Chapter 5 Patrick
Patrick
Whoever wishes to keep a secret must
hide the fact that he possesses one.
~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
The line at Sip & Repeat snakes down the counter. It’s a crisp autumn morning and everyone’s out to sample the new fall menu.
Everyone—including my neighbor. She’s three people ahead of me in line, and so far she hasn’t noticed my presence—or if she has, she’s doing her usual stellar job of avoiding me.
“I’m thinking either Before We Were Yours by Lisa Wingate or The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society,” Daisy says to Cass and Winona.
I almost say, Either one is an excellent choice. It depends—do you want a heart-wrenching, based-on-truth story about identity and roots, or a feel-good account of World War II’s impact on rural England and the power of community in crisis? But I don’t. Obviously.
“Who would eat a potato peel pie?” Winona asks. “I don’t even like when my gran puts the peel in with the mashers. The peel is the potato’s protective layer. No matter how hard you scrub it, you just know you didn’t get all the dirt off.”
“God made dirt, so dirt can’t hurt,” Cass answers her sister plainly.
And that's when it happens. Daisy’s eyes rove the room like a compass needle wavering to find North. And they land on me.
I affect a neutral expression. Maybe all this research about Darcy and rereading Pride & Prejudice is having an impact.
I’m Darcy: impervious, misunderstood. She’s Lizzy: spirited, sure of herself.
Only we’ll never court or wed or even stand in the rain while I profess my undying love.
No. A romance between me and Daisy Clark is about as likely as an ice storm in Hades.
Daisy mouths her words to me, so no one but the two of us even knows she’s addressing me. “Didn’t your mom teach you not to eavesdrop?” Her mouth quirks.
“Didn’t your mom teach you not to stare?” I retort just as quickly and quietly.
Her eyes roll upward and just like that, we’re standing at our lockers in junior high.
“I’ve heard of Before We Were Yours,” Cass says, drawing Daisy’s attention away from me and our silent sparring.
Daisy responds to Cass, “Maybe I’ll send out an email to everyone in book club and we can vote.”
Book club. A luxury they take for granted.
Of course, I could host one. But I’ve heard enough jokes about “book boy” to last a lifetime.
It’s bad enough I pursued firefighting instead of entering the family business.
The guys at the station poke fun at my reading habits, unaware they’re bumping a festering wound.
I allow the ribbing. But I don’t need to give them fodder for their ridicule.
The line moves and Daisy and her friends order. They pass me when they finish.
“Oh, hey, Patrick,” Winona says with a full smile. “Day off?”
“Yes,” I say, nodding.
“What do firemen do on their days off anyway?” Winona asks.
“Depends on the fireman, I guess.”
I’ll be recording a few episodes of my podcast, but that’s nothing I’m sharing with Daisy and her friends.
“That makes sense. I know what I’d do,” Winona says.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Anything that didn’t have to do with fire. I’d probably even eat cold sandwiches just so I didn’t have to turn on the stove.”
I chuckle.
“Well, have a good day off,” she says, smiling broadly.
Cass smiles at me. Daisy most definitely does not.
Her disregard shouldn’t land a punch, but my jaw clenches anyway.
Back home with my coffee, I reread my last email to M&M.
Online correspondence from listeners is pretty regular.
I don’t always respond right away. Her message was one I needed to hear after this week’s family dinner—affirmation that my podcast not only hits home, but it’s her favorite.
And she resonated with my commentary on loneliness.
She hasn’t answered my last email yet.
My side of the duplex is just the right kind of quiet on a weekday morning.
Still, I sequester myself in the walk-in closet in my downstairs guest bedroom.
The room serves as an office for my podcast, and the closet has just the right acoustics for recording.
My rudimentary setup consists of a pop mic clamped to a wooden tray table, a folding chair, and a whiteboard filled with notes and Post-its.
I scan the board and remove the one with the awesome quote on loneliness:
The most terrible loneliness
is not the kind that comes
from being alone,
but the kind that comes
from being misunderstood.
- George Orwell
Some Post-its have notes about grief, others hold my thoughts about Darcy.
I open my laptop and begin recording my next episode, the one M&M gave me the unofficial green light to publish.
I start with my rehearsed opener: “Welcome to Burning Through the Pages where we talk all things books: tropes, themes, characters and pretty much whatever I want to discuss about the stories you love to read.”
My voice is softer than normal—my mouth close enough to the live mic that I feel the warmth of my own breath. I loosen my spine, drop my shoulders and breathe rhythmically, knowing I’ll edit out any irregularities or bursts of air in post-production.
“I’m probably going to regret this,” I confess into the mic. “But against my better judgment, I’m taking on Mr. Darcy. Hear me out.”
I lay out my case: his stance on male superiority, his personal arrogance, and the way he played hard-to-get—all major red flags.
I’m expanding on my first point when a sound at the front of my apartment makes me pause.
