the sofa. “Are you ready to talk or do you want to finish that glass? I also have snacks, if you want to eat your feelings. And reinforcements are on the way.”
Knock knock.
We both look to the door. “It’s open,” I shout.
Kennedy and Reagan come barreling in carrying bags and boxes of goodies. They set everything down on the coffee table and look at Marley. The sisters wear matching expressions of concern.
Reagan gets on her knees so she can look Marley in the eyes. “What happened, Mar?”
“Desmond.”
That one word fills the room and seems to explain everything. While Reagan looks sympathetic, Kennedy appears to be fuming.
“That asshat,” she says. “Like how many times do I have to threaten his life before he leaves you alone for good?” Kennedy takes a seat on the coffee table facing Marley.
I hold up my wine glass. “You girls want?”
They both nod. “It’s going to be a long night,” they say in unison.
Once I make sure everyone has a drink and we’ve opened the cookies, we all just sit with her, waiting. Marley is such a free spirit, so full of life. Seeing her like this creates a deep, angry hole in my heart. When she spoke of Desmond before, it didn’t seem to be so serious. But this boy must have broken her. He must have destroyed the girl she was and created this new one. The pain is so obvious, my chest aches for her.
Suddenly, Marley sniffs, whips her head toward the three of us and gives an insincere smile. “Well,” she says, “that’s enough processing. You ladies want to get tanked or what?”
Changing Lanes Page 14