Chapter 6 Daisy
Daisy
Children are made readers
on the laps of their parents.
—Emilie Buchwald
“I still love Beverly Cleary for early chapter readers,” I tell Laura, handing her a few of my favorite selections.
“Thank you, Daisy. I knew you’d know what to recommend.”
She tucks the books in the crook of her arm, and I stand from my squatting position near the lower shelves in the children’s nook.
“You can’t go wrong with Ramona,” I smile. “And then, when Macy advances a little, you could go with something by E.B. White. Everyone’s read Charlotte’s Web. But my personal favorite is The Trumpet of the Swan.”
Laura pulls out her phone to write herself a note.
“Follow me,” I say. “I’ve got a list of books I suggest to readers Macy’s age.”
Laura and I make our way through the shop to the front counter. I duck into the office and hand her my list. It’s decorated around the edge with doodles of characters from children’s literature.
“You can get a lot of these through the library,” I tell Laura, taking her stack of books to ring them up. “Then, if Macy falls in love with one, come back and buy it for her.”
“You’re not going to stay in business sending all your customers to the library,” Laura smiles.
I smile back. “My gran taught me to put customers first. You don’t need to buy every single book. If you did, you’d be left wondering how to pay for your groceries.”
“You know, you remind me so much of your grandmother. She always took the time to help me find just the right book. I’m grateful nothing has changed about Moss & Maple over all these years.”
Effie barrels up to the counter, eyes wild. “I hate to interrupt, but … there’s a … there’s a … there’s a—” She flails her hands like she’s conducting an orchestra, gasping between words.
Laura, who was about to pay, retreats a safe two steps.
Customers freeze mid-browse, heads lifting in unison.
From the back room: a crash. Shouts. And then—hissing and more screaming.
Effie gulps air. “There’s a squirrel in the bookshop!”
“A skirlll! A chimunk!” a child shrieks.
Chirruping rattles through the rafters.
I vault from behind the counter and dash toward the commotion.
The back room is bedlam.
A baby squirrel—soft-furred, wobbling like a drunken sailor—zigzags across the floor. A kid tears after it, arms flailing. The mother squirrel perches on a rafter above, tail whipping, unleashing a chorus of chirps and hisses that sound like every mom mid-scold.
Another tiny head pokes from a hole in the attic. Mama barks the squirrel version of Get back in bed, young lady. The kit blinks, then obediently disappears.
Meanwhile, the children in the room form a posse. They fan out, circling their target like pint-sized bounty hunters.
That’s when Mama squirrel makes her move. She leaps, lands squarely on a woman’s head, springs off like a trampoline, and skids to the center of the room. The woman shrieks.
Mama squirrel rises to her hind legs and lets the kids have it—chirruping, tail cracking the air. The children freeze—guilty, stunned.
With one swift motion, she scoops up her baby by the scruff.
The kit clings to her like a toddler at daycare drop-off.
Propelling herself, two front feet first, two back, and again, Mama scales the nearest bookcase, launches to the rafter, and vanishes through the attic hole with world-class gymnastic precision.
Silence. All eyes stare at the hole like a curtain falling on a broadway show.
Then chatter erupts. People mill through the room.
Parents soothe, scold, laugh.
Effie fusses over the woman whose head was commandeered as a launch pad.
I survey the toppled books, feathers of paper scattered like confetti after a parade. I sigh.
“No wonder those pages were torn,” Waylon mutters. “She was making a nest.”
“And here we had been blaming unsupervised kids!” Winona howls with laughter.
By the end of the day, we had restored the bookshop to some semblance of normalcy. Customers pitched in, excitedly recounting snippets of the mayhem to one another while they swept, picked up downed books, and straightened shelves.
It was midafternoon by the time I responded to the email I received yesterday from the host of Burning Through the Pages. He had written:
Dear M&M,
Thanks for the green light. Recording tomorrow. Show will go live next week. I already recorded this week’s episode in advance. Can’t wait to hear your response to my take on all the red flags Mr. Darcy brings to the dating scene. If you don’t mind my asking, what are you reading these
days?
- BTTP
I wrote back:
Dear BTTP,
I don’t mind you asking. I’m reading The Summer We Loved. It’s pure escapism, with a dash of heartbreak and hope.
Don’t judge a book by its cover and, for the love of all things literary, don’t judge the reader by the book they choose to indulge in.
- M&M
And now, at the end of this crazy long day, as I’m scuttling through my home trying to find the notebook I take to all town hall and community planning meetings, my phone pings with an email alert. As tired as I am, my heart rate picks up the slightest bit.
It could be my bank, for all I know, telling me I’ve overdrawn. But I still feel lighter at the possibility that it’s him. This situation is so surreal. How is it we’re actually conversationally emailing?
I stop in my tracks and open my email app on my phone. The inbox says (1). The subject says: Judgment.
I smile wider.
I almost fabricated another book to tell him I was reading.
Admitting to something light and escapist might diminish his respect for me as a reader.
He doesn’t know my entire life revolves around literature.
He doesn’t know me. He won’t ever know me in real life.
There’s something incredibly freeing about being able to talk to a person you’ll never come face to face with.
Especially when that person has revealed so much of themselves on a podcast.
Dear M&M,
No judgment. I’d also love to quote you on my show sometime. Anonymously.
And, believe it or not, I read romance from time to time—and I don’t mean Darcy.
There’s nothing quite like watching the dance of two souls exploring their connection.
The tug and pull, the resistance and surrender.
