“Pleasantly, I hope,” she says.
“Yep! Totally.” This comes out so emphatically that I kind of believe myself.
Mrs. Walker doesn’t seem to be buying it. “Logan, you’ve always had a can-do attitude, but not everything you can do. Not everything youshoulddo. Which reminds me, please don’t make me Christmas biscotti again this year, I beg of you.”
I huff out a laugh. Each holiday season, Mrs. Walker and her late husband made biscotti for their neighbors. Ever since I met her, I’ve been baking her a batch during the holidays since she no longer wants to do it without Roman.
Something I learned about Mrs. Walker is that she prefers her biscotti burned to a crisp. According to her, my perfectly golden ones were “expected.” Mrs. Walker’s a don’t-follow-the-recipe kind of person.
“This year you’re getting two boxes,” I say as she laughs and goesuh-huh. Little does she know, I’ll probably unintentionally burn every batch of biscotti I make, even if I set a timer for a shorter bake time. Maybe she’d actually eat them this year.
“Roman couldn’t stand it. To him, golden was overbaked,” Mrs. Walker says with a rare laugh in recollection.
“You were married for a long time. What’s your secret?”
“Share all your pieces with each other,” she says right away. “The beautiful, the ugly. The messy, the shiny. Don’t live your life in hiding.”
I vocalize my head nods with anmmmto acknowledge I’ve heard her.
“How’s my Mr. Mistoffelees doing?” Mrs. Walker asks, her voice still soft. It loses its edge whenever we talk about her husband or her cat.
“I thought he was with you,” I deadpan. Toffee meows from on top of my shoe where he’s lounging.
“Hah. Those birds better not have traumatized him too much,” she says. “You’ve seen Hitchcock’s movie, right? Birds can be vile creatures.”
I still worry those sparrows are going to find me one day.
“Oh, Logan, you added too much to rent this month,” Mrs. Walker says, the sharpness in her voice back. It’s not that she’s unkind; she just doesn’t put on unnecessary niceties.
“It’ll take some time, but I’m going to pay you back for the discounted rate you’ve been giving me all these years,” I explain. “And will, from this point forward, be paying what you could be renting this place for.” It’s a staggering amount—Tribeca isn’t cheap—but it’s fair.
She groans. “But then it’s not a good deed on my end. You know I’m nothing without my good deeds. How are you affording this?”
“I won the lottery.”
Mrs. Walker laughs at this for a long time. “Logan, I’m serious. I know what carpenters make,” she says once she catches her breath.
“I’m serious, too.”
Now that the money’s cleared, I update her on my situation. I’ve already spoken to a financial advisor, but she offers to put me in touch with hers. She also insists I, at the very least, cut off $1,000 in the rent for cat sitting.
We end the call agreeing on a happy medium of $500.
As I’m leashing up Toffee, I hear a knock at my door.
Hazel’s on the other side, holding a large bag and two to-go cups.I attempt to take them from her, awkwardly placing my cast under the bottom of the bag to steady it, but she pulls back before I get a good grip.
“You’re”—I look at my watch—“three hours early. I’m about to take Toffee on a walk.”
“In your texts, you said you were home,” she says, setting everything down on the counter. “I just got off from the shop. I thought I’d come by to see if I could help with anything?” She hands me one of the cups. “I’m a cinnamon latte girl. I got you the same. I hope that’s okay.”
“You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“I couldn’t show up here with just a beverage for me,” she says. “I know it’s a little late to be drinking coffee but the craving hit.”
I take a sip from the cup. It’s delicious. “I think I’m a cinnamon latte boy.”
Hazel smirks as she takes the end of Toffee’s leash from me. “I can do that. You need rest.” She guides me back to the living room.
