Chapter 11
Daisy
When tempted to fight fire with fire,
remember that the fire department
usually uses water.
~ Unknown
The kids love Patrick. The moms love Patrick. Everyone, apparently, loves Patrick.
And, thankfully, Cody showed up just before we got started. Everyone loves him too. Must be a firefighter thing.
We wrap up our Q & A, and the shop buzzes with customers.
Events like this have saved payroll more than once. People mingle and peruse the bookshelves. Sales are often double the usual. Sometimes triple or more. And the following week usually shows an increase in return customers.
I’m finishing up a sale when Patrick approaches, now in his station uniform, with his turnout stashed in his car. He still manages to take up too much space.
“I’ve got a favor to ask you.” His voice seems sincere, but I’m naturally leery.
“A favor.” I cross my arms over my chest instinctively.
“I’ve been looking for a book.”
“A book.”
His mouth tips up on one side, and I’m pretty certain I’m about to be the punchline of a joke.
“I’m being serious here, Daisy. It’s an out of print book, Young Men and Fire by Norman Maclean. I can’t find it anywhere.”
“And you think I can find the book for you?”
“I thought maybe you could work a little more magic than the soulless online conglomerate. The question is whether you will.”
A customer walks up and stands behind Patrick. He notices, steps out of the way and motions for her to go in front of him.
I ring her up while he stands off to the side, silently watching the whole transaction.
When she walks away, Patrick returns front-and-center.
I mean to look menacing, or at least hard to reach, when I squint my eyes and glare up into his. His eyes are like soft black velvet, deep and absorbing, but unexpectedly warm.
Focus, Daisy. Looks are only skin deep.
I huff out a short breath. “So, now I’m your personal shopper.”
His answer is quick, his smile far too self-satisfied. “Only if you throw in the gift wrap.”
Winona giggles. I shoot her a look. Traitor. She slaps her hand over her mouth.
“It’s okay, Winona,” Patrick says. “We’re funny. You can laugh.”
“We?” I snap. I move my pointer between Patrick and me. “There’s no we here.”
I’m practically itchy, standing here while Patrick acts as if he’s any other customer making a special request.
I don’t have a chance to tell him I’ll do a behind-the-scenes search for his book because a little boy walks over and tugs on Patrick’s leg. His family is new to town. I don’t know his name yet.
“Mister?” the boy asks.
“Yeah?” Patrick not only turns his attention to the boy, but he squats down so they’re eye to eye.
I’d have to stretch to see Patrick over the counter, though the child’s face is plain as day.
“I wanna be a fireman too. When I’m bigger. I’m not afraid of fire. I wanna squirt the hose and save people.”
I hear Patrick clearly even though I can only see the top of his jet black hair from my spot behind the register.
Patrick asks the boy, “Do you want to know a secret?”
The boy nods.
“I’m afraid of fire because fire is dangerous. So we always need to be careful. And we have to go to a lot of school to learn exactly how to fight a fire. And you never fight it alone. You have a crew.”
If only he followed his own rules. The contradiction between his words and the way he flew in here on a solo mission the other day should make me roll my eyes—not soften something in my chest.
To save you. My brain annoyingly reminds me of his words.
He was doing his job, I answer myself silently.
“Don’t fight fires until you go to the special school, okay?” Patrick asks the boy.
“Okay.”
“We’ll be looking forward to having you on the team after that,” he adds.
From where I’m standing, I see the boy beam with pride.
“Okay, Mister Fireman,” the boy says, turning to look over his shoulder at his mom who is standing near a shelf of books, giving her son the opportunity to speak to Patrick independently.
Winona approaches the counter with a customer carrying a stack of books. I step out of the way and duck into my office, where I stay until the shop is cleared of all local public servants.
“Are you okay?” Effie asks when I emerge.
“Yeah. Just worn out, I guess.”
“Well, you had a full week. Makes sense,” she says. But her knowing eyes linger on me.
“Still salty?” Winona asks.
“Salty?”
“About the scholarship contest all those years ago.”
“I’m not salty. I just … learned my lesson.”
“People change, Daisy,” Winona says wistfully.
“Maybe,” I concede.
People do change. Do I think Patrick has changed? The jury is definitely out. But I’d bet the whole shop that, given the chance, he’d side with his family and sell me out all over again.
“I bet Patrick can kiss,” Winona says dreamily.
Effie laughs, shaking her head in amusement.
“He’s human. Humans can kiss,” I say.
I pile on the sarcasm, hoping they don’t notice how quickly my pulse tripped the moment Winona mentioned Patrick and kissing. What is wrong with me?
