As a voice crackled from the other line, I glanced over at our neighbors’ house, just in time to see Dave Wade’s mom coming out her side door. She was dressed in jeans, a white, cable-knit sweater, and sensible shoes, a tote bag over one shoulder, carrying a foil-covered pan in her hands. As she walked down the steps, she moved carefully, looking down so she wouldn’t trip.
“. . . Yes, that’s exactly what I said,” my dad was saying as she crossed the driveway and started up our steps, equally cautiously. “Why? Because I don’t like the look of the order I got yesterday.”
Mrs. Wade was almost to our side door. I got up to meet her, just as she leaned into the screen, covering her eyes with her free hand. When she saw me, she jumped back, startled.
“Hello,” she said as I pushed the door open. “I’m Anne Dobson-Wade. I live next door? I wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood, so I made some brownies.”
“Oh,” I said. She extended the dish to me, and I took it. “Thank you.”
“They are nut-free, gluten-free, and sugar-free, made with all organic ingredients,” she said. “I didn’t know if you had any allergies.”
“We don’t,” I replied. “But, um, thanks for the consideration.”
“Of course!” She smiled at me, a bit of frizz blowing in the wind coming in behind her. “Well, as I said, we are right next door. If you need anything or have questions about the neighborhood, I hope you’ll let us know. We’ve been here forever.”
I nodded in response to this, just as Dave came out of her door, wearing a green T-shirt and jeans, and began dragging the garbage can down to the curb. His mom turned, saying something to him, but he didn’t hear her over the wheels scraping the pavement, and kept walking. Then my dad started yelling.
“I don’t care if you’v been supplying them for a hundred years. Don’t run a muddle on me. I can tell a light order when I see it.” He paused, allowing the other person, who was now talking even more quickly, to say something. “Look. This isn’t up for debate, okay?”
Mrs. Dobson-Wade looked at my dad, clearly alarmed at his tone. “It’s a work call,” I explained, as behind her, Dave came back up the driveway. When he saw me talking to his mom, he slowed his steps, then stopped entirely.
“Who am I?” my dad said was saying as Dave Wade and I, strangers but not, just stared at each other over his mother’s small, bony shoulder. “I’m the new boss at Luna Blu. And you are my former produce purveyor. Goodbye.”
He hung up, then slammed his phone down for emphasis on the table, the sound making me jump. Only then did he look up and see me and Dave’s mom at the door.
“This is Mrs. Dobson-Wade,” I said, keeping my own voice calm, as if to prove we weren’t both total maniacs. “She made us some brownies.”
“Oh.” He wiped his hands together, then came over. “That’s . . . Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome!” There was an awkward beat, with no one talking, before she said, “I was just telling your daughter that we’ve lived here for over twenty years, so if you need any information on the neighborhood, or schools, just let us know.”
“I’ll do that,” my dad said. “Although this one’s already gotten herself settled in pretty well, from what I can tell.”
“You’re at Jackson?” Mrs. Dobson-Wade asked me. I nodded. “It’s a fine public school. But there are other options if you wanted to explore them, in the private sector. Exemplary ones, actually.”
“You don’t say,” my dad replied.
“Our son was at one of them, Kiffney-Brown, until last year. He decided to transfer, not that we were very happy about it.” She sighed, shaking her head. “You know teenagers. So difficult when they decide they have a mind of their own.”
I felt my dad look at me, but this time I kept my gaze straight ahead. I wasn’t about to field this one. “Well,” he said finally. “I suppose . . . that is true, sometimes.”
Mrs. Dobson-Wade smiled, as if he’d offered more agreement than he had. “Did I hear you say you’re the new chef at Luna Blu?”
“More like the interim,” my dad said.
“Oh, we love Luna Blu,” she told him. “The rolls are amazing !”
My dad smiled. “Well,” he said, “next time you come in, ask for me. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. I’m Gus.”
“Anne,” she said. She glanced behind her, seeing Dave, who was just standing there still looking at me, having not come any closer. “My husband, Brian, will be along in a moment, and that’s my son, David. David, this is Gus and—”
Everyone looked at me. “Mclean,” I said.
Dave raised a hand in a wave, friendly, but still kept his distance. I thought of what Heather and Riley had told me: boy genius, smoothie maker, cellar dweller. Right now, I thought, he didn’t look like any of the people they’d described, which was unsettling in a way that was entirely too familiar.
The side door banged again, and Mr. Wade finally came out. He was tall and reedy, with a beard, and carried a messenger bag, which he strapped across himself as he came down the stairs. In his other hand was a bike helmet covered in reflector stickers.