Meet Me on Love Lane

by Nina Bocci

  “No, it’s not. She was always looking for a reason to give me the boot. The cupcake incident just added to it.”

  “Still, I’m sorry. I should have done my due diligence with that order. I knew they were for her, but it was just so busy that day—I let the assistants handle that one and never checked what the message was.”

  Parker’s bakery, known for its brutally worded messages, had delivered a dozen cupcakes to Gabby. They were ordered by her philandering husband.

  “It’s not your fault that her husband was cheating,” I told her.

  “With her sister.”

  “Still, where he dips his nib isn’t your fault. Or mine for that matter.”

  “No, it’s not, but if it wasn’t for his message on my signature Bananas Foster cupcakes, she wouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

  I snorted. “Maybe not, but it is what it is. I can’t keep losing sleep over it. Besides, I’m here now, and maybe she’ll find someone new to torture.”

  “You’re so positive! This trip is working already.”

  I tried to focus on that sentiment. “It’ll be good for me to help my dad with Gigi. She’s getting older, and although he won’t admit it, I know he could use the help. And let’s be honest, I’ve been a pretty lousy granddaughter when it comes to visiting her.”

  As in not coming back to visit in—checked watch—twenty-one years …

  “Yeah, but they loved coming to visit you in between all of your dad’s incredible service trips. It’s not like you haven’t seen them often,” she insisted, knowing how much I loved having both my dad and Gigi come to visit me in New York. “Remember how much fun Gigi has here?”

  I nodded into the darkness. The rumble of an engine drew my attention. “I think the Uber is here.”

  Sure enough, a large diesel-engine truck pulled into the lot, headlights streaming across the cracked pavement. The driver was shrouded in the darkness of the vehicle. He didn’t look like he was going to come out and help me with my bags. What a gentleman.

  “Don’t hang up. Keep me in your pocket until you’re delivered to your dad’s doorstep!” Parker insisted.

  “It’s like I’m a pizza.” I laughed. I stood, slipping the phone into my shorts pocket.

  Pulling up the first suitcase, I tipped my chin up toward the truck bed. “Can I put everything back there?” I shouted through the partially open window.

  As I asked, he picked up his cell phone. The brightness of the screen highlighted his face. Thankfully, he didn’t look like a serial killer.

  Neither did Ted Bundy.

  Waving me back, he started yelling into his cell.

  “Great, this will be a fine addition to the trip from hell,” I mumbled. Then the first raindrop plopped onto my forehead.

  I hurried as best I could with flip-flops on, running back and forth to lug the suitcases. I did a pretty good job, considering some didn’t have working wheels. The truck bed was thankfully empty, and had one of those covers over the top in case of rain.

  Just my luck, by the time I slid the last suitcase inside, the skies opened up in a light summer rain. At least my things didn’t get soaked.

  * * *

  THE RIDE WAS painfully quiet. The driver didn’t mutter a single word to me except for “Sit on the plastic bag in the back,” when he saw that I was wet. Parker was still listening quietly in my pocket. This was the perfect setup for a murderous tale. After all, I was in the middle of nowheresville, in a truck that barely functioned, with a man I didn’t know. I pulled out my phone and was texting Parker from the small back seat he’d wedged me into, the plastic sheet crinkling under my butt.

  ME: If I die, I’m going to be so pissed.

  PARKS AND REC: You won’t be anything but dead. I, on the other hand, will be super pissed. Don’t haunt me either. That’ll just piss me off more.

  ME: This is absurd.

  Thankfully, a WELCOME TO HOPE LAKE sign welcomed us about a half hour later. It was slightly faded and weather-chipped around the edges. It hung crookedly on a tall wooden pillar at the edge of town. Like the town it would soon welcome me to, it had seen better days.

  Stop being so negative, Charlotte.

  I tamped down the snarky response but only for a second. A streetlamp above the sign flickered to life, highlighting something I’d missed on the first pass. What was more depressing than the beat-up sign was the small oval plaque attached to its bottom.

