Chapter 4
Four
So about those murder hornets. Can I send them a list of names? Or what?
—Text from Searcy to Calliope
CALLIOPE
Okay, so working at UPS wasn’t too bad.
I liked it a lot, and even better, I got done faster if I worked faster.
Sure, I wasn’t allowed to speed, but ultimately that was a non-issue. Especially since the only places I refused to allow myself to speed were residential neighborhoods.
And, even better, since the chick was fired off of my route, I got to take over the same route. Meaning, I knew exactly where I was, and how to get to all the places that I needed to deliver to.
I was a day and a half into my shift, and I was already working on my own.
The boss, Lissy, had baptized me trial by fire.
The first day she’d done the route with me.
The second day she’d helped me load my truck, and that was it.
So I was halfway through my route, and finding that I seriously liked the job.
I was out and about, but I wasn’t working with anyone at all.
Meaning, I could listen to my audiobooks on my headphones the entire day, and no one cared.
I was halfway through a pretty spicy scene when I delivered to a gorgeous house that looked bigger than the White House.
The instructions for delivery provided a gate code, so I inputted the code and drove up the long, winding drive lined with pecan trees until I reached the circle turnaround at the front of their house.
Mr. A Winthrop.
Fancy name for a fancy house.
I put the truck in park and headed into the back to get the package.
I found it—it was very large—and pulled it out using the dolly.
When I got it to the front porch, I rang the doorbell, took my photo, and started back to my truck when I came to a standstill.
“Well, hello,” I said to the beast sitting in front of my truck. “Aren’t you beautiful.”
“He’s an Irish Wolfhound,” a man answered from behind me.
I looked over my shoulder to see an elderly man standing there looking at the package with dismay.
“He’s beautiful,” I said. “Can I help you get that package inside?”
His eyes lit. “Would you mind?”
“Of course not,” I said as I climbed the stairs again. “My sister raised me right. If she found out that I let some old man struggle to get a package inside his house, she’d beat the crap out of me.”
“Your sister sounds like a pleasant person,” the old man teased.
“She’s something,” I said. “Where do you want it?”
He opened the door wide and gestured toward the corner of the huge, vaulted ceiling entryway with his cane. “Just right there, if you please.”
I got it right where he wanted it and said, “All done.”
“Thank you.” He tilted his head. “Can I tip you?”
“Uhh.” I hesitated. “We’re highly encouraged not to accept tips.”
“What about a snack?”
I would never turn down a snack.
“Well, that would work really great.”
“I make cookies and send them all over the world,” he said.
“I retired from my actual business this year, but I still had a few obligations to fulfill. I have way too many, because I’ve never cooked at home before.
I can’t, for the life of me, figure out how the hell to get the quantities right in this new mixer. ”
I walked into his kitchen and was assaulted by the smell of heaven.
“Ugggghhhh,” I groaned. “It smells amazing in here.”
He smiled. “Thanks. My bakery smelled like home, but this place is getting there, slowly but surely.”
He boxed up some cookies and handed them to me.
I looked down at the delicacies in the clear plastic container that read ‘Winthrop Cookies’ and did a double take.
“You’re the owner of Winthrop Cookies?” I squeaked.
He flashed me a smile. “I am.”
“You wouldn’t happen to want to hand me a recipe for these, would you?” I teased. “I’d love you forever and ever.”
His eyes gleamed. “Maybe if you continue to come around from time to time, I just might.”
“Done,” I said. “Just order more packages, and I’ll show up more.”
He picked up two more boxes of cookies and said, “I have two more dozen extra if you want those?”
I immediately nodded. “Of course I want them.”
Winthrop Cookies was a world-renowned bakery that delivered all over the world. No one knew the face behind the cookies, because the owner was very, very private. But he was up there with Levain Bakery, and any other famous bakers all over the world.
“You know,” I mused. “I always thought you lived in New York or California. Who knew you lived in Dallas?”
Out of all the places he could live, he lived in my home town.
“I lived in both places for a time, but I made my home here in Dallas because this is where I was born and raised. My roots run deep here, and I’ll never leave Texas for long.
” He looked down at his cane. “I had a stroke a few months ago, forcing me to downsize my operation. And the first place I wanted to come was home. I feel like I can breathe better here.”
My eyes twinkled. “I think all Texans feel that way about their home.”
My watch beeped, and I groaned. “I’ve been given a warning about time spent at a specific location for too long. I gotta go. But thank you for the cookies. I’m questioning whether they’ll even make it all the way home.”
“Just sayin’, but each of those cookies are five hundred calories a pop,” he joked. “Unless you plan on working out for a week straight to burn them off, I suggest you control yourself.”
We both knew that I wouldn’t, though.
Plus, it was Christmas.
Wasn’t it a rule of thumb that you had to eat until you wanted to throw up the week before, and the week after Christmas?
“Have a good day, Mr. Winthrop,” I called out as I hurried outside.
The Irish Wolfhound met me at the door, and luckily I stepped to the side or I would’ve been barreled over.
I closed the door behind me and all but ran to the truck to finish my deliveries.
I got back to the warehouse on time, and headed to my pickup directly after.
The cookies were literally burning a hole in my seat, and I couldn’t wait to try one.
I’d refrained from having one because I wanted to have some milk with them.
A cookie wasn’t a cookie without milk.
I’d just turned onto 635 when my gas light came on.
I groaned.
“Shit,” I said as I hesitated.
My truck gave me a warning when I had fifty miles left. However, mine seemed to be defective because I never, and I do mean never, made it the full fifty miles.
I found out not once, not twice, but four times now.
The truck may be new, but it was a lemon in the gas mileage department.
The shit burned through gas faster than anything that I’d ever driven.
I often wondered if there was something wrong with it despite being told that it was ‘perfectly good’ according to the technicians at the dealership.
I glanced one more time at the cookies, then pulled off at the next stop that there was gas at.
I made it half a mile away from the huge yellow Cefco sign when my truck started to splutter.
“Fuck,” I said as I moved. “Come on. Coast me there, baby. Come on.”
Except, coasting wasn’t conducive with Dallas traffic.
People pulled out. People pulled off. Some people cut me off.
I had no choice but to pull over before I got stuck in the lane like last time.
When I pulled off to the side of the road, I stared in dismay at the sign that was taunting me.
“You son of a bitch truck,” I growled at the brand-new Chevy. “I fucking hate you.”
The truck didn’t reply, but I just knew it was laughing at me.
I checked the mirror and got out, taking my keys and purse with me.
“Fucking fuck,” I grumbled as I bleeped the locks and started to walk.