Page 79 of Heidi Lucy Loses Her Mind
“Should we go, or do you want to wait?” he says.
“It’s a little early for dinner,” I say, “but I think we could go ahead.”
He nods. “Whatever you want. I’m in no rush.”
I look at him for a moment. It’s the first time we’ve been alone since the hot springs earlier, when I let myself touch his chest and kiss his cheek and tell him I like him. And I shouldn’t be thinking about those things right now, because this issonot the time, but the awareness settles over me before I can will it away.
There are so many new things happening in my life right now. I’ve never been in a mature romantic relationship. I’ve never lost my memory. I’ve never investigated a death. But somehow all those things are taking up space in my brain at the same time, bleeding into each others’ territories, and it’s confusing. It feels wrong to have feelings for someone while simultaneously worrying about a murdered woman, because how could those two things possibly coexist?
And yet, as I steal another glance at Soren, that little stomach flip happens again.
I clear my throat, which of course does nothing for all the flip-flopping my stomach is doing. “Let’s go.”
Our drive to the restaurant is mostly silent, which is good, because it gives me time to dissect all the crazy feelings rolling around behind my sternum. There’s excitement and happiness and anticipation but also wariness and hesitation and fear, and I don’t know what to do with all of that. I really don’t. I’m not afeelingsgirl. I never have been. I’ve always experienced and then dealt with things quietly and in my own time.
I ghost my fingers over the bandage on my forehead; there’s barely even a twinge of pain, but I take comfort in it all the same, soaking it up, tasting it. That twinge is sharp and sweet now, rather than hot and angry—like the opening notes of a song being played on the guitar.
I survived a blow to the head. I’ve faced down pain sharp and sweet, hot and angry, dull and throbbing—I can certainly survive a few unruly emotions and whatever hurts they twist up.
“Heidi,” Soren says quietly, and I jump.
“Yeah,” I say, looking at him.
He nods out the windshield. “We’re here.”
He’s right, I realize with a start. We’ve arrived at Chateau Marche, and I didn’t even notice.
“All right,” I say, sitting up straighter and peering out the window. The parking lot is about half full; not too much of an audience, then.
The girl at the hostess stand is probably in her twenties, and she’s wearing a crisp black and white uniform. She gives us a smile and doesn’t comment on our casual clothing, which is very nice of her, considering this place wants seventeen dollars for a freaking salad.
“Table for two?” she says, still smiling, but I shake my head.
“We actually would love to speak to the owner for a moment, if that’s all right? Or maybe the chef?” I say. I keep my voice friendly and cheerful so that she doesn’t think I’m about to lodge a complaint. “It will only take a minute.”
The hostess’s smile slips slightly, but after a few seconds of looking back and forth between Soren and me, she nods. “Of course,” she says. “This way, please.”
“Thank you so much,” I say.
She nods again, and we follow her as she weaves through the restaurant, past the elegantly laid tables and the dead-eyed animal heads on wall plaques. She slows as we pass through a doorway and into a hall, approaching a man and a woman standing outside what looks like the kitchen.
“Mr. Manniford,” she says, gesturing back at us. “You have visitors.”
The man looks at us impassively, and then he nods to the hostess. “Thank you,” he says stiffly. She turns and heads back in the direction we came, leaving us.
Mr. Manniford then looks at the woman he’s been talking to; a waitress, I think, short and mousy. “Tell table seven we can do the substitution, but since our meat is fresh instead of frozen, it will take a few more moments.”
She nods and then bustles off.
When she’s out of sight, I look at the man.
“Hi,” I say, giving him the most genuine smile I’m capable of. “My name is Heidi. I was wondering if I could talk to you for a moment. It won’t be long,” I add.
Manniford looks me over appraisingly, assessing. Then he nods, one short, quick jerk of his head.
I hesitate, glancing quickly at Soren. The man nodded, but he didn’t say anything—does that mean yes?
But Soren shrugs his broad shoulders. He clearly doesn’t know either.
