Because my mother is staying with Brea to help take care of the baby, I decide to stay at Mom’s. I didn’t want to crowd them anymore than they already are. While my days are kept busy with visits and spoiling my niece and nephew, my nights are lonely. Being alone in this old house just reminds me of how much I miss my dad. When it gets to be too much, I climb behind the wheel of his vintage Chevy and just sit in the garage. I can almost hear his voice asking me for the socket wrench or teaching me how to listen to the timing belt.
My last day in town, everyone comes to my Mom’s house for a change. Brea cooks her famous gumbo while I entertain the kids. Mom constantly asks how life up north is and Brea—being the amazing sister that she is—constantly redirects the conversation.
That afternoon, Mom, Brea, and I are gathered around the dining room table drinking coffee. Heath, Brea’s husband, has put Ashley down for a nap and Scarlett is currently painting his toenails a bright pink color. He’s a good man and a great father. Just seeing how much Scarlett loves him makes me ache for a family of my own. I sigh and sip my coffee.
“I have something I want to give you girls,” Mom says, setting her mug down and digging through her oversized purse. She pulls out two blue velvet boxes. She slides the larger one to me and the small one to my sister.
Brea opens hers first and finds a set of diamond earrings. I lift the lid on my box to find a delicate necklace with a crescent moon charm. I remember seeing my mom wear this when I was a kid. I always loved it.
“Mom, why are you giving us these?” I ask.
“They were gifts from your father,” she says. “Of course you girls will get everything when I’m gone, but I don’t like the idea of these things just sitting around until then. I want you to have them now.”
We’re all teary eyed when Scarlett comes in with Heath to show off his pink toes. “Everything alright?” Heath asks.
Brea nods and stands from the table. “I’m going to start packing up the kids’ stuff so we can head home soon,” she says. She grabs both of our boxes. “I’ll put this in your suitcase since I’m getting Ashley up from his nap in your room.”
Half an hour later, the kids are loaded up and we’ve said our goodbyes. Mom, Heath and the kids wait in the car while Brea lingers.
She wraps me in our fourth hug and squeezes. “I’m going to miss you, but I understand why you had to go.” She swipes under her eyes. “Ugh. Don’t mind me. I’m still a hormonal mess.”
“I’ll miss you too, but we’ll talk soon,” I say, tugging on her ponytail.
“Keep me updated on that whole pretty boy neighbor situation.” I nod. “Especially after you read what I found in your suitcase.”
My eyes go wide. “What?” I ask, my head whipping back to the house and then to her face.
“Well, I figured the necklace would be safest in that zippered compartment in your suitcase, but there was something already in there. From Lane.” My mind races as my heart thunders against my chest. Brea practically squeals. “Go,” she says, giving me a wave.
I sprint back into the house and throw the door closed. On top of my suitcase, I find a black notebook sitting wrapped in red ribbon. There is a small white card tucked beneath the ribbon and I recognize Lane’s handwriting immediately. I run my hand over the smooth matte cover and slide the card out.
“Merry Christmas, Stella,” I read aloud. “Lane.”
Sliding the ribbon off, I fall into the armchair near the window and open the notebook. The first page is short and sweet.
Stella,
I am a writer. And that is the only side of me that you don’t know. I’ve written to you every day since we’ve been apart. Some pages are simply filled with words that make me think of you. Others are stories that I wanted to share, or thoughts on where I went wrong. Please know that this is me. All of me.
With love, Lane.
I spend hours reading through the entire notebook. My heart breaks when he talks about how he started writing stories when he was just eight years old about men who were better than every man who’d ever been with his mom. His granny recognized his talent very early on and encouraged him to embrace writing.
Lane talks about his struggle with keeping this secret from people that he cares about and how his publisher pressured him into releasing his debut title under a pen name as a woman. After that book took off, he felt stuck in that role and just kept going along with it.
One of my favorite entries is the day he saw Marley and me playing in the snow. I read it three times, a wide grin on my face at the magic of his words.
I didn’t know you were outside. So, to step out into our first snow and see you so utterly happy made my heart break a little. You looked carefree and beautiful with wisps of hair spilling out of your knit cap framing cheeks reddened from the cold. I wanted to take a photo of your smile and bright eyes with the soft flakes falling around you—like the most picturesque scene in a shaken snow globe. You looked ethereal and I wanted to be the one sharing that moment with you. When our eyes connected, that all vanished. To know that I was responsible for stealing your joy made me feel unworthy of a woman like you.
The last entry is an entire page of long, SAT-worthy words.
acrimony, infinitesimal, idiosyncratic, perfunctory, equivocate, sycophant, cacophony, Machiavellian, ubiquitous, fastidious, dichotomy…
I read through every word, picturing his smug face and his deep voice whispering them against my ear. At the bottom of the page, the list stops. There is a final entry scribbled in a handwriting that seems more hurried, more desperate than those before it.
Stella, before I met you I thought I had everything I needed. And now that you’re gone, I realize that wasn’t true. I want to give you the world. Please say you’ll be a part of mine again. I am lost without you. P.S. Chap misses your belly rubs and the scraps of food you used to sneak him that you thought I didn’t know about.
