Chapter 7 Patrick
Patrick
Holding a grudge is like holding a hot stone
hoping the other person will burn.
~ Unknown
Am I stalling? Maybe.
Shift change just ended, and I’m sitting in my car outside Sip and Repeat, opening my email app to reply to M&M. Yesterday at work, I snuck a peek at her response and nearly got busted by Dustin when I couldn’t hide my smile.
“You sure there’s not a new woman in your life, O’Connell?” he had asked.
I assured him there wasn’t.
I don’t exactly know what M&M is. The last line of her email made me chuckle and grin: I’m quite sure I’ll wholeheartedly disagree with you.
The ease between us surprises me. I’ve never felt a connection like this to anyone in the audience of my show. Answering podcast emails is part of my routine on my days off. I’ve rarely had an exchange with a listener that went beyond two or three messages back and forth at a professional level.
Now I pull out my phone whenever I have a free moment, hoping for a response from M&M. And here I am, staring at the coffee shop through the windshield of my car, knowing Cody’s already inside waiting for me, but I’m going to write back to her before I go in, even if it means him questioning me.
Dear M&M,
This week’s episode is about community. I thought I’d swing the pendulum from loneliness to connection. It comes out tomorrow. I hope you’ll be listening. In a nutshell, loneliness can happen in a crowd, and community can impact us even when the members are physically absent. What do you think?
Also, I’m reading The Lost Bookshop because we all need a little magic in our lives—at the very least in our books. And the theme is the importance of finding our own story. I’m still searching for mine.
- BTTP
I pause. Too much self-disclosure? I shake my head and hit send.
She knows me as the host of the podcast, but even there, I never share my name.
She’ll never meet me or know me. A pang of something that’s not quite sadness settles over me for a moment.
M&M is becoming a friend—and the best kind of friend—one who loves books.
But part of the goodness of our relationship lies in the freedom we have because we don’t know one another in real life.
I step into the cool air, pondering the boundaries of our relationship. I’ll take it. I’ve never had this—whatever it is.
The coffee shop is bustling as it usually is on a weekend morning.
Families are heading to the soccer fields or out on errands or hikes on local trails.
Neighbors and friends catch up after a week of work and responsibilities.
And Cody and I are grabbing a quick shot of caffeine before heading separately into our day off.
For better or worse, I’ll be meeting my dad here soon. He wants to talk about what he called family business.
“Back of the line, sir,” Cody jokes to me when I step up next to him. “You see all these fine people who came in and waited to place their orders? You’re behind them.”
I glance at the line, ready to make my apologies.
“Don’t worry about it,” June, one of Waterford’s seniors, says with a smile. “You earn your spot in this line every day.”
Cody leans around me and says, “Not every day, June. Trust me. This guy’s a genuine slacker.”
“Aw hush now, Cody,” she says with a smile. “I heard all about that barn fire. You two are heroes, plain and simple.”
“Thank you,” Cody and I say in unison.
Betty Faye Holt arrives and distracts June into conversation.
Cody starts talking shop. “That fire could have been worse.”
“The barn fire?” I ask.
“That too,” he shakes his head. “I was talking about the electrical short at the gas station this morning.”
“Yeah. Gas station fire? I hope we never have to deal with that.”
The back of my neck prickles, and I turn for no reason, my eyes scanning the shop.
Cody’s still talking about the way we assessed the situation and got to the source before things got out of control.
I’m listening, but my eyes land on Daisy.
I didn’t see her before. She must have walked in while Cody and I were talking to June.
Daisy’s in line a few spots behind June and Betty Faye. She’s clearly listening to every word Cody’s saying. Her eyes flick to mine.
“Eavesdropping?” I say loudly enough for her to hear. “Didn’t your mom teach you not to listen in on other people’s conversations?”
I raise one brow.
“I wasn’t …” she stammers. “I was … Not. You’re a loud talker. If you don’t want people to hear you, you might …” she makes a motion like she’s dialing down a volume knob.
Cody chuckles.
Daisy shoots him a look.
“Sorry, Daisy,” he says with a friendly smile. “Can’t help being entertained by the fireworks show that always seems to blow whenever you two are within fifteen feet of one another.”