I still, listening intently.
Yep. That’s my front door.
Being a firefighter has taught me lightning reflexes—but I’ve probably never moved as quickly as I’m moving, clapping my laptop shut, shoving it and my mic in a drawer, turning my whiteboard around, and collapsing the chair. My heartbeat is nearly audible.
“Patrick!” Dustin’s voice carries down the hallway.
I step out of the closet, shutting the door behind me. “Hey! Yeah! In here!” I shout back, walking quickly toward the bedroom door.
I’m about to pull the handle when the door pops open, revealing Dustin and Cody taking up all the room in my hallway.
“Wanna come hiking?” Dustin asks, glancing over my shoulder into the bedroom. “Or are you entertaining company?”
“I’m alone,” I say stiffly.
That is, unless you count the thousands of people who’ll eventually listen to the podcast I was hoping to finish recording today.
“We’re hitting Winding Stairs,” Cody says. “Thought you might want to come.”
“Yeah … ” I answer quickly, hooking a thumb over my shoulder toward the bedroom. “I was just … dusting.”
“Dusting?” Cody asks, a wry smile forming on his lips.
Dustin chuckles. “You need to get a life, Patrick.”
Cody looks at me more seriously. “You good?”
“Always.” I step into the hallway, tugging the bedroom door shut behind me. “Let’s go. I just need to change my shoes.”
“You sure there’s no one hiding in there?” Dustin asks, wagging his brows. “Mr. Romance Novel having a little secret somethin’ somethin’ none of us know about?”
Dustin makes a move like he’s going to open the door to check.
I step in front of him to block his outstretched arm.
I may not have chosen to pursue pro ball, but I grew up in the O’Connell family.
Football and construction are the two pillars of our house of worship. I know how to run interference.
“I’m sure. Let’s go.” I stride past Dustin and through the kitchen to my small mudroom to grab my tennis shoes.
My phone pings. A new email. I don’t dare pull my cell out of my pocket in front of my crewmates.
I’ll answer later.
Hopefully it’s M&M.
After yesterday’s hike with the guys, I finished the episode in the safety and solitude of my guest room closet.
Morning came quickly.
I’m circling the engine—checking panels, tires, lights. Dustin’s on hoses and ladders. Cody’s got SCBAs lined up like soldiers. Greyson’s rifling through the medical kits.
“I had an idea,” Captain David says, walking into the bay and talking loudly enough to be heard over the clanking and whooshing of morning equipment check.
Everyone stops what they’re doing.
“I’m thinking about the McKeehans.”
Hearing their name instantly transports me to the barn fire: smoke thick, animals squealing, the beam crashing to the ground.
“They’ve got insurance, but you know how that goes. I was thinking we could do something to help raise funds—not only for them, but a sort of a slush fund for families who endure bigger fires.”
“What are you thinking?” Greyson asks, all business, as usual.
Captain clears his throat. In a less intelligible voice than I’ve ever heard him use, he mutters, “A frmn clndr.”
“What was that?” Cody asks, sincerely.
Dustin’s already chuckling.
My brows draw together. Did he say what I think he said?
“A fireman calendar.” Captain straightens his spine and his expression.
Dustin’s chuckle breaks into a full-blown laugh. “Aw, nah! I thought that’s what you said.”
“It works for the Australians,” Captain adds.
I’m quiet, considering the ramifications of this idea.
We could potentially raise a lot of money.
Local businesses could put stacks out on their counters for sale.
We could even put up a website. Daisy could arrange an endcap and a table at Moss and Maple.
She’s good at that sort of thing. As long as I’m not the one asking her and my photo isn’t on the cover, she’d probably be glad to help.
“It’s not a completely bad idea,” I say.
All eyes turn toward me.
“We could raise a decent amount of money—for a good cause.”
“Is this shirtless?” Dustin raises the hem of his station shirt as if the photographers are about to arrive and he needs to be ready.
“We can discuss the details later,” Captain says. “I just wanted to bounce the idea off you men before I put it into motion.”
“Will all the crews be in on it, or just our rotation?” Cody asks.
“I think it’s a station-wide effort,” David says.
“I call August,” Dustin says. “’Cause that month’s hot—just like me.”
Cody throws a cleaning towel at Dustin and he catches it midair.
“In that case,” Greyson says, “I pick February. Not on a leap year—three fewer days of my face on display.”
“The month of love,” Dustin teases, holding his hands up in the shape of a heart. “Maybe you can dress like cupid.”
“Over my dead body,” Greyson snaps back. “And maybe we’ll get you in your Cheetos.”
“We’re keeping this PG,” Captain says. “This is Waterford. Not Vegas.”
Dustin holds the towel over his head and starts swinging it in a circle, rocking his hips side to side.
Captain shakes his head and chuckles. “What was I thinking?”
The calendar will make headlines in Waterford.
My secret would, too—if anyone ever found out.