The Trouble on Highway One

by Anne McClane

  Lacey’s heart went into her throat of the mention of Gus Savin. It was swiftly accompanied by a chill down her spine.

  “I’m sorry, Kandace, I must have missed something. What does Gu . . . Mr. Savin have to do with this?”

  “Uh, he’s the executive producer of this whole shebang, right?”

  “Yes, I know, but you need to thank him for that?”

  “No, he’s the one who got me back on this production. Like Eli did for you.”

  There were too many things swirling in Lacey’s head to form a response.

  “So I was thinking I should get a Southern-themed gift, just a little something to let him know I appreciate what he did for me. I figured you would have some ideas.”

  Lacey shuddered to think what Kandace might consider a “Southern-themed” gift to be. But she really didn’t want to spend anymore thought or energy on thinking up a token of gratitude for Gus Savin. She needed to extract herself.

  “I don’t know, Kandace. He’s an antiques dealer, I can’t imagine there’s anything he needs, or hasn’t seen before. I think a nice, heartfelt note from you would be appreciated. I think that would speak to him the most.”

  Please don’t ask for my help writing it.

  “Really? Just a note?”

  “Make sure it’s on nice stationery,” Lacey added. “Or a card.”

  “Okay. Well, that should be easy.”

  Kandace took a long swig from the Diet Dr. Pepper bottle, and poured the remainder into her coffee mug. She looked around.

  “They’ve moved the recycling,” she said.

  “It’s in the kitchen,” Lacey answered.

  Walking out of the corridor, Lacey broke off to head toward the edit bay. She poked her head in to find Eli seated, with three guys flanking him, captivated by whatever he was doing on the screen before him.

  She sighed. “I’m ready to go home,” she said under her breath. She went back to her desk.

  Near the end of the day, Lacey was at her workstation, calculating when she’d be able to cut the payroll, when Hans appeared. His eyebrows were raised, which Lacey read as . . . concern?

  We’ll go with concerned.

  “Are you busy?”

  Hans had never sought Lacey out at the studio, not since he spotted her when he was up in the scaffolding.

  “Uh, no. Not really. What’s up?”

  “Something’s happened with Hunter. Says he’s not feeling well. Figured since you helped me out that one time, maybe you could do something.”

  Lacey really didn’t want to spend her energy on Hunter. Maybe Angele was right, that she should be choosier about who she helps.

  And she tried not to think about why Hans might be asking her. Maybe he was just really impressed by the quality of her bandaging when she took care of his cut.

  “Uh, not sure what I’ll be able to do, but if you want me to come . . . maybe he just needs to go home and rest?”

  “You can tell him that if you want.”

  Lacey didn’t want to tell Hunter anything at all, for fear of being on the receiving end of one of his tirades.

  What the hell, this job’s almost over. And I’ll have to get used to angry people, if I ever want to work as an EMT.

  She followed Hans to the edit bay. Three editors sat in front of three different screens. None of them played any sound. Hunter sat in a chair against the wall, hand over his eyes, the back of his head resting against the wall.

  “He’s all yours,” Hans said in a low voice. He turned sharply on his heel and left the room.

  What the hell?

  “Moondoggie says you know about migraines,” Hunter said to her, one eye peeking through his hand.

  Lacey assumed he meant Hans. “Uh, you have a migraine?” was all she could think to answer.

  “I’m sitting in the closest dark, quiet place I could find, and I’m afraid if I move I’ll throw up. What do you think?”

  His voice showed the obvious traces of pain, but he still sounded like a jerk.

  “Do you want a cold compress?”

  “That’s your brilliant cure?”

  Lacey drew a deep breath. “It usually helps me. I’ll be back shortly.”

  She was tempted to just leave him to his suffering and go home. Home, home—to New Orleans. Let Hunter and Kandace figure out whatever reporting they needed and altogether forget about their stupid Magical Choices.

  But she knew exactly where to find a cold compress—she’d seen one in the first aid cabinet. And if the ice machine was working, she’d know where to get ice, too. She reminded herself that it would be best to not have feelings (or an ego) if she wanted to do this for a living.

