Chapter 16
Patrick
There is too little courtship in the world.
~ Vernon Lee
I thought it was hard hiding my podcast from friends and family. Now I’m in the regular habit of checking my inbox to see if M&M messaged me. Not only am I hiding a part-time occupation, but I’m in a clandestine online friendship. The best parts of my life are ones I can’t share with anyone I know.
I pull my laptop up before I head into work. I’m finishing breakfast while I check emails. There’s one from my hosting service, and another from one of my sponsors. I skip those, hunting for the one I hope to find.
When I see it, I can’t help the smile that breaks across my face.
I click the email to open it.
Dear BTTP,
I thoroughly enjoyed your episode on the Joy Luck Club.
I thought, since you asked readers to list their favorite things and share them with someone significant, I’d share mine with you.
Here goes … My favorite season is fall. My favorite sounds in the world are a baby’s coo, the squeak of an old floorboard, my friends’ laughter.
I love the smell of a warm campfire. My favorite foods are chocolate chip cookies (and yes, I’ve eaten them for breakfast).
My favorite drink is Harney’s Hot Cinnamon tea.
My favorite tradition is hanging ornaments on the Christmas tree every year in our town square.
Your turn. Tell me your favorites … if you want to.
- M&M
I hit reply and type:
Dear M&M,
I never expected anyone to actually share their list with me.
Here’s my list:
Favorite color: Red
Favorite season: Fall
Favorite sound: bird song or my nieces’ laughter
Favorite smell: old books
Favorite food: pizza (as cliché as that is)
Favorite drink: water (please don’t think I’m boring)
Favorite tradition: honoring heroes in the Memorial Day Parade
That book has me thinking a lot about parents and the heritage we carry from our families. Sometimes that’s a mixed bag, isn’t it?
- BTTP
After I rinse my dishes, I grab the romance novel I’m reading for my next episode and head out the door for work.
I’m chilling in one of our recliners later that morning.
Maintenance checks are done and we’re going to work out in a half hour.
I wouldn’t admit it out loud to anyone, but I’ve been eager to get back to the book in my hand ever since I arrived at the station.
I read the first few chapters at home last night, but then I forced myself to set it down.
“Whatcha readin’ Patrick?” Cody saunters into the room, leaning back against the counter across from mine.
“A book,” I say in the most neutral tone I can muster.
“Must be some book to have to wrap it in … What’s that?” He makes a show of squinting. “The Art of Aerodynamics?” Cody snorts. “Mm hmm. Since when is that your passion?”
“Bet it’s not about aerodynamics at all,” Dustin chimes in.
“Hmph,” I answer, lazily turning a page.
“What’s behind that cover?” Cody asks, stepping closer.
I guess my effort to disguise the book didn’t go as seamlessly as I had hoped it would.
“A bodice ripper?” Dustin asks, wagging his brows.
“A what?” I ask.
“You know, those ones with some pirate on the front with his flowy shirt unbuttoned to his navel and he’s holding a woman in a dress that looks like it took two hours to put on and will take even longer to get off. So … bodice ripper.”
The three of us crack up. Greyson walks in carrying his laptop, glances at each of us and takes a seat in a recliner one over from mine.
“Not a bodice ripper,” I mutter, praying nobody notices the heat crawling up my neck.
The side of Greyson’s mouth ticks up momentarily. He tilts his laptop partially shut. “In the words of Shakespeare … ‘Methinks thou doth protest too much’.”
“Greyson. You read? Shakespeare?” Dustin teases.
“I graduated high school,” Greyson basically grunts.
Dustin’s eyes gleam as he returns his attention to me. “The suspense is killing me, Patrick.”
I jam the bookmark inside and slam the cover shut. My eyes lock on Dustin as he pushes off the counter and stalks toward me, obviously intent on wresting my book from me. He reaches out. I hold the novel high overhead, dodging him. We shuffle around the room.
Dustin lunges, and the book jolts in my hand. The dust jacket I had wrapped the book in starts to slip off the novel. My stomach bottoms out.
“Bodice ripper! I knew it!” Dustin bellows, swiping for the book, oblivious.
I tighten my grasp, holding the dust jacket onto the book with one hand, heart pounding. Bouncing from foot to foot, I juke left like a wide receiver desperately avoiding the tackle.
Dustin’s making pirate sounds, like “Aargh, lassie!”
He dives for me. “Give me the book, Patrick!”
“Walk the plank!” I shout, practically admitting what he suspects.
Dustin’s built like a tank, but we’re well matched. We stare one another down, both of us bent in a preparatory hunch, ready to move on impulse. His brows wag and he lurches forward. I twist and shoot in the opposite direction.
Cody’s cracking up. Greyson watches, smirk tugging at his mouth.
The alarm blares, cutting through our skirmish like a ref’s whistle halting the play.
The book is forgotten. Muscle memory kicks in.
My crew mates jog toward the door. I linger behind them, purposely setting myself up to be the last man out. I open a cupboard we never use and toss the book into it and then I hustle out the door to suit up.
Captain’s voice blares overhead: “Cletus Bader’s stuck in his Lay-Z-Boy again. Tipped like a cow in the pasture.”
We stop scrambling for our turnouts and eye one another. A moment later, we’re in the truck, wearing our station uniforms, headed to Cletus’ house to right a recliner and help pry him out of the seat. People would not believe the non-fire-related calls we take on the regular.
We manage to free Cletus from the grips of his chair. When we’re back at the station, Captain comes out into the bay to greet us.
“A shipment of books got delivered today.”
“A shipment?” Dustin asks, looking at me. “How many bodice rippers does one man need, Patrick?”
I shake my head, chuckling.
“They’re not for Patrick,” Captain says. “They’re an order for Moss and Maple. Jill messed up the delivery. She dropped our order of restocks to the bookshop.” Captain looks around at the four of us. “Patrick,” he says. “Handle the mix up with Daisy.”
“Could Dustin do it?” I ask on impulse.
Captain only has to look at me and I nod. “Got it. I’ll handle the mix up.”
I call over to Moss and Maple while the guys head to our bunks to change for workouts.
“Moss and Maple. How may I help you?” Daisy’s voice is kind and warm when she answers.
“Hi, Daisy. It’s me, Patrick.”
“Oh. Hi, Patrick.” The temperature of her voice shifts to subzero.
“I’m … uh … calling about the mix up in the shipments.”
“Oh. Yes. I was just going to put the box in my car and drive it over.”
“Is that what’s most convenient?” I ask.
“Is my convenience even on your radar—or your family’s?” Her tone is barely sharp this time. It’s heavier. Defeated. Like she’s already bracing for loss.
“It’s …” I start to answer her.
I don’t know what to say. I haven’t even fully processed my father’s plans yet. Besides, Daisy wouldn’t believe me if I told her how torn I’m feeling over the whole situation.
“I’ve got to run, Patrick. I’ll see you when I drop off the box. Or … not see you. You could just leave the books on the driveway.”
“I’ll see you,” I insist for some unknown reason.
“Great.” Her tone doesn’t sound like she thinks it’s great—at all.
There’s a click and I’m left holding the station phone to my ear. I set the handset in the cradle and walk to the bunks to change into my T-shirt and sweats for my workout.
I’m mid-set in my bench presses when Daisy shows up to the station