Page 45 of Heidi Lucy Loses Her Mind
“Noodles,” she says, and her eyes narrow. “With her stupid little head poof and her constant escape attempts and her snooty owner—”
“Speak for yourself,” I say with a snort. “If that Poodle hadn’t run into my townhome, you and I probably wouldn’t have met. You would have no one in your life with a man bun, and you would be devastated.”
“Well, that’s true,” she says. My stomach flips at her little smile. “Come on. Let’s go.”
The weather is perfect today, sunny and warm with a cool breeze that makes the world dance. It makes me forget for a second that we’re here to ask a man about his mother’s death; all I want to do is lie down on the pavement with Heidi next to me and soak up the sun.
She doesn’t seem to share my feelings; she more or less marches up the driveway, her hair swinging behind her, and I lengthen my stride to keep up. When I look over at her, her face is set in a mask of determination.
She’s in the mood to get stuffdone.
I hide my smile and shove my hands in my pockets. This is one of Heidi’s main settings: Productive Heidi.
I watch as she lifts one hand to knock on the front door, as enraptured as I am curious. But she hesitates for only the briefest of seconds before delivering three firm raps, the sound carrying.
There are so many times this woman seems fearless. It makes me want to pull her close to my chest when I see those rare flashes of vulnerability. I would happily run around behind her for the rest of my life, following her as she changes the world, providing her a safe place to retreat when she needs to rest.
I shake my head, giving my cheek a few firm pats. Now is not the time to get mushy.
But my focus is pulled to the task at hand a few seconds later, when the door swings open, revealing a petite woman with dark hair and a hesitant smile, beautiful but not in the prime of her youth.
“Hi,” she says, looking back and forth between Heidi and me.
“Hi,” Heidi says quickly. “Is Phil home? We were wondering if we could talk to him for a moment.” Heidi can clearly read this woman’s wariness as well as I can; she keeps her voice light and cheerful, her expression open.
It works; the woman visibly relaxes as she nods. “Of course; I’m his wife. Just a minute, please.”
She leaves the door gaping as she turns and begins to retreat into the townhome, calling up the stairs that are barely visible from where we stand. “Phil, you have guests!”
A few seconds later a man appears as his wife disappears; he swings the door wider and steps forward to meet us.
“Hello,” he says, looking as wary as his wife.
“Phil?” Heidi says, moving closer and holding out her hand. “I’m not sure if you remember me,” she says. “I’m—”
“Oh,” he cuts her off, looking faintly surprised. “You’re the bookstore lady.”
“I am,” Heidi says with a nod. “I’m Heidi from Paper Patisserie.” She’s still holding her hand out for him to shake, but he doesn’t take it.
“Where my mom died,” he says instead, looking at Heidi with renewed interest.
I try to hide my shock, but I think my eyebrows still twitch. He doesn’t seem brokenhearted. He doesn’t even seem sad. I’m well aware that everyone grieves in their own way, but…how many people could speak so casually about such a recent death?
And he’s still not shaking her hand. Why isn’t he shaking her hand?
She lets her hand fall back to her side, somehow making the movement look natural instead of awkward. “I was wondering if we could chat with you for a minute,” she says now, and although you’d never notice it if you didn’t know her, I can see the questions in her eyes. “This is Soren,” she adds, gesturing to me. “He was also present at the time of—of your mother’s passing.”
“We’re sorry for your loss,” I say automatically. Then I cringe. It’s fine, I guess, but it just feels so cliché. Besides, this man hardly looks like he’s in mourning.
“Thanks,” he says, his eyes darting back and forth between us. “Uh, sure. If it really is a minute. I’ve got to run in a bit. I work from home, but I’ve got a few meetings.” He glances down at his wristwatch, a shiny, expensive-looking piece.
In fact, everything about him is flashy. He looks remarkably like Carmina—the same haughty features more roughly hewn on him. And I never thought I would have anything good to say about the woman, but looking at her son, I can’t help my comparison. Where Carmina gave off the appearance of high class, her son gives off a distinct feeling of sleaziness; he’s in his late forties, maybe, with his dark hair slicked back. His fitted suit doesn’t quite hide a paunch, and his cufflinks are somehow too shiny.
He looks like he’s compensating for something, like a man who’s deeply insecure and is trying to hide it by piling on all the bells and whistles. It’s the opposite of how Carmina behaved; she acted like sheknewshe was better than everyone else, like she was so confident that she didn’t even feel the need to prove it. The people around her were beneath her notice.
But Phil Hildegarde seems to me like a man who’s desperately concerned with what other people think of him.
I shake my head, barely stopping myself from rolling my eyes. I’m being ridiculous, jumping to conclusions left and right based on flash judgments. This is the problem with being an author; your mind dissects everything and everyone as though you’re going to be writing about them, because writing is how you understand the world. You turn regular people into characters and regular events into plot twists.
