Chapter 15
Daisy
Life is a little like a message in a bottle,
to be carried by the winds and the tides.
~ Gene Tierney
I sag against my front door, my chest hitching, my tears finally finding their release. I can’t seem to stop sobbing. My knees threaten to buckle as if my body is filing its resignation: I quit.
I quit everything.
I allow myself to drop to the floor, curl my legs in and have a good, long cry.
My brain starts to come back to me after the haze of emotions lifts.
Dad wants an update on the meeting. He heard through the ever-reliable grapevine about the O’Connells’ plans to demolish my business and bring a big box store to our quaint small town.
I can’t call Dad right now. Not if I don’t want to cue another round of waterworks.
Besides, he and Mom will want to run in with some sort of save Daisy and her shop plan. I’m a grown woman living only a few blocks from where she grew up. I need to adult on my own sometimes.
I stand up, grabbing my purse and my notebook off the floor—the notebook I never wrote a word in after Mr. O’Connell took the podium.
There’s only one person I want to talk to, strange as it might be.
I slide my laptop off my coffee table and open the browser to my email.
Dear BTTP,
I had a night to beat all nights. Seriously. I’m more wound up than a bullfrog in a hailstorm. But enough about me and my no good, very bad day. How was your day?
- M&M
His answer is immediate. There aren’t words for the whoosh of relief I feel when I see his email pop up in my inbox.
Dear M&M,
I had a rough night too. My family blindsided me. By the way, do you want to switch to DMs? I have an account set up for the podcast. It will be more immediate when we’re both online.
- BTTP
It feels strange to smile through my tears. I answer him:
Dear BTTP,
Blindsiding must be going around tonight. I’ll DM you.
- M&M
I open a new tab, pulling up the website and clicking the link to DM the host. I never would have initiated a DM to him. It feels more … intimate and personal. But, he invited me, so …
Host: Your family blindsided you?
M&M: No. But I was blindsided.
Host: I’m sorry to hear that.
M&M: What happened to you?
Host: My parents can be short-sighted. They’ve got plans for their business and they want me on board.
M&M: Entrepreneurship for the win. No one tells me what to do and I don’t have to get on board with anything that doesn’t align with my values.
Host: I envy you.
M&M: Don’t. I didn’t mean to make my situation sound superior. Freedom to align myself any way I like is just a perk. Trust me, right now I’d almost sell out if someone else would shoulder my situation with me.
Host: Sounds rough.
M&M: It’s tragic. But I’ve been through worse. I’m the David to their Goliath.
Host: You know who wins in that story, right?
M&M: You made me smile my first smile of the evening.
Host: I’m glad. From what I recall, you just need a few smooth stones and a slingshot.
M&M: I wonder if I could arrange for overnight shipping.
Host: Now I’m laughing—first laugh of the night.
M&M: Hang in there. Family stuff can be so challenging. Hold your ground. Be true to yourself. You might lose something, but in the end you’ll keep what matters most.
Host: That’s amazing advice.
M&M: Thanks.
Host: I think I’d say the same thing to you. Hold your ground. You might have to make a sacrifice. But in the end, you’ll land on your feet, stronger for what you went through.
We wind up chatting for another half hour about his upcoming topics for the show. When we finally say goodbye, I close my laptop with a sigh and a contented grin.
Then I send Dad a quick text with a nutshell summary of our situation.
He responds with “Chin up. This is only in early stages. Not a done deal.” My father, the perpetual optimist. Still, it feels good to be reminded it’s not over til it’s over.
That feeling of optimism buys me a good night’s sleep, but I wake with the familiar pool of dread seeping back into my belly.
My thoughts as I drive to work whip every which way like loose papers in a windstorm, impossible to catch, impossible to organize, all scattered.
I move through the morning at the shop in a semi-daze.
Every time I touch a book, ring up a sale or dust a bookshelf, I’m reminded this shop may not be here this time next year.
At lunch, Cass comes bounding in the door carrying a large brown bag.
“I brought sustenance,” she announces, plopping the bag on the check-out counter. “A little pick-me-up to soften the news about your new neighbor.”
“Patrick?”
“No, your new neighbor here—the development.”
“It’s not final,” I reiterate the mantra my dad planted last night. “They just got the okay to survey the land.”
“Okay. True,” Cass says, but her face looks like she’s assuring a child of the existence of Santa.
She abruptly changes the subject. “By the way, thanks for giving me the heads up about the calendar shoot. Those firefighters. Whew.”
“Most of them,” I agree.
“All of them,” Cass says. “You have to admit, that calendar is going to look good. They’re all gorgeous.”
“I believe beauty goes beyond what we see with our eyes.”
“Same,” she says.
“I rest my case. One of those men hides a traitorous heart beneath his well-defined pecs.”
Cass smiles. “All those muscles. Who knew all it took was a pair of oven mitts to open my eyes.”