I marvel at an author who can capture the nuances of a developing relationship in words.
I almost just deleted that whole paragraph after rereading it. But I thought I’d leave it since you shared your fluffy book choice with me. Here’s to cotton candy books. And meaty books. And all the reads between.
- BTTP
My smile is so big it stretches my cheeks. I’ve got to run to the Fall Festival planning meeting, but I just have to respond.
Dear BTTP,
I’ve never heard anyone describe reading romance the way you did. I loved that. And this story isn’t all cotton candy. But it is feel-good. Can’t wait to hear your thoughts on Darcy, even though I’m quite sure I’ll wholeheartedly disagree with you.
- M&M
I pause for a moment. Then I hit send. I resolve not to second guess myself. He’ll probably smile at me saying I’ll wholeheartedly disagree with him.
I look at the clock and gasp. Fifteen minutes til the meeting starts. I’m definitely late.
I check one last place for my notebook and, thankfully, find it. Grabbing my things, I take off for the community center.
My mom’s eyebrows raise when I practically skid through the double doors leading into the meeting room.
She and my aunt are sitting one row back from the front.
And the seat on the aisle next to them is vacant.
I walk up the center aisle, nodding and smiling at my neighbors and friends along the way.
Then I slide into the reserved spot my aunt and mom held for me.
“Thought you might not make it, Daisy,” Mom says quietly.
“I couldn’t find my notebook,” I whisper-hiss.
My aunt Becca, my dad’s sister, simply pats my knee.
“As I was saying,” Clementine, our Fall Festival chairman, says from the podium. “We need to form committees. That way we’re sure to cover all the bases.”
I open my notebook to the tab that says Fall Festival and start writing.
Committees are par for the course. I keep my head down, though.
Eye contact with the chairman in situations like this means certain death.
In no time I’d be assigned to oversee something like volunteer coordination or the costume contest. I’ve got my hands full with the shop right now.
I can’t run a major portion of this annual tradition. Not this year, anyway.
“We’re grateful to announce this year’s largest sponsor,” Clementine says into the mic.
A squeal of feedback pierces the air. She rears back and then regains her composure. “Will the O’Connell family please stand?”
The sound of scraping chair legs echoes along the high ceilings. Heat prickles up the back of my neck. I’m assuming Patrick’s whole family is standing. I’m definitely not turning around in my seat to see if my assumption is correct. I fix my eyes on the podium and count my breaths.
“Thank you so much for your generosity,” Clementine says.
She starts clapping and the whole room joins her.
My aunt nudges me with her elbow. I bring my hands together in succession slowly, but softly. I’m grateful for contributions, and I love our town—I’m just leery of anything with strings attached, or in this case ropes that might just turn into nooses.
After the announcement of our other sponsors, all clustered into a single group and without applause for each individual one, Clementine asks for volunteers to head up each aspect of the festival. The meeting closes with her setting the next meeting date.
Mom volunteered to head up the setup and tear down. That’s massive. Aunt Becca is helping with activities and games.
“You can help us, Daisy,” Mom says.
“I’ll do what I can,” I say. And I will.
“It’s okay,” Aunt Becca says. “You’ve got the shop to tend. We’ll do as much as we can without your help.”
I thank her.
People start stacking chairs on the stands at the perimeter of the room. Mr. O’Connell is holding court in his spot a few rows behind us. People are literally lined up to talk to him.
“I’ve got to open Moss and Maple in the morning,” I tell my mom and aunt. “I’m going to go. Let me know what you need.”
I hug them and then I turn to leave.
“Oh, Daisy?” Aunt Becca says, her hand gently landing on my forearm.
“Yes?”
“I’ve got this friend.”
I suppress a groan. I already know where this is heading.
Mom sends me a compassionate look from over Aunt Becca’s shoulder.
“Mm hmm,” I say.
“Her son is about your age. Handsome. Works in IT. Anyhoo, he’s visiting his mother before starting his new position in Nashville.”
She stares at me, awaiting my response.
When I don’t say anything, she continues, “And I thought since you’re young and single and he’s young and single, well, you might want to meet him for dinner one night.”
“But not as a date?” I ask with a note of hope in my voice.
“What’s wrong with dating?” Aunt Becca deflects.
“Probably a lot of things, honestly. But in this case, I’ve never met the man. Have you?”
“I saw his photo. He looks nice.”
“Nice.”
“Is there something wrong with being nice now?”
“No. Not at all. It’s just … nice is often code for boring or unattractive.”
“What if nice is just code for nice.” She smiles a grin of satisfaction. She knows she’s got me.
“Fine,” I concede. “I’ll go to dinner with your friend’s nice son.”
“Great. I’ll give him your number.”
“Not my number. Please. Remember the last guy you fixed me up with?”
“That was not entirely my fault.”
“Of course it wasn’t. Please. Give him my personal email—not the shop.”
“Your email?”
“It’s fine, Becca,” Mom says, patting my aunt’s arm for reassurance.
“Okay. Fine. I’ll give him your email.”
“Great.” I smile at them and turn to head home.
I truly don’t mind dating—when the man is a potential match and is actually interested in me. I’m not a fan of dating at a level that could require me to acquire a personal security detail.
I pass Patrick on my way out the double doors. He’s standing just outside the doorway.
“Thanks for supporting the festival,” I say.
“Thank my dad,” he says.
“I’ll get right on that,” I answer. Then I turn and walk to my car.
I almost turn back to apologize for sounding brash. Almost.