  Hunter peeked through his hand again when Lacey returned. He made no motion to take the compress.

  “Lean forward,” Lacey said.

  “Why?”

  “It works better at the back of the neck.”

  “Ehhhh-uhhhhh,” was all Hunter could manage as he moved his head forward about three inches and put his hands on his knees.

  Lacey placed the compress on his neck. Hunter, usually so perfectly put together and coiffed, needed his neck shaved.

  He must really not be feeling well.

  As awkward as it was, tending to Hunter, staring at the backs of three silent editors, Lacey felt a sense of calm come over her. The fingers of one hand touched his neck, lightly, while the other hand held the compress. And that hand was warm, despite being pressed against the ice-chilled fabric.

  Hunter continued to moan. They became less frequent after about a minute. He finally let out a deep sigh and reached one hand behind his head to grab the compress. Lacey felt a shock when their fingers briefly touched. She stepped back.

  “Maybe you do know something about migraines,” Hunter said.

  Not really. But I know something about pain.

  “Any better?”

  “A little. You can go now. I’ll get back to work in a bit. Did you get me that report?”

  “I emailed it to you.”

  Lacey flexed her hand and smiled, ever so subtly, as she returned to her workstation. Bet you’re glad you didn’t fire me now.

  28

  Lacey sat with her parents at the back of St. Mary’s church. They had arrived late, coming in from New Roads. Her mother had hinted that they might not be able to make the nearly two- hour trip in for the funeral, but Lacey successfully laid on the guilt and here they were. She’d simply reminded her that the Lees were their neighbors and friends for more than twenty years. That might have done the trick. But what probably sealed their fate was telling them that would be their only chance to see Lacey for another month.

  Father John celebrated a full Mass. Lacey knew that had to be at Ms. PJ’s urging. Angele’s father, Mr. Bob, or Mr. Bah—his own riff on Ms. PJ’s accent—only attended church at Christmas. He couldn’t even be convinced for Easter. Angele had quit going to Mass before she graduated high school. But Ms. PJ had been a fixture at St. Mary’s 7:00 a.m. daily mass while Lacey had been in grammar school there. She was certain she’d never stopped.

  It was the first time Lacey had been to Mass in more than six weeks. She felt a tinge of guilt over it, but it was not as if she’d had any free time in California. Well, maybe when the production went on hiatus. She resolved to be less preoccupied with her worldly concerns when she returned home for good, and return to her semi-regular Mass schedule.

  Attendance at Mr. Bob’s service felt sparse. In addition to it being her first Mass in nearly two months, Lacey realized this was her second funeral in as many months. Though Mr. Bob’s was about as opposite a Hollywood funeral as one was likely to get.

  There would be no gathering at Ms. PJ’s house after the funeral. But Angele asked Lacey if she would stop by later, anyway.

  She had a few
hours before Angele expected her, and her parents weren’t ready to get back on the road. With time to kill, Lacey and her folks went to lunch in Metairie. The hibachi restaurant had been a favorite of both her mom and her the whole time they’d lived in St. Mary’s parish. Her dad would just have to suffer through it.

  Lacey was anxious all through lunch. She wanted to talk to Angele, she wanted to talk to Tonti, she wanted to get down to the Bywater before she left Sunday night. She was particularly anxious about the person she arranged to meet in the Bywater.

  Angele’s mom, Ms. PJ, still lived in the same house where Angele had grown up. Lacey grew up across the street and two doors down. But her parents had sold that house and moved to New Roads about ten years ago. Lacey felt transported into the past the moment Ms. PJ opened the door and let her into the foyer. It still smelled of lemongrass, same as it had every time Lacey sought to escape her well-intentioned but annoying mother and hang out with Angele.

  Lacey wondered if Ms. PJ still bought the incense out at the Vietnamese market. She’d complain how everyone would speak to her in Vietnamese, and she’d answer back in her native Thai, until finally they’d complete the transaction in broken English.