_______________
My entire flight home, all I can think about are all the pages of that notebook. Marley picks me up from the airport and I know I’ll face the inquisition on the drive back to Grace. I try to distract her with stories from my trip, but she’s not having it.
“Yes, yes. Your family is the bees' knees,” she says. “Tell me about the notebook.”
I exhale a laugh. “I’m not sure what else there is to tell. Lane wrote me a letter every day that we were apart. They are very personal and I’m not going to share every detail with you.”
She shakes her head and grins. “That man is so special. I mean, who writes letters anymore? The most I get is a note scribbled on a restaurant receipt saying, ‘Call me’ with a number. What are you going to do?” she asks.
“I don’t know. There’s a million things in his pro column and just one in the con column. The answer seems clear, right?”
“Right.”
“But it’s not,” I say. “Because that one thing was a BIG one thing.”
Marley keeps her eyes on the road. “Stella, I know that you can learn to trust him again. But all of these other things? The way he makes you feel about yourself? The way he adores you? The way he makes you come so hard your toes curl? Well, you can’t find all those things. At least, not in the same man.”
“I know.”
“I mean, I’d have to piece together 8 or 9 men to build one mega man to get everything you have waiting on you back home.”
“I know.”
“And the shaggin’ is good, so let go of all these feelings of betrayal and let the man redeem himself.”
I look out the window and sigh. She’s right. I know she’s right. I want to be with him and he wants to be with me. The only thing holding us back is my guarded heart and stubborn head.
“I’m going to do it,” I say, when we’re a few minutes outside of town. “He’s the hero of my story, Marley.”
“That’s my girl,” she says, fist pumping.
23
THE FOUR OF us are sitting on my upstairs
balcony facing the lake. There is wine and champagne pouring freely while we nibble on sweets from Kennedy’s bakery. We’re bundled up and trying to stay warm until the fireworks start in about an hour.
I tell Kennedy and Reagan all about Lane and his letters. Afterwards, they look at me with big doe eyes and declare that if I don’t want him, they do. While I doubt they are serious, this stirs a latent kind of jealousy in me. In the quiet of the night, that spirals into seeing him with other women around town. The mental image alone steals my breath and I know I’ve got to talk to him soon.
“So, you haven’t seen him since you’ve been home?” Reagan asks.
I shake my head. “No. I don’t know if he’s still busy with work or if he’s avoiding me, but there’s been no signs of life next door—not even Chap.”
“Wow,” Kennedy says. “He drops a bomb like that in your lap and then disappears. Men. Pssh. Who needs them?” Marley, Reagan and I raise our hands. We all look around and burst into laughter. “Touché,” says Kennedy. “But that’s why I like to keep my options open.”
I sit up taller now, feeling the wine make my head a bit light. “Are you a lesbian?” I ask.
“Would it matter to you?” she asks, leveling me with a gaze.
“Not at all. You’re hot. If I was interested in playing for that team, I’d do you.”
“Hey!” Marley shouts as if she’s offended.
“Your cougar tendencies are strong,” Kennedy replies. “I like it.”
“I’m still mad that I haven’t seen Sandra and Dee,” Marley pipes in, finishing her glass of wine.
“And you’ll have to stay mad,” I say. “With all the layers of clothing I have on right now, I couldn’t get to my tits with a shovel and guided directions from GPS.”
We all laugh and fall quiet, looking out over the dark lake to the twinkling lights of Hamilton Bay. “I’m so glad I moved here,” I say. “And met you ladies.”
“We are too,” Reagan says, reaching over and squeezing my hand.
“A few minutes before midnight,” Kennedy says. “We need some more bubbly.” She stands and heads downstairs to restock us before the new year.
I think about the upcoming year and all the possibilities. But the fact is, everything is uncertain until I talk to Lane.
“Stellaaaaa!” I hear a shout from my yard. We all stand and look down to find Lane and Chap standing in the grass. “Stelllaaaaaa!” he shouts again.
“Oh my god,” Marley says. “Is he drunk?”
The motion sensitive light on my back porch kicks on, illuminating the two. Lane is in a white t-shirt and jeans. He must be freezing. His blue eyes shine in the light as he places one fist over his heart and holds the other hand out toward me.
“Stellllaaaaaaaaa!” he shouts, his voice laced with desperation. It doesn’t feel like acting. His expression, the way his hand clutches at the white t-shirt over his chest, all point to a man in real pain.
“No,” Reagan says. “He’s reenacting A Streetcar Named Desire.”
A smile takes over my face and I can’t help but laugh. “You’re going to freeze!” I shout down to him.
Lane shoves his hands into his jeans pockets and looks up at me through those thick black lashes. “Worth it,” he shouts back. “Did you get my gift?”
I nod and blink my watery eyes. “I did.”
“And?” he asks.
I look at Marley and Reagan, they give me a nod. “Get your ass up here!” I shout. “You too, shortstack!” I say to Chap.
Kennedy walks onto the balcony with two bottles of champagne. “What did I miss?” We all just laugh.
A few moments later, Lane and Chap appear in my bedroom. His hair is wild like he’s been running his hands through it. The beautiful tattoo sleeve is visible with him in short sleeves and I crave to follow those lines back to where they converge over his heart.