She smiles so warmly at him I barely recognize her. “It’s not you, Cody. Obviously.”
Why does he get a pass?
I get it. I know what I did. She doesn’t know why things went south that day. And she won’t let me explain. Never has. Can I explain away the damage? No. But if she knew the whole story …
“She’s something else,” Cody says, turning so his back is to the rest of the line.
“You can say that again,” I say, standing shoulder to shoulder with him so our backs form a wall with only inches between us.
“Nah, man. I mean, she’s amazing. Do you know what she did for Carli when their dog died last month? That dog meant everything to Carli.”
“No.”
“Daisy got up in the middle of the night, drove out to the Buckners’ ranch and sat with Carli while they put Blaze down.
And then she stayed on all night—refused to leave Carli’s side.
Just held her while she cried. That’s a loyal friend.
Daisy had to open the bookshop the next day, but she didn’t put herself first. She always sets her own needs and agenda aside for everyone.
She’s basically why that bookshop is still open.
People have to drive out to it. It’s not downtown like the rest of our small businesses. She’s the heartbeat of that place.”
I don’t know why a pang of something like jealousy spears through me. It’s so visceral—the tension in my hands and stomach, the wave of heat rising up my spine—like my body knows to be jealous even though my brain refuses to be.
Why does Cody get to admire Daisy so freely? He’s not perfect. None of us are. But I’m the one she’s got the grudge against. Not that Cody ever stood Daisy up—or cost her something she had been working toward her whole life.
Cody claps me on the back. “You two really should get along better than you do. You both love books.”
“Yeah, well … some people just rub one another the wrong way, I guess.”
Cody shakes his head, but he doesn’t say anything else. He’s loosely aware of the history between Daisy and me. He probably thinks we’re both being immature and short-sighted. On more than one occasion he’s said, “Leave high school in high school.” If only it were that simple.
Cody and I get our orders and he leaves to head out to his family’s ranch where he lives when he’s not at the station.
I walk toward the back of the shop, squeezing between the customers in line and a table near the entrance. My arm brushes against someone and I turn to apologize. Daisy’s fiery eyes stare up at me.
“If you wanted to feel my muscles, you could’ve just asked.” I wink.
She shoots back without missing a beat. “If you’re hoping to feel how soft my skin is—you can’t.”
The fire in her eyes dances.
I lean closer, not sure what’s come over me. My lips hover by her ear, like I’m sharing a secret. “It’s very soft.”
She might shudder—or maybe it’s revulsion. I don’t stick around long enough to find out. I stride away to grab a seat at an open bistro table where I wait for my dad to arrive—like a convict, waiting for the executioner.
My father makes his presence known anytime he enters a room. He doesn’t need to speak loudly. His presence alone demands respect. We’re a study in contrasts. The best and most treasured parts of myself are hidden online. Everything significant my father achieves occurs in the public arena.
After ordering, Dad asks the barista to carry his coffee to our table, then strides through Sip and Repeat as if he just purchased this place. Maybe he did. The barista, Lissa, trails behind him like the cupbearer to the king, setting his coffee on the table and asking if he needs anything else.
I stifle an amused chuckle.
I don’t know how he does it. Anyone else would need to be on crutches to get a barista to carry their coffee.
“Patrick,” Dad says, settling into his seat and looking around the room as if he’s here on behalf of the Health Department.
“Dad,” I respond, taking a sip of my latte and sitting back in my seat.
My body still aches from work. I’m exhausted. The gas station fire gave me an adrenaline rush. Despite the half-full coffee sitting in front of me, I’m ready to crash.
Dad takes a measured sip of his coffee. His eyes narrow slightly.
He looks me dead in the eyes and says, “I don’t know how this place stays in business. This coffee makes me homesick.”
“Nostalgia?” I quip, knowing full well that’s not at all what he meant.
“Our coffee shop, Haute, roasts their own beans. They import directly from organic sources across South America and Africa. Each cup has recognizable notes according to its origins.”
“Maybe it’s time to head back to Nashville,” I suggest, though we both know he won’t.
I’m not sure why he’s here. So far, it’s just been defined as a nearby project. That’s what my parents told me when they announced they’d be returning to our family home for a season—the place I maintained for them when they moved to Nashville to expand Dad’s development business.
