Chapter 8 Daisy
Daisy
If we'd never met, I think
I would have known my life wasn't complete.
And I would have wandered the world
in search of you,
even if I didn't know who I was looking for.
~ Nicholas Sparks, The Longest Ride
“And then, after all that, he goes out to sea and dies!” Winona shouts.
Her eyes bug out and her brows scrunch together.
“The whole story I kept thinking they would end up together. The main female character had found his message in a bottle. That’s destiny.
” Her eyes search mine and Waylon’s. Then she sobs, “I hate plot twists!”
Thankfully, the three of us are alone in the shop during a lull between customers. A full house wouldn’t stem her tide. When Winona’s up in her feelings, she lets it all rip.
Waylon grabs the box of Kleenex off the counter, extending it to Winona.
She dabs her eyes and blows her nose. She’s crying—over people who feel completely real to her even though they were fashioned in the pages of a book.
“I stayed up three hours past my bedtime just to have Nicholas Sparks ruin me!” Winona wails.
“That should be on a T-Shirt,” Waylon says earnestly. “He seriously needs that merch.”
“I’m pretty sure Nicholas Sparks doesn’t need merch,” I say.
Both my employees’ heads whip in my direction.
“You missed the whole point,” Winona says. And then her face takes on a quizzical look. “You know what?”
“I’m afraid to ask,” I say, smiling softly.
“We should write you a message in a bottle. Maybe some handsome, bookish man will be walking along and find it. And then he’ll come looking for you.”
“And then he’ll die at sea,” I add, straightening the free bookmarks on the counter in front of me.
“Daisy!” Winona says in exaggerated shock.
“Too soon?” I chuckle.
“You’re a sadist,” Waylon says. “One who delights in the suffering of others.”
“Yep. You got me there,” I tease.
“She’s the farthest thing from a sadist,” Winona defends.
“I know. I know,” Waylon relents. “But I do like the idea of penning a message in a bottle from her.”
“She’s right here,” I say, raising my hand. “And, just a geography refresher for the class, we’re around six or seven hundred miles from the beach.”
“We don’t have to use a bottle, per se,” Waylon says, holding his chin between his pointer finger and thumb. “It could be a proverbial message in a bottle. A message in a … in a … ah! In the Little Free Library out front.”
“Genius!” Winona says, rounding the counter to toss her Kleenex in the trash.
I honestly love that she gets so passionate about books.
“Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Hold your horses,” I say. “You want me to write a love letter and just leave it out front in the box?” I shake my head adamantly. “Nope. You two should … dust the shelves in the children’s room.”
“No,” Waylon says, looking to Winona for confirmation. “We’ll write it for you. And you don’t just put it in the box out loose where any five-year-old could grab it. You insert it between the pages of a romance novel. That way whoever grabs that book gets your note.”
“I’m pretty sure that would mean a thirty-year-old housewife will be the recipient.”
Winona laughs, but Waylon’s expression is intent. “Maybe. But what if a man grabs the book. And he reads the note. And he goes seeking for you?”
“Oooh!” Winona practically squeals. “When he reads the letter, his heart beats for you and he sets out on a lover’s quest—like Prince Charming went searching for Cinderella.”
“Okay. Enough reading romance novels for the two of you. Time to read … Greek tragedies.”
I can’t believe I’m even entertaining this conversation. It feels like a session of preschool outbursts during storytime. I have a toad in my yard. Why don’t you marry it? Only princesses marry toads. Do not! Do so!
“I appreciate the sentiment,” I say. “I don’t foresee any of the eligible men of Waterford grabbing a random romance novel from the free library up front …
and going on a mission to find me … and then actually being the man of my fantasies.
If I meet a man, I want to meet him in the usual way—face to face.
And then we’ll find we have something in common.
He’ll ask me to coffee or maybe he’ll say, ‘let’s go to an event at the library. ’ We’ll be friends for a while …”
I stop myself. I’ve given this way too much thought, and now I’ve said too much.
My two employees exchange a look that should make me nervous.
We’ve got some prep to do for this weekend’s book event, so I shift the topic from my pathetic and non-existent love life to our upcoming event.
“Okay. Back to business. As you know, it’s firefighter appreciation month. David said he’ll recruit a few of the guys to come in turnout gear. We’ll need a display, and I’m pulling a few books for our read-aloud.”
“Oh!” Waylon says. “I forgot. David called and said Patrick will come.”
“We’ll see if he shows,” I mutter before my mouth consults my brain.
“What’s up with you two anyway?” Waylon asks.
Even after all these years, my chest tightens and I have to steady my breathing. I hate that just hearing Patrick’s name can still undo me. I don’t want him to matter, but he does.
“It’s a long story. Suffice it to say, I’d be living a totally different life if Patrick hadn’t let me down. I don’t dislike my life, but I lost a dream because of him.”
“I always thought you were living your dream,” Waylon says. “Owning a bookshop—one you inherited from a person you loved with your whole heart. Serving your community. Being loved by all.”