  POP: 9,723

  Nine thousand seven hundred and twenty-three. Total.

  My street in Brooklyn had more people than that.

  As we drove into town, the sun was trying to color the sky pink after the rainfall. Even though I was exhausted, miserable, and soaking wet, I could admit that it was a stunning landscape: something I wasn’t used to seeing over the concrete jungle around my apartment. The tree-lined horizon was a sight to behold as we took the last hill over another pair of unused tracks that led into the Carey Mountains.

  The beautiful scenery wasn’t the only thing that I was examining. Google Maps was providing me with a clear path to follow …

  To make sure he was actually taking me back to Hope Lake. He is.

  To see if anything at all looked familiar. It doesn’t.

  How could that be? How much could change in a place in two decades? Probably not much, I wagered.

  ME: I have to admit something weird.

  PARKS AND REC: Oh boy. Do I need wine? It’s a little early—even for me.

  ME: No, ass. I was just going to say that this place doesn’t look familiar. Like, at all.

  PARKS AND REC: Nothing? Not even your dad’s place?

  ME: Just got into town. Haven’t gotten there yet.

  “Are you sure this is Hope Lake?” I looked skeptically out the dirty window. “I mean, there isn’t another one, right?” We had just ventured into what appeared to be a newer residential area, with rows of beautifully maintained townhomes. Another sign appeared just after that development that said we were heading toward the historical section of town. When did that happen?

  The driver snorted. “This is it. The one and only Hope Lake. Listen, the request just said to bring you here, there wasn’t a real address plugged in. Unless One-Two-Three Anywhere Street, Hope Lake, actually exists.”

  Oh, Parker. “It’s Dr. Bishop’s place on Main Street,” I explained. “One-Forty-Five, please.”

  Nodding, he made a sharp U-turn next to an entrance to the school campus. It looked like that hadn’t changed much. At least not from what I remembered. I was at the elementary school for only a couple of years before we moved.

  As the sun cut through the trees, I found myself leaning against the window, amazed at the town’s welcoming appearance. “Are you sure this is Hope Lake?” I asked again, disbelievingly.

  “Lady, are you high?”

  I scoffed. “No, I’m just trying to figure out why nothing looks familiar. Or dilapidated.”

  “When was the last time you were here?”

  “A long time ago,” I said flatly. My eyes were seeing the well-kept buildings, the newly planted flowers, and the maintained yards. New sidewalks lined the streets, and businesses looked ready to open instead of being shuttered. No matter how much I stared, my brain wasn’t processing it. Whether it was from lack of sleep or just disbelief, I wasn’t sure, but I’d be finding out soon enough.

  “A lot has changed. Especially in the past year and a half with the new mayor,” the driver said.

  He turned onto Main Street. Just like every other part of town we’d driven through, nothing looked familiar.

  ME: Just pulling up now.

  ME: Parks, I lived here for the first ten years of my life.

  ME: Nothing looks the same.

  ME: Not even the house.

  The two-story, brick-front home looked like it had just been cleaned up. The black shutters appeared newly painted. The landscaping boasted beautiful hydrangea bushes, a pair of holly shrubs, and a rhododendron. At each o
f the lower windows hung sturdy black flower boxes that exploded with gorgeous chartreuse potato vines, blue lobelia, red dracaena, and yellow million bells.

  It made me wonder if there was a florist in town who needed some help from a disgraced and blacklisted flower junkie and event planner. Not that they need to know that I am disgraced. I could be anything that I wanted to be here. My lousy history didn’t have to follow me back. I could be successful, revered, impressive. An admired astronaut or lauded lawyer or even a talented teacher.

  I laughed to myself. Or someone who loved alliteration way too much.

  As I stared up at the house, Parker’s words from earlier played in my head on repeat before I hung up. Start of something new …

  Whatever this trip to Hope Lake turned out to be, one thing stayed the same: I had to make the most of it.

