Page 69 of Hushed

I suddenly realize what I’ve stepped in. I turn my attention back to the preparation.

We work side by side for the next two hours. He makes the pastry while I prep the filling under his supervision. He shows me how to roll the dough without overworking it, how to crimp the edges so they don’t leak, how to cut the vents in a pattern that’s decorative but also functional. His hands are patient when they guide mine, and he doesn’t mock my mistakes—he just corrects them and moves on.

By mid-morning, the tourtières are assembled and resting in the refrigerator. The cretons are setting in their molds. The beans are in the slow cooker, filling the kitchen with the smell of maple and molasses.

I look at him. “Are you making pouding chômeur?” I ask.

“Poor man’s pudding. Cake batter and maple syrup.”

I laugh. “I know what it is. We used to have it when we were sick when I was a kid. You really researched this hard, didn’t you?”

A satisfied smile spreads across his handsome face. “You bet.”

“Well, they’ll ask why we didn’t make poutine.”

“They won’t even notice,” he assures me.

“We could have made most of this yesterday,” I say.

“I think we had more important things to do last night.” He puts on his shirt and kisses me. “Let’s get the table set and I’ll start writing out the instructions for how to finish up without me.”

Chapter twenty-four

Levi

The doorbell rings at 1200 hours, and I am only on the third page of handwritten instructions. I freeze with a pen in one hand and a dish towel in the other. Contact, two hours ahead of schedule. That’s not a mistake. That’s a probe.

Bastien, who’s been nervously rearranging the same three serving spoons for the past ten minutes, goes pale and looks at his phone. “Maybe it’s the Mormons.”

“On a Sunday at noon?”

“Fuck. The invitation said two.”

“I know.”

The doorbell rings again, followed by knocking. A woman’s voice filters through the door: “Hello! Well, come on before it turns rancid.”

Bastien’s nostrils flare. “Câlisse. That’s Julia Spring.”

“Who the fuck is Julia Spring?”

“She’s in my department. And lives across the street.”

Across the street. Direct line of sight to the driveway. She’s seen my truck parked here overnight. She knows.

“Why didn’t you tell me that somebody in your department is your neighbor?”

“Because I wasn’t thinking with my brain last night!” he says through gritted teeth. “She’s like seventy, she refuses to retire, and she’s fucking mean. Okay,” Bastien says, his voice pitching higher. “You go out the back through the patio. Your shoes—wait, your shoes are by the front door.”

“Because you told me that’s where shoes go!” I whisper-yell at him.

“Why did you listen to me? Go into the closet and I’ll—”

“Did you just tell me to go into a closet?”

“Bad choice of words. I’m sorry. I just—”

“Hello?” Julia’s voice is sharper now. Impatient.