“You know what I mean, Daisy,” Winona says with a note of exasperation. “I mean the man can kiss in a way you’ll never forget.”
“How would you know that from just looking at him?” I ask. “And why are we even discussing this?”
“He just gives off that good-kisser energy,” she says, dreamily.
“So date him,” I say.
But the thought of them dating doesn’t sit right with me at all. Not that I get to choose who my friends date. Just … Winona and Patrick? No. Not a match.
And, as if she were reading my mind, Winona says, “Not my type.”
“You only date bad kissers?” I tease.
Winona pauses and looks up at the ceiling as if she’s recounting all the dates she ever went on. Then she looks me in the eyes and says, “Actually, so far? Yes.”
We burst into laughter, Effie’s laughing too. It feels so freeing after the past week full of way too much Patrick O’Connell in my life.
Despite my long week—the false alarm and the big event today—I have to stick around the shop after closing to wait for my date. It’s Friday and I told Franklin I’d be glad to go to supper with him tonight.
Franklin shows up in a mid-size BMW. I’m watching through the shop window as he parks out front and rounds the car. I open the door and step onto the porch, turning to lock the door behind me.
Franklin slows, raising his hand in a wave. I walk toward the passenger seat, but my footsteps slow when I see …
Is someone in the passenger seat?
I blink and refocus.
Is this even Franklin?
It has to be.
“Hey, Daisy!”
Okay, yes. It’s Franklin.
“I hope you don’t mind. My mom was so excited for our date, I invited her to join us.”
“Your …”
“Mom. But you can call her Denise.”
I’m rooted. Like a bald cypress. I couldn’t lift my feet if a team of arborists came to relocate me.
He brought his mom?
I forgot the most critical element of any blind date: the S.O.S.
It’s been so long since I’ve been out with a man, I forgot to set up an escape hatch with one or more of my friends.
“You okay over there?” Franklin asks.
I blink.
How is this my life?
“Um. Yes. I’m good.”
“I cleared out a spot in the back seat for you. Mom gets easily carsick, so I didn’t want to chance it. Could you imagine if she lost her cookies before we even got to dinner?”
“No … Well, actually, yes. That would be horrible.”
Franklin holds the rear passenger door open like a footman in a Disney cartoon. And somehow, I manage to put one foot in front of the other to make my way to the car.
“Daisy!” Denise says before my rear even hits the leather interior. “I’m so glad to meet you. Becca has told me so many wonderful things about you. And a bookshop. You own your own business. What an accomplishment!”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Her praise is sweet, and in any other context, I’d be flattered.
But she’s on my date—with her son.
“I thought we’d go to Fork and Fiddle,” Franklin says, a chipper note in his voice.
“I haven’t been there in a while,” I say.
“It’s one of our favorites,” Denise chimes in. “Whenever Franklin’s in town, we go there.”
I make a noise that I think is going to sound like, “Mm hmm,” but I’m also thinking, wow. So it comes out more like “Meow.”
Denise turns around and looks at me with a quizzical expression.
You and me both, Denise. You and me both.
“Mom, eyes on the road. Don’t want you getting queasy,” Franklin says.
“Thank you, dear.” Denise turns again. “He’s so thoughtful.”
I nod. Just to be sure I don’t wind up purring or accidentally making any other feline-esque sounds.
We pull into the parking lot at Fork and Fiddle. Franklin opens his mom’s door, extends her his hand, and by the time she’s out, I’ve already opened the back door and am shutting the car door behind myself.
At the hostess stand, Franklin says his name for the reservation.
I glance around the restaurant. It’s a Friday night. In a town like Waterford, we don’t have a ton of options, so the popular places draw a crowd.
The hostess tells us to follow her. Franklin’s mom walks ahead of us. Franklin lightly places his hand on the small of my back as we navigate between a server and a table for two.
I look down at the couple seated at the table and the shock of what I see makes me lose my balance and wobble in my heels.
Looking back up at me is none other than Patrick O’Connell. On a date with Blaire Rutherford.
I have to brace my hand on their table to avoid falling over.
“Doing okay, Daisy?” Patrick asks.
“Fine, thank you. Excuse me. Sorry.”
I step away from the table and nearly cause Franklin to bump into a waiter passing behind us.
“You sure about that?” Patrick asks.
“Very,” I say.
Franklin’s mom takes her seat at our table, which is a four-top—on the other side of Patrick and his date.
“Um!” I raise my hand to get the attention of the hostess who has already set our menus on the table and is walking back to her stand. “Excuse me!”
For some reason, every head in the place turns to look at me—every one but the hostess.
Franklin’s brows draw in. “Are you okay, Daisy?”