Chapter 10
Daisy
They parted at last with mutual civility,
and possibly a mutual desire of never meeting again.
~ Jane Austen, Pride & Prejudice
I dart out the back door of the shop into the cool air—hands shaking, heart pounding, brain a tangle of thoughts.
Patrick O’Connell bursting into my shop like some hero out of a movie, filling the space with his firefighter-on-a-mission presence? Too much. My skin actually tingled when I brushed against his coat in my way-too-small-for-the-two-of-us office.
Patrick O’Connell does not make my skin tingle.
To save you.
I shake my hands out and lean against the back wall of my shop. Gran’s shop.
The alarm scared me. Of course it did. For more than a split second I imagined everything going up in flames.
I ran through the shop, looking for signs of an electrical fire.
But then I realized it was probably the smoke detectors.
I grabbed the pack of 9-volts out of my desk drawer and went through the shop replacing batteries. Then I reset the alarm panel.
Jillian showed up after the alarm had gone off, so I carried on business as usual, putting on a face of calm composure even though my whole life had flashed in front of my eyes not fifteen minutes prior.
Of course the day the alarm shrieks is one when Effie isn’t scheduled, Winona’s already gone, and Waylon’s shift hasn’t started.
I had known it was time to check the detectors, but it’s one of those tasks I put off and then forget. And then something like this happens—a full scale alarm, fire engine on the scene, neighbors and customers gathered out front—and Patrick to the rescue.
I don’t know what shook me up worse—the thought of the bookshop being in danger, or him being the one to barge through my door on a rescue mission.
I take a few cleansing breaths, push off the wall and stare out into the woods behind the shop.
How long has it been since I’ve been on a hike down those familiar paths?
I resolve to go on a walk in the woods soon.
Then I climb the back steps and reenter my empty shop.
We stay empty most of the day, with the exception of a few neighbors who pop in to check on me and several random customers who meander in before heading to the high school play.
Alone in Moss and Maple while the sun starts to set, I decide I need some company.
I haven’t had a chance to listen to the podcast episode on Pride & Prejudice, so I make myself a cup of Harney’s Hot Cinnamon tea, lock the front door and flip the sign to CLOSED.
Then I stroll into the back room and settle into one of the cozy chairs.
With the woods in view out the window, I take a sip and push play.
The host’s voice is as soothing as ever. He spends thirty minutes giving his discourse on what he calls “Darcy’s glaring red flags.” Even that phrase brings a smile to my face.
“He should have talked to her,” he says.
And then he pauses to let the weight of his words sink in.
“Modern romance fanatics all rally against what they call the misunderstanding trope, yet here we have one of the most beloved romances of all time—and it’s founded on a misunderstanding.
“And that misunderstanding could have been resolved if Darcy would have spoken to Elizabeth. All he had to say was ‘Elizabeth, I have been thinking of you … all I can do is think of you …’ Instead he’s this impenetrable wall. She can’t get a read on him. And that’s his fault.”
His message is passionate, enlightened, considerate.
If only certain real men understood communication the way this anonymous host does.
I think he’s finished and about to wrap up with the closing I could recite from memory. But he adds one more thought.
“Should we really normalize hard-to-get behavior from wealthy men—or men in general? Not only normalize it—should we exonerate it by making Darcy the gold standard of romantic heroes?” He pauses again.
“You tell me.” Then he chuckles softly. “I’ll just be hiding here in my anonymous corner to avoid the inevitable lynch mobs who will be coming for me after this episode. It’s been fun hosting.”
I burst into laughter, the sound softly echoing in the empty room.
The podcast comes to a close and I sigh. He could literally talk about leaves falling off trees and I’d be here for it.
I’m already standing to grab my laptop.
I curl into one of my favorite chairs in the book nook, cracking open my computer and composing an email to the host. I wish I knew his name. We haven’t really talked much about our boundaries here. They’re unspoken, yet feel mutually understood.
Dear BTTP:
I have to admit, you have me looking at Mr. Darcy in a new light. I’m not sure if I should thank you or hold you in contempt. You really had a point about the way we’ve glossed over his imperfections.
I won’t go so far as to say he’s a walking red flag. I think he shows a growth arc, and at his heart is a very good gentleman. But the hard-to-read man got a dressing down tonight on your show.
I liked the heart behind your message. You’re pro-woman and pro-communication. I appreciate that stance.
I hope your comments section isn’t filled with proverbial pitchforks. Maybe just dinner forks.
