Chapter 22
H annah awoke the next morning feeling refreshed and renewed after a good night’s sleep. Her thoughts drifted to yesterday and she threw her legs over the side of the bed, determined to make this day a better one.
Padding barefoot into the kitchen, she flipped on Courtney’s thankfully-electric designer kettle (she hated those stovetop whistling ones), reached into a cabinet for a mug, took out the treasured box of Barry’s teabags she always kept in stock and waited patiently for the water to boil.
Then out of the corner of her eye, she spied a piece of paper beneath the door and raised an eyebrow.
‘Must be a night owl …’ she muttered as she picked up the note, crossing her fingers that next door had accepted her explanation and things were back on more cordial ground. The electric kettle flicked off, indicating the water was ready.
But first, tea.
Sitting at the kitchen island with a steaming cuppa in front of her, Hannah unfolded the note and smoothed the paper on the makeshift countertop surface.
Motion-activated sound system? Is it really so hard to just flip a goddamn switch? Is your generation seriously that busy and important, or lazy, that using even a remote control is too much trouble these days? What type of idiot wants to have TVs and stuff blaring when they walk into a room? When did silence become something everyone tries to avoid? Who knew we would be living in such a stupid time in history.
All right, I accept your apology. Not cutting off my nose to spite my face here – I wouldn’t want to stop the Rice Krispie train.
Hannah couldn’t help but laugh. Apology? She’d gone out of her way not to apologize. This guy really was an out-and-out contrarian and reminded her so much of her granddad. A former Irish army man who brooked no nonsense and, now that she thought about it, was probably the one who’d primed her expertise in dealing with … difficult personalities. Tucking into her breakfast of oatmeal and blueberries, she pushed the note to the side and turned her attention to her phone, the screen listing a slew of incoming alerts; one of them a message from none other than Ward McKenzie.
Aha.
She was curious to know if he had spent the previous evening stewing over her insinuation that he was vapid and fake, or if he had come to his senses and realized he might indeed have a conundrum on his hands – one she could play a key role in solving if he would only play nice.
Yeah, I’m a comic book. But I take your point that I’ve been parading around as a graphic novel for a while, OK?
Then a follow-up message: You pick a place this time and I’ll be there.
Hannah smiled. Quietly confident that the hockey player would come around, she’d spent some time last night reading up on the game and its fun but mystifying lingo, readying herself for checkmate.
Or as Ward would surely say, slap shot.