  Entering the house was a good place to start. And yet …

  My grandmother, whom I had always called Gigi, loved her bright-red office door. She felt that it welcomed everyone into the practice. It did have an addition to it, though: a large bicycle wheel covered in white anemones, hanging from the front door like a wreath. It definitely wasn’t something I would ever think Gigi would pick out, but there it was. It seemed that my dad left the door the same when he took over.

  As my eyes scanned the building, the sun winked against the familiar brass plaque just to the left of the front door. My chest warmed seeing that it still read THE DOCTORS BISHOP: DR. IMOGEN BISHOP & DR. ANDREW BISHOP. I wondered why they didn’t take the sign down to reflect Gigi’s retirement.

  As I contemplated my next move, my phone buzzed with a response text from Parker.

  PARKS AND REC: It’s been years, C. I’m sure a lot has changed. P.S. Glad you’re not dead.

  ME: Yet we don’t know how my dad will react.

  PARKS AND REC: Oh, please.

  PARKS AND REC: I’ll probably hear his joyful crying from here.

  PARKS AND REC: Call me after a nap.

  PARKS AND REC: Love you.

  ME: You too.

  “Lady.”

  Startled, I jumped. “Sorry, what?” I’d been so zoned out I had forgotten all about him.

  “Are you going to get out or just sit here staring at the building?” the driver asked, turning around with an annoyed expression. “I got another call back in Mount Hazel.”

  I shook my head to clear it. “Sorry about that. I feel like I’m lost. I mean I was lost in thought.” I stopped myself. This guy couldn’t care less about my life story.

  Stuffing my phone into my purse, I slid out of the truck, the plastic bag I was sitting on stuck to my butt. I sighed, mentally measuring the distance between the sidewalk and the porch with ten steep steps leading up to the front door.

  Just like before, the driver didn’t offer any help with my luggage, instead choosing to play Candy Crush on his phone. By the time I got to the last suitcase, I’d added his rudeness to the list of why I already hated it here.

  After he’d pulled away, I sat on the top step, leaning against the pile of what made up my life. The town hadn’t quite opened up yet. There was a startling difference between the little shops of Hope Lake and those on my street in Brooklyn. There were no pull-down cages to cover the front doors. From my vantage point, it didn’t look like the doors were deadbolted or hardwired with a security system.

  Across the street there was a grouping of small businesses, not a chain store in sight, which was refreshing. A tiny bookstore, a small café that looked like it sold coffee and ice cream. I made a mental note to visit that one later.

  As I glanced around the office’s small porch, I noted that all the store signage was bright, cheerful, and free of cracks or chips, at least from where I was standing. Maybe it was an odd thing to focus on, but when you expect the place to resemble something out of a dystopian novel, you tend to pick up the small and odd details.

  The one thing that was similar to New York was that the birds were loud, chirping away on the tree-lined streets surrounding the office/house where I’d be living for the next however many months.

  Months.

  I had a lot of unanswered questions. The living arrangement had been on the top of the list. Something about the unusual burst of flowers outside the office made me think, Maybe Dad has a girlfriend. It wasn’t something that we ever brought up. My parents’ personal lives after their contentious divorce was a no-fly zone that all of us respected. Right up until my mother’s death, I had no idea if she was seeing someone. It was something that neither parent ever brought up with me around.

  If my father did have someone staying here with him, I wasn’t about to cramp their style by staying in the house.

  Where am I going to go?

  Know what would help?

  A plan.

  I ignored my darkening thoughts and stood up to stretch. There was a police car circling the roundabout that surrounded the town square. As the sun brightened the sky, burning off any remnants of the rain and fog, I found myself unable to focus on anything but one word.

  Sleep.

  That was the goal, at least. Except the policeman slowed his cruiser in front of the building, quickly flashing his lights for a moment, almost as if it was accidental. Or as if he thought I was a hardened criminal who had just robbed the place and decided to take in the sunrise with my stolen goods.

  “Can I help you, miss? The doc doesn’t open until eight,” he said through the opened passenger window. He shifted, glancing around me to see the suitcases. “Ma’am?”