I pause in my tracks. “You’re right, Waylon.”
I glance around the interior of Moss and Maple. “Years ago, I had a different dream for my future.”
My mind drifts to the myriad of manuscripts in a box in my parents’ attic, the rejection letter from Vanderbilt, the faces of the judges who held the key to my future.
I close my eyes, taking a slow, steadying breath, and refocusing on Waylon.
“What took the place of my original plan is beyond what I could ask for. I’m not begrudging the life I have.
My problem with Patrick isn’t about what I ended up with.
It’s how he handles situations that matter to anyone besides him and his family.
He’s not the man he pretends to be. He can’t be counted on.
Not when it matters most.” I sigh. “But enough about him.”
“Right!” Winona says. “We’ve got a letter to write!”
I think she’s joking until about thirty minutes later. I’m busy setting up the firefighter display table with props, books and decor when Winona and Waylon approach me.
“Here it is,” Winona says.
She holds out a piece of paper.
I take it from her and read the first line.
Dear Future Husband,
“You guys!” I laugh, crumpling the paper into a ball and strolling over to the trash can.
“Hey!” Winona says. “We worked hard on that.”
“Future husband?” I shake my head in amusement. “No.”
I tell Winona, “If you really want to help me, you can call Liam and ask what day he plans to come out to patch the hole where the squirrels were entering the attic.”
“Okay.” Winona sounds dejected.
Waylon eyes the trash can.
“I’m sorry,” I say to him. “You two mean well.”
“We really do,” he assures me.
I smile at him. “Real life, Waylon. I’m old-fashioned.
I want to meet a man in real life. Not through some mysterious connection.
Not a dating app. And for sure not a note in a letter stuck in a box outside my place of work.
” He looks slightly defeated, so I backpedal.
“Thank you, though. I appreciate you thinking of me.”
I point toward the office. “I left a list of stories we’re going to read during the event tomorrow on my desk. Can you grab them and stack them in the book nook?”
As if on cue, my phone pings with an email notification. BTTP? I smile a private smile.
“Excuse me,” I tell Waylon.
Then I duck into the office, handing the list out to him and shutting the door behind me to read BTTP’s email.
I feel like a schoolgirl with a crush. My whole body is alight with anticipation.
Not that I’m crushing on the host of my favorite podcast. I’m not under any delusion that our online connection is more than something fun and temporary.
Still, our emails have become this sweet secret, a highlight in my days—and nights.
Only, when I tap the email app, my inbox doesn’t have an email from the host of Burning Through the Pages.
The air rushes out of me like a deflating balloon.
The email is from an unfamiliar address. The subject is: Date.
“Aunt Becca,” I say aloud, flopping into my desk chair.
I tap the email to open it.
Hi, Daisy,
My name is Franklin, like the town outside Nashville. Your Aunt Becca gave me your contact info. I was hoping you’d join me for dinner Friday night. I heard you own the bookshop in town. I’m in IT. Starting my new job in a few weeks. Anyway, I hope we can meet.
Franklin
I sigh. May as well get this over with. It’s like the dentist. Prolonging the visit only means you’re more likely to get a cavity. Maybe Franklin is nice.
“Ugh. Nice,” I groan.
Then I scold myself, “Nothing wrong with nice, Daisy.”
I don’t answer myself. I’ve heard a sign of insanity is when you really get into full-blown self-talk.
Maybe I’m actually losing it, because I add, “I want so much more than nice.”
I didn’t say no when this ball started rolling, so I have to follow through. I hit “Respond” and type:
Hi, Franklin,
Thank you for reaching out. I’d be glad to join you for dinner Friday night.
- Daisy
He responds with plans and a time he’ll pick me up.
I tell him I’ll be at the shop. Call me hyper-vigilant, but I don’t want a first date picking me up at my house if I don’t know him—even if he is nice.
We’ll be closed an hour before he shows up.
I’ll send my employees home so I don’t have three sets of beady eyes peering out the window as he walks me to his car.
I emerge from the office, resolved to focus on the customers who filter in sparingly the rest of the afternoon and evening. I send my employees home and lock the door behind them at seven.
I’m weary, but content when I go to close out the register, rubber-banding the day’s Z-tape with today’s Post-it. Hands down, my least favorite part of the job these days.
I scrawled Goal $900 on the Post-it note this morning in a sort of Field of Dreams moment—if you build it, they will come.
Well, they didn’t come. I circle the total at the bottom of the tape.
$413.07. I tuck the whole sad reminder of the financial realities of the shop into the accordion file.
I rest my elbows on my knees and my forehead on my hands and sigh.
Then I stand and shut the office door behind me.
Gran always said there would be feast and famine. That’s all this is—the ebb and flow of small business ownership. If anyone asks, I ten out of ten recommend feast over famine.
I pass the Little Free Library on the way to my car and smile to myself.
If only finding the love of my life were as easy as leaving a note in a book.