  Ms. PJ asked Lacey to sit down, and proceeded into the kitchen. She knew she was putting a kettle on. She heard two voices speaking Thai. Lacey recognized Angele’s voice, and wondered why she hadn’t met her at the door. She got up from the dining room table and tentatively poked her head into the kitchen.

  “May I come in?” she asked.

  “No, no, Lacey, you sit down. You relax,” Ms. PJ said.

  “Mother, let her come in,” Angele scolded. “Maybe Lacey doesn’t want to be alone.”

  “Fine. But don’t look, Lacey. I don’t want to give away any of my secrets.” Ms. PJ winked at her. It was an old parlay from when Lacey was a kid and would pester Ms. PJ for cooking lessons.

  Funny how her desire to cook had completely dissipated by the time she married Fox.

  Lacey smiled. Ms. PJ looked tired, but not especially sad. “Are you doing okay, Ms. PJ?”

  “Oh, fine. But I miss Bah. I never knew how different it would be around here.”

  “I’m so sorry, Ms. PJ. I don’t know if I got the chance to tell you at the church.”

  “It’s okay. He’s been sick. Sick for a while.”

  Lacey looked to Angele.

  “Mother, we’ll be in the living room.”

  Lacey followed Angele to the small and tidy living room. The furniture was all the same, arranged the same way as it had been since Angele and Lacey were teenagers. Mr. Bob’s well-worn recliner looked like a shrine.

  “Lee,” Lacey started.

  Angele held up her hand. “Look. There’s nothing you could have done for him. His health had been declining for a long time.”

  Lacey had a million things she wanted to say, but held her tongue.

  Angele brought her voice down to a whisper. “And doing your thing would have freaked Mom out in a big way. I wouldn’t know how to explain it to her.”

  “You could have still mentioned to me how sick he was. Normal friends share things. Why did you assume I’d feel like I’d have to try . . . my thing?”

  Lacey still had a hard time naming her ability. And she wouldn’t let on to Angele that her assumption was correct—she would have felt compelled to help Mr. Bob.

  “Because I know you. And look, it all happened really quickly. He was stable but not great for a few days after the surgery, and then, last week, it all went downhill pretty quick.”

  Lacey nodded. Looking at Mr. Bob’s recliner, she said, “All this time, I never knew his name was Robert E. Lee.” She still had the funeral program in her purse, with a photo that had to be from twenty years ago emblazoned on the front. The name above it read “Robert Eugene Lee.”

  “Yeah. He hated it. That’s why he always insisted on Bob or Bobby.”

  Angele adjusted herself on the loveseat. Sounds of Ms. PJ bustling in the kitchen carried into the living room.

  Lacey lowered her voice. “How’s your mom doing, really? Do you think she’s going to stay here?”

  “God, I hope so. Because if I wind up moving back, and then she goes somewhere else, I’m going to be pissed.”

  Lacey cocked her head. “You’re really thinking about moving back?”

  “Yeah. Or at least making here home base. I’ll still be traveling for locations, as long as I can pick up work.”

  Lacey was instantly glad her foray into movie production would be so short-lived. She always thought she wouldn’t like the lack of job security, but was surprised to learn that what she really hated was being away from home for so long.

  “I’ll sure appreciate having you around a little more.” Lacey looked at Angele sideways.

  “The way things have been between us lately, I’m not sure I believe you.” Angele sat stiffly on the loveseat as she said it. She was never one to dance around things. That was Lacey’s job.

  “But, you’re thinking you’re done with production accounting?” Angele continued.

  Lacey caught herself fidgeting in her chair. She stopped and said, “Yeah. I’ve been thinking of a new career. But I’m not ready to drop what you just said.”

  She realized she didn’t feel like dancing around Angele’s attitude anymore.

  “What’s more to say?” Angele said. “People grow up, people change, friendships change. Hell, you’ve had multiple massive changes in just the past year and a half. You can’t expect us to be the same as we were when the biggest things we had to worry about were our faces breaking out before prom. Which yours never did, by the way.”

  Lacey leaned forward. “I always thought friends would be the ones to stand by you through the changes,” she said quietly.