- M&M
I’m quietly sipping my tea, rereading the email I just sent, and feeling more calm than I’ve felt in the past six hours, when my computer pings with a response. That was quick.
Dear M&M,
Now I’m plagued by an image of me running down a street with an army of enraged women, forks in the air. I could be tined to death if they catch up to me.
Good thing I’m a fast runner.
In all seriousness, thank you for your response. I’m glad you heard me out. I’m not fully anti-Darcy. Sometimes you have to take a severe stance to get the conversation started. The fans of Darcy are all so adamant about his impeccable goodness. I wanted them to think through the counter-argument.
- BTTP
I answer him immediately, skipping over any greeting.
Are you a lawyer by day? - M&M
His answer is equally immediate. The realization that we’re talking in real-time sends an unanticipated thrill through me.
No. Far from it. I did take debate years ago in high school, though. Forgive me for this, but I wonder if it would be better if we don’t share specifics about ourselves here online. My anonymity is critical to my podcast.
- BTTP
As much as I’d love to know who he is, where he lives, how old he is, what he looks like …
I know he’s right. We have a rare and protected space here.
This wholly unexpected connection would lose some of its magic if I suddenly discovered his name is Greg and he lives in Poughkeepsie, podcasting from his mother’s basement.
And he’d know I’m me—Daisy, a small-town bookshop owner struggling to keep her family’s legacy alive, hanging out during her free time with the same group of friends she’s had her whole life.
I 100% agree. There’s something about our anonymity that makes saying whatever we think possible. I’m more unfiltered here … for better or worse.
- M&M
He answers:
I think it’s been for the better.
Is it okay to say I look forward to your emails?
- BTTP
I respond:
I do too—look forward to yours.
- M&M
He doesn’t answer. Life must have called him away from his laptop. I shut mine, go through the closing routine at the shop, and drive home. In a few days we’ll host the firefighter appreciation book event. Which means Patrick will be here—again.
And, this time it’s because I inadvertently invited him.
Patrick shows up to Moss and Maple at eleven.
He’s on the porch, waiting his turn behind the crowd of moms and children I’m greeting as they walk in.
He’s wearing his turnout, minus the breathing apparatus and mask.
Instead, he’s holding a fire helmet and staring straight at me with those impenetrable eyes.
I’d hardly be surprised if lasers shot out of them, they’re so intense.
The moms on the porch try to be discreet as they steal glances at Patrick.
What is it about a man in uniform? Not this man in uniform—just the presence of the uniform in general. Although, I can’t deny how objectively handsome Patrick is.
I turn my attention to Peyton and Whitney, twins who have been shopping here with their mom since birth.
“Here are your gift bags,” I say, handing them each a paper bag with a cartoon fire hydrant on the front. “Follow Miss Winona to the back room.”
“Coloring book!” Peyton exclaims, peeking inside while she walks further into the shop.
A few more moms enter with their children and then Patrick looms in the doorway. Sucking up the oxygen, or at least he must be because I’m trying to breathe normally and can’t seem to catch a full breath.
“Do I get a gift bag?” he asks in far too intimate a voice.
“Sure! You can use it to carry your dignity with you. I noticed you left it in the yard before your entrance the other day.”
My grin is smug, so different than the one I’d give any other human on the planet.
A mom on the porch muffles a laugh, and I swear half the shop leans in closer.
I’m ready to move on, having landed a proper zinger, but he spars back.
“Admit it, Clark.” He smiles broadly. “You were impressed with my heroics.”
I don’t miss a beat. “If by impressed you mean disturbed, then yes.”
“So, I disturb you?” His brows wag playfully.
“Oh, yes, Patrick. You disturb me.” I lace my voice with playful seduction, then trade it out for my usual quippy tone. “You’re right up there with clowns, creepy dolls and fingernails on a chalkboard.”
Winona interrupts our sparring. “Sorry to break up this edition of small town banterfest, but …” She points to the line behind Patrick.
He turns and says “Sorry, folks.” Charming as ever.
And, as usual, every female within twenty feet of him smiles and practically swoons to the point of needing smelling salts.
I shove a bag at Patrick. “I give your entrance a five out of ten.”
He walks past me to let the next patron enter, turns and asks me, “For curiosity’s sake, what would you rate my entrance the other day?”
I tap my pointer to my chin. “I’d give it a ten for zeal, but a three for accuracy, so six point five cumulative.”
He shakes his head, chuckling lightly, and walks through my shop to the back room. I hate that I watch him go, shoulders filling each doorway like he owns it. I blink hard and force myself back to the next customer, pretending my pulse isn’t betraying me.