“I’ll be out of your hair soon enough,” he says, smiling.
I don’t hate my dad. Far from it. But we’re like oil and water. We meet at a line, but never seem to be able to cross it.
“I’m not trying to get you out of my hair,” I assure Dad. “I just love Sip and Repeat and the people who own it. So, I guess your critique felt personal.”
“Business isn’t personal, Patrick.”
“And drinking a cup of coffee on a Saturday morning is business?”
“Everything is business at one point or another.”
“Speaking of business,” I delight myself with the segue. “You said we needed to discuss family business.”
“Yes. Good. Let’s get to the point.”
I take another sip of my latte.
“Your mother and I are here because I am expanding and developing another Home Mart.”
“Oh? What does Waterford have to do with that?” I feel like I’m missing something.
“We’re expanding here, Patrick.”
“Here? In Waterford?” My voice raises.
Heads turn.
I smile. People return to their own conversations.
“Yes, son. In Waterford. We’ve got a parcel selected on the outskirts of town. I am in the process of pursuing permits and permission to survey. They’ll be discussing it at the next town hall.”
“How is this family business?” I ask—again, momentarily forgetting who I’m with.
“Everything I build will be yours one day—yours, Declan’s and Maeve’s. And I thought, for once, you might want to join in the process from the ground up. When you leave the fire department, you’ll be that much more acquainted with all aspects of the company.”
“When I leave the department?”
“Eventually.”
“Like, when I retire?”
“Or if you decide you’ve had your fun sooner.”
“My fun?”
We’ve been around this so many times I could draw a map of the conversation with my eyes closed, so I drop the subject.
Firefighting is a game to him. And my chosen path is like dating a bunch of cute women before you settle down with someone who makes sense—his exact words in previous talks.
According to him, no one of our stature should pursue any civil servant job as an actual career.
The danger and odd hours alone make it an impractical and irresponsible choice once you decide to have children—again, his words.
Dad sips his coffee, winces in what I’d call a refined expression of disdain, and returns the cup to the saucer.
Almost to himself, he mutters, “Maybe I’ll have someone from Haute advise the shop owners, connect them with better suppliers.”
“Dad, how about you keep your eyes on the prize while you’re here. You don’t need to rehab Waterford.”
This town doesn’t need rehabilitation. It’s perfectly imperfect as it is.
“Right,” he agrees. “Eye on the prize. So, what do you say? Are you in this time?”
I’m guessing Dad thinks I’m actually off duty and available on my days off.
He doesn’t realize I moonlight as a well-loved podcaster.
In his mind, the only books worth reading are ones that hone your professional skills and personal habits.
Novels are fluff. A man lives in the real world, not one dreamed up in another person’s imagination, he said.
That was his response when I brought up my plans to attend Vanderbilt for a degree in English.
“I don’t have a lot of spare time,” I tell him.
“You’re off every other day.”
“True, but I still have responsibilities.”
“What about your responsibility to our family? To your future? To the legacy I’m building.
You want to be a public servant. What better way is there than helping to provide the people of Waterford with more resources?
This town is stuck in the 1950s. Nothing ever changes here.
Do you know how many small towns are dying across America? ”
“I don’t.”
“Many smaller communities struggle with population loss and economic challenges. Bringing in larger businesses helps create jobs and fuels the economy. Townspeople keep their tax dollars local rather than spending their money elsewhere—in bigger cities like Nashville.”
I consider his words.
“I’ll come to the town meeting,” I concede.
“Attaboy. I knew you’d come around.”
It shouldn’t matter. I’m in my late twenties—I don’t need my father’s pride or approval.
But that one word, attaboy, hits deep. I even crack a smile.
“I’m glad we met for coffee,” Dad says with a mirroring smile. “Not so glad for the coffee, but glad for time with you.”
So this is what it feels like to bask in his rare praise.
“Oh!” He says, standing to leave. “Your mother wants to see you at the house.”
“Today?”
“Now, if you’ve got a minute.”
“You know it’s my day off, right?”
“Yes, son. I’m aware.”
“I might have plans.”
“I’m guessing they can wait. Your mom has something important to discuss with you.”
I sigh. There’s a price for admission into Dad’s good graces. I get the feeling I’m about to pay it.