  Angele pulled back, flattening her spine against the loveseat. “I have been standing by you. Pointing out the things you’re too naïve to see. But you still don’t listen.”

  Lacey’s naiveté was suddenly glaringly apparent to her. She’d been naïve to try to hang onto a friendship with someone who had such a low opinion of her. Angele’s no-quarter-given demeanor had been a good balance to Lacey when they were growing up. But Angele’s edges were significantly sharper now. And Lacey was smarter than she used to be.

  “I guess you’re right,” was all Lacey said. “Friendships do change.”

  “So what’s the new career you’re thinking of?” Angele said, relaxing, apparently ready to drop the subject.

  Lacey was also ready to move on, but not so sure she wanted to share her new vocation with Angele. “It’s something I could do anywhere, and especially in New Orleans.”

  “Exotic dancer?” Angele deadpanned.

  Lacey shook her head. Remembering that Angele’s father had just died, she was trying to be sensitive to her feelings. But she wasn’t sure she had any.

  “Well, what? It won’t be so bad having you around here when I’m in town.”

  “A ringing endorsement of our friendship,” Lacey said. “I’m thinking of becoming an EMT.”

  Lacey did not expect Angele’s reaction. Her best friend began to howl with laughter. Which quickly turned into her obnoxious, staccato laugh.

  The sounds of bustling in the kitchen stopped.

  “Glad you find my life’s calling so amusing.”

  “No, I think it’s perfect! But you’ve heard about all the drugs they do, haven’t you? To keep them going through those long hours? I can just see you getting paired with some beefed-up junkie.”

  “Oh, God. Please?” Lacey was trying to watch her language, with Ms. PJ within earshot. “Why is it me always making bad choices with you? Why can’t it be about the work? Don’t you think this kind of work is something . . . somewhere I could really make a difference?”

  “Sure, healing gunshot victims. Giving
them a temporary reprieve. And you pining after your partner, Biff Responder.”

  Lacey cringed and held her forehead with her hand. She didn’t want to tackle either of Angele’s insults. They belied what she thought of Lacey, and of humanity in general.

  “Well, long story short, I really appreciate all you did to get me on the movie out in Cali,” Lacey said. “It’s been fun, but it’s also helped me figure out what I do—and don’t—want to do for the rest of my life.”

  And just like that, Lacey realized she wanted less of Angele in the rest of her life. Maybe she’d been conditioned to lean upon Angele’s friendship in the past, and maybe that just didn’t make sense anymore.

  Ms. PJ entered the living room with a teapot and three cups on a tray. “What’s so funny, Gelee?” she asked her daughter.

  “Nothing, just Lacey, Mother.” Her back had stiffened again. “You know she’s always been able to get my funny bone.”

  “I know, always so serious. That’s why I was always glad when you come around, Lacey.” She poured three cups of tea and sat across from Lacey and Angele. “Get her to loosen up. I don’t know how she got so serious. Me and Bah not like that.”

  Lacey asked Ms. PJ if she still made it to daily Mass. Angele rolled her eyes, excused herself, and said she’d return momentarily. Both Ms. PJ and Lacey let out a sigh when Angele was out of sight.

  29

  Lacey was instantly charmed by the cypress wood storefront, painted a cheery red with big white letters welcoming passersby to the Bywater Bakery. It had opened while she had been in California, and she had wistfully read the reviews during her daily perusal of the news back home.

  She thought it perfect that Nathan had suggested it for a meeting place. It was near to the other stop she needed to make in the Bywater, and this gave her the perfect excuse to try it out.

  Something about the place made her less nervous. Because the thought of seeing Nathan again threatened to throw off any shred of equilibrium she possessed.

  Her heart was in her throat as she walked through the front door. A bright young face behind the counter smiled at her. The aroma of freshly baked bread made her instantly hungry. Lacey looked around the assorted tables and counters, set against big picture windows. An older couple ate in comfortable silence, a group of five likely students debated over cups of coffee in a sheltered corner on the back wall. No sign of Nathan.