  I didn’t want to shout, given that one of the ground-floor office windows was open. Descending the front stairs, I smiled at him, remembering him, sort of. He looked the same as he’d been back when I was ten, still pudgy around the middle, but his once-black hair was heavily salted at the temples now.

  “Do you remember me, Officer Birdy?” I asked, smiling. I tried remembering the last time I had seen him. At school? Maybe at the house during one of my parents’ riotous fights? That wasn’t it. There was a memory scratching at the surface that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

  He tapped the badge on his chest. “It’s Chief Birdy now,” he said proudly, his whiskery mustache still curled up at the edges when he smiled. “And you?” He paused to take a good look at me.

  Twenty-one years later and I still had the same curly reddish-brown hair that never seemed to do what I wanted. At least with it shoulder-length, the waywardness didn’t appear so unintentional. Though I did still look a lot like Little Orphan Annie.

  I smirked as my identity dawned on him. “My goodness, I dare say you’re Doc Bishop’s little Charlotte. I’d recognize you anywhere.”

  His little Charlotte.

  I guess that’s how people here remembered me. The only child of the prominent small-town doctor and his always-wandering ex-wife. I would forever be “little Charlotte,” regardless of my age.

  Birdy slapped the steering wheel excitedly. “What brings you home?”

  This is not my home. I swallowed the first answer that popped up, instead blurting out, “Just visiting!” I hoped it sounded genuine, but judging by the look on his face, I’d failed.

  Word traveled fast in a town like this, and soon, people would be waking up to the breaking news of the day.

  Charlotte Bishop has returned to Hope Lake.

  It sounded like the opening line of a mystery novel.

  Would my reappearance make the front page of the small-town paper? From what Gigi and my dad have told me, Birdy had a tendency of treating town gossip like it was a campy eighties television drama. The more salacious, the better.

  Would people park themselves outside my father’s office trying to sneak a peek at the girl who had never returned? So much for blending in and not drawing attention to myself.

  Birdy widened his eyes. “How did you get here? Do you have a car? Does your pop know you’re here?”

  Was he interrogating me?

  Why did my first official conversati
on with someone in town have to be with a cop who noticed everything?

  Because you have no plan.

  “Whoa, okay. Slow down,” I said. “I haven’t slept in a while. Bus to Mount Hazel. No. Uber to here. Not yet.”

  He was on a roll. “Why didn’t your dad let us know you’re coming?”

  “Us?” I asked, wondering exactly whom he was referring to.

  He laughed, jolly, like a small-town Santa. “Us is everyone! The town. Why didn’t he let the town know you were coming? We could have done something special.”

  Like what? A parade? I thought, trying to keep myself from laughing at the notion. I would have to practice my wave. Elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist.

  “How long are you staying? Those are a lot of suitcases.”

  What’s with all these questions?

  I held up a hand. “Honestly, I can’t keep up. I’m storing some stuff here since there’s no room in New York. Where I live. Home is New York, but, you know, New York apartments are shoeboxes and all. No, I’m not staying. He doesn’t know I’m here. Surprise.” I laughed awkwardly, realizing I’d said New York three times in twelve seconds.

  Am I trying to convince him or myself that I’m not living here more than the next couple of months?

  I turned to wave my arm toward the suitcases behind me to reiterate that I was just storing things temporarily, but my arm, and purse, swung out … and made contact with someone.

  Turning, I saw that I had hit a well-built man around my age, give or take a year. He was lying on the ground, with one of his hands cupping his nose. Thank God, no blood was spouting out, but judging by how tightly his eyes were squeezed closed, I must have really done a number on him.

  “Oh my God!” I shouted, kneeling beside him on the damp sidewalk. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you. You’re so quiet for being so big!” My hand throbbed from where it had connected with the man’s face, but it was nothing compared to what he must be feeling. I supposed that I knocked the wind out of him because he wasn’t answering. He just kept squeezing his nose and moaning. He was lying on his back, looking a bit dazed when he finally opened his eyes. They were a beautiful shade of blue, like the clear sky that appeared right after a summer storm. There was something so comforting about them.