Page 82 of Heidi Lucy Loses Her Mind
I keep my eyes on her long enough to watch her tuck some hair behind her ear, and then I sigh.
“I promised I would help you, and I will,” I say, flicking the turn signal on. “But I feel like I should just remind you that we have no authority to speak of, and Phil and Elsie might not be so receptive if we show up a second time.”
“I know,” she says, her voice quieter now. “I know they might slam the door in our faces.”
“Or file a harassment claim,” I say, and I try not to let the strain show in my words. “We’re walking a potentially thin line here.”
What we’reactuallydoing is running around like chickens with our heads cut off; it’s disorganized, chaotic, and stressful. I’m a plotter; I like to know what’s going to happen. But I guess you can’t plot real life, and you can’t predict human beings. I didn’t know that the police were going to shut down Paper Patisserie; I didn’t know that Heidi and I would fall under suspicion. I definitely didn’t know that Carmina Hildegarde would die right in front of us, leaving us with the haunting memory of her last words.
“I know we’re walking a fine line,” she says. “But I don’t know what else to do. I can’t sit around and wait.”
I can understand Heidi’s frantic desire to figure out what happened to the woman. I really can.
Which is why instead of arguing, I just nod.
We fall back into silence, but it’s uneasy now. Heidi’s fingers are drumming on her thigh, and when I glance over at her, her face is tense.
It’s tempting to succumb to the chaos and stress that keep growing inside me as we delve further and further into this mystery, but I do my best to keep a level head. I distract myself from the swirling thoughts and emotions by paying extra attention to the road in front of me, to the cars and the trees and the stoplights.
When my mind drifts to my current work in progress, I reluctantly allow it. Juniper’s feedback was surprisingly enthusiastic, but my worries still haven’t eased. I can’t seem to get out of my own head about this book or my writing or the expectations people have for me.
Sometimes I think writing was the most fun and the most rewarding when nobody was reading my work but me. There were no expectations, no advances to earn out, no publishers to keep happy. It was just me and my characters and the worlds in my mind.
I wonder what it would be like to go back and read my earlier work now that I’ve got several books under my belt. Would I be impressed with myself, or would I cringe? Would I be able to feel the passion bleeding through on the page, the passion I felt when I was writing only for myself?
I make a mental note to dig out that first manuscript tonight, the one no one wanted. What could it hurt?
I’m jerked back to the present when I almost miss our turn; Heidi taps on my arm in time for me to make it.
“Sorry,” I mutter as I silently apologize to the traffic gods for not using the turn signal. I follow the now-familiar path to Carmina’s townhome, once again reminding myself that I need to look for a different place to live.
When we reach the duplex, I pull up in front and park on the street. Parking in the driveway feels too invasive, considering we’re uninvited.
“I want you to know,” I say, “that it goes against every fiber of my being to show up here unannounced.”
“Mine too,” Heidi says with a little shiver. “Unannounced guests are my worst nightmare. And it does feel a little underhanded,” she admits, “but I think it will be easier for them to shut us down over the phone than it will be in person.”
She’s probably right. I climb out of the car, and she does the same, the slamming of the car doors echoing down the strangely quiet street. A shiver runs down my spine as I look at the rows of townhomes, though I couldn’t tell you why.
“This neighborhood gives me the creeps,” I say.
“Me too,” she says, craning her neck to glance around. “It feels like there’s no one here. I don’t even hear any animals.”
I take a deep breath. “Let’s get this over with,” I say, “so we can get out of here.” Because Maplewood somehow feels like it’s part of a different world than our little town square, and I’m eager to return to the checkered floor and well-loved bookshelves of Paper Patisserie.
The walk up the driveway feels too long, and I feel strangely exposed, like a deer in a clearing might fear a hunter. It’s a ridiculous thought, because I’m not a forest creature, and I’m certainly not being hunted. But I hurry all the same, and I can’t help but notice that Heidi matches my footsteps without question. We approach the front door without speaking.
“Wait,” I say at the last minute, reaching out and grabbing her arm. My fingers wrap around her wrist easily, like they’re meant to be there, like touching her is what I was made to do. “Hang on.”
Heidi lets her hand fall, but I don’t let go of her wrist. I just keep holding onto her as she looks at me. “What is it?” she says, her eyebrows raised.
I clear my throat. “We’re barging in here without asking and without authority. His mom just died. So just like last time we came…if it seems like he’s grieving or having a hard time, we should leave.”
Heidi nods slowly, her eyes narrowing as she thinks, her gaze drifting toward the front door she was about to knock on. “That’s fair,” she finally says, looking back to me. “Definitely.” Then she sighs. “I don’t want to make any of them feel worse, and I don’t want to disturb them when they’re grieving. I won’t push if they clearly seem upset.”
I nod too, relief trickling in.
“Anything else?” she says, cocking her brow at me.