“Hi,” he says, his chest rising and falling quickly.
“Hi,” I answer.
“You want to make this full circle and flash me your boobs again?” he asks.
“Shut up and kiss me,” I say. Three giant steps and I am in his arms again. Lane’s chilled skin wraps around me and I have never wanted to be anywhere more than I want to be here. “Where is your damn coat?”
“There are no coats in balcony scenes set in New Orleans.”
The first blast sounds through the air and the sky lights up red behind us. “Well, grab that blanket and come see.” The fireworks display is amazing.
“Happy New Year!” Marley shouts, popping a bottle of champagne open and topping us all off while we watch the fireworks.
We all clink our glasses together and turn back toward the lake. But not Lane. He holds me from behind, nuzzling his face in the crook of my neck.
“I’ve missed you,” he says.
I turn to face him now as the sky turns from blue to a sparkling white. The booming sounds rattle the windows. “I missed you too.”
“Do you forgive me?” I bite my lip and nod. Lane looks down at me, his gaze so intense I feel my pulse quicken. There in front of my friends and the most brilliant start to a new year ever, Lane kisses me until my knees grow weak and he’s holding me up against the balcony rail.
When the sky is dark and quiet again, I don’t even realize that the girls have left us alone until I look around. “Those are good friends you have,” he says.
“Well, I doubt they’ll want to witness all the naughty things I’m about to do to you.”
“I really think you underestimate them,” I point out.
I pull Lane inside and fall onto my bed with him where he kisses me as he peels the layers of clothing from my body. When I feel like I’ll burst from his teasing hands and lips, he stops and holds his body over mine. Lane’s eyes pin me in place.
“Will you let me be a part of your happily ever after?” My grin is all the answer he needs.
24
IT’S THE MIDDLE of the afternoon. Bright light pours in through the wall of glass in Lane’s bedroom, painting us in light and shadows. He lays beside me trying to catch his breath after our third round of sex today.
Once all of the drama and secrets were out of the way, our relationship was able to bloom and grow into something completely satisfying and all encompassing. Lane is voracious when it comes to our sex life and I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to keep up. But I surprised myself, because my need for him is bigger than life and that includes everything physical too.
“Can I just say that your ex is a fucking moron?” he asks.
I laugh. “I mean, you can say it, but I’d rather not talk about my ex while naked and in bed with you.”
He holds up both hands. “Of course,” Lane says. “Please forgive me.”
“You are forgiven. This time. But make sure it doesn’t happen again or there will be hell to pay.”
“Hmm. I look forward to it, mistress.”
“Oh, mistress? I could get used to that.” I rest my hand on his neck, my thumb skimming the line of his jaw. “Is that something you’d like to explore?”
Lane stares up at the ceiling. “I don’t know. I think I’d do just about anything to make you happy, but I’d much rather have you tied up and at my mercy.”
An immediate surge pulses through my body before centering on my gut. “That sounds amazing,” I say.
“Noted,” he answers. “You never cease to surprise me, Stella Locke.”
“Good. It keeps things interesting. And I’ve got one more surprise for you at dinner.”
He chuckles. “You still think you can out-gift me? No way your Valentine’s Day gift is better than mine.”
“We’ll see,” I tease in a singsong tone.
We lay in silence for a few minutes, basking in the glow of everything that we are together. And phenominal sex. Did I mention phenominal sex?
“So when Nelson left the rest of the gang behind, he was really doing it to save them?” I ask, running my hand over Lane’s b
are chest.
He chuckles. “Yes.” Lane rolls onto his side and props up on one elbow. “You’ve been asking me questions about my novels for over a month now. Don’t you know everything you need to know?”
“Nope. I don’t know anything about the next book in the For Love or Money Series.”
He grins down at me, his fingers trailing up my forearm. “That’s because that book doesn’t come out until next month and you don’t get any special privileges just because you’re sleeping with the author.”
“So unfair. I mean, why can’t I just read it?” I whine.
“You’ll have to wait like everyone else,” he says, tapping me on the nose and rolling out of bed. I watch his naked ass move across the room and grin. All mine. “I’m jumping in the shower. You coming?”
I hop out after him. “Hopefully at least one more time.”
_______________
We’re seated at a private table in the fanciest restaurant in Hamilton Bay. Which, by location alone, is not that fancy—but it’s perfect for us. The lights are low and there are two candles in the center of the table as we are treated to a chef’s menu tasting by Lane’s friend who owns the place.
“Do you know everyone in a 50 mile radius?” I ask, taking a bite of my bacon-wrapped scallops.
“Writing material,” he says, sipping his drink. I nod, knowing what he means. People are his biggest inspirations. Everyone he meets could earn the opportunity to exist in print. It may be in an exaggerated form or something close to who they are, but the option is always there.
When dessert arrives, my eyes devour the plate before my mouth can. “That is a serious dessert,” I say.
“I think it’s meant for sharing.”
“The hell it is,” I say, pulling the plate closer to my side of the table with a devious grin.
“That’s cold, babe. Especially since I got you such an amazing present.”
Changing Lanes Page 23