CHAPTER 12
Lu-Anne
Baking is not my forte. Baking when it’s already as freaking hot as an inferno outside is just silly, but the day after Wade stopped by to “fix” my AC, I’m still attempting it.
Attempting being the keyword here. I tried texting Leanne to come over and help, code for I wanted to debrief her on everything I found out about Mr. Mob—I mean Wade—last night, but she’s in the middle of writing some huge, epic ass paper, and she refuses to leave her mounds of books and stacks of research for a good gossip session. I settled for texting her that my suspicions about Wade turned out to be unfounded. She responded back with a what do you know, your neighbor isn’t a mobster after all kind of sarcastic reply.
I decided that after all the crazy stuff I’ve done, maybe I should do something neighborly to make up for it. I’m now ninety percent sure Wade is just a normal guy. What he told me last night explains everything—the rolled-up rugs and the plastic in his living room. If I was smarter and not so overly paranoid, I think I would have noticed it before, given that his kitchen was ripped apart when I walked in there. The sex doll blow up thing is weird, but hey, to each their own. It was actually sent to him by someone. He didn’t order it himself, and it appeared to be a joke.
I made a shit pile mountain of assumptions out of a tiny little molehill, or however the saying goes. Anyway, I feel pretty ridiculous after the conversation I had with Wade last night. He even explained his tattoos. So, instead of doing the writing that I should be doing, I’m now furiously attempting a second pie.
Yes, a second one, because the first one I made came out black when I got distracted with cleaning up the kitchen and forgot to set a timer. My grandma’s oven is also really old and not the most reliable at temperature settings because the pie wasn’t nearly in there long enough to come out as black as it did. At least, I didn’t think it was in there that long. But when I got it out, it resembled a lump of charcoal and was virtually unidentifiable as an actual pie.
I had to open all the windows to air the clouds of smoke out of the house, but now I’m standing in front of the oven, watching my second pie turn golden brown. I’m leaving no room for error here.
After ten minutes of watching the oven like a freaking hawk, I slide the pie out. It’s a blueberry pie since it seemed like the easiest thing to make, and I happened to have a few clamshells of berries in the fridge. A few, meaning a lot, considering I have a habit of overbuying when there’s a sale.
I set the pie on top of the oven to cool and shut everything down. I’ve already cleaned up the kitchen. While the pie is cooling, I figure going into the bathroom to make myself presentable isn’t a bad idea.
It’s hot, and I’ve made the house even hotter by running the oven for nearly two hours. I probably smell like burned pie smoke. My hair feels sweaty, and my whole body feels damp and clammy.
A quick shower fixes everything. I put my wet hair into a braid and throw on just a touch of makeup. Maybe Wade won’t even be home. Maybe I just baked a pie for myself. Maybe he won’t answer the door, in which case, I’ll just leave the pie wrapped up with a note. But it might just attract porch pirates. If it does, though, I still have all the cameras mounted on my house.
As I wrap the pie up in a clean tea towel and write a quick note expressing my thanks for looking at the AC, I make a mental note to call about having those cameras taken down.
I really don’t know what I was thinking.
I don’t understand how I could have been so silly about everything. How could I really have assumed that Wade was into something shady? I guess it was just my imagination. Leanne was right.
I head out into the heat of the afternoon, which instantly makes my yellow maxi dress cling to my body. I feel like I’m getting a second shower, but this time, it’s my own perspiration doing it. I guess I should have saved the actual shower for later.
I hesitate before I ring the bell. I’m standing here, pie in hand, looking like a complete idiot. But this can’t be any worse than breaking into his freaking house and getting caught, I tell myself. Just ring the bell. Give him your peace offering.
I finally do press the doorbell and wait. A few minutes tick by, followed by a few more. The sun is unrelenting, and I feel like I’m going to sizzle to a crisp just like the first pie did. I’m about to give up and go back home—pie and all—when the door opens.