“Seriously?” I shake my head. She’s coming in here praising him today of all days?
“I told Daisy I think Patrick would be one heck of a kisser,” Winona says to her sister.
“I see it,” Cass says. “He’s got that full lower lip and a bit of swagger without being too arrogant.”
“Am I being pranked?” I ask.
“You have to admit he’s hot,” Cass continues, undeterred. “Totally not my type, but he’s absolutely not hard to look at. Not. At. All.”
“Do you have amnesia?” I ask. “His family is putting me out of business. And what’s with you two and your types?”
“You don’t have a type?” Cass asks.
I did. And … Patrick might have even been it. Back then, he could do no wrong in my eyes—until he did. But that was so long ago. And today is the last day I want to bring up a latent high school crush on a man who looks like a buff Tom Ellis.
“Tom Ellis,” slips out of me like a sigh, too dreamy, too revealing. Heat crawls up my neck the second I hear myself.
“Oooh. Well, well,” Cass says. “Tom Ellis. Tall. Built. Dark hair. Hmmm …”
Why do all roads seem to lead to that infuriating man?
“I know what you’re thinking,” I say, pointing at Cass.
“I know what I’m thinking,” Winona says. “I’m thinking why aren’t we eating those sandwiches? I’m hungry!”
We all laugh, and thankfully Cass drops the subject of our local Tom Ellis look-alike.
We take the bag to the book nook and Cass hands out the sandwiches.
“Oh! Speaking of types, Daisy, Carli gave your number to a ranch hand.”
“She did what? And why?”
In our main circle of friends, only two of us are in relationships: Sydney and Emberleigh. The rest of us—Winona, Cass, Carli and I—aren’t attached, or even dating anyone.
“Why single me out?” I ask. “I’m not the only one flying solo in our group. Besides, the timing is terrible. And I just went on the world’s worst date. It’s my turn to sit one out. Tell her to give Winona’s number out.”
“What?! No!” Winona shouts. Then she turns to Cass. “Is he cute?”
Cass laughs. “According to Carli, he just started at the ranch and he seems really thoughtful and, yes, cute.”
“Carli said he saw you at the town hall meeting and asked her about you this morning.”
I don’t even know what to say about that.
What man would have seen me on an inward mental spiral, being contained by a caregiver on either side and thought, her—I want her?
“We need to have a pact not to give out one another’s phone numbers,” I say.
“It probably would be for the best,” Cass agrees. “But this is already done, so if he calls … Well, consider saying yes. It might be a good distraction from all the other things you have going on.”
“Maybe,” I agree.
I most certainly could use a distraction.
BTTP comes to mind and I grin a private smile. I’m grateful for his friendship. It’s easy—and safe.
Cass packs up after lunch. Winona and I take to sorting through shelves.
Effie comes in to man the front counter.
There are only two customers here, so I gather a small stack of books we’ve had on hand for a while that aren’t selling and carry them into the office to put in a box we keep for library donations.
Then I grab my laptop and walk out onto the back porch of the shop, inhaling a deep breath of cold autumn air.
The wind passes through the trees lightly swaying the branches.
I glance to my north, toward the open field where I ran in the tall grass as a child.
That unkept pasture has always been a source of peace—a reminder that we don’t have to build on every square foot of land we see.
Settling on the top step of the porch, I crack open my laptop.
My phone pings. I pull it out to look at it.
Unknown number: Hi, Daisy. My name is Chet. I work at the Buckners’ ranch. I got your number from Carli. I’d like to take you to coffee or lunch if you’re available.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
I can’t even count the number of days and nights I spent wishing I had more romance in my life.
I’m pretty sure I got a guardian angel like that one in It’s a Wonderful Life.
My guardian angel must’ve flunked out of training.
I’m stuck with the celestial equivalent of a juvenile delinquent on work release—slipping chaos into my life like it’s his side hustle.
My phone rings. It’s Carli.
“Hey!” she says when I answer. Then she rushes to say. “Sorry, not sorry! I gave your number to a cute new ranch hand of ours, Chet. Don’t judge by the name. He’s really sweet.”
“Carli,” I sigh. “Cass already told me. I know you mean well. Just don’t give my number out again without my permission. Okay?”
“I know. I know. That was a total friend fail. I won’t do it again. This guy’s cute, though.”
“So was Ted Bundy.”
“Ted who?”
“The serial killer.”
“I’m not setting you up with a serial killer. He’s a rancher.”
“Ranchers can’t be serial killers?”
“I never heard of one, have you?”
She’s got a point. And how are we even discussing this?
“He just texted,” I tell Carli.
“Well? What are you going to say?”
“I don’t know.”
“Just go. It’s one meal. You might actually have fun.”
I sigh. I don’t have it in me to be pestered. And this guy already did the heavy lifting by asking for my number and reaching out.
“Okay,” I concede. “I’ll text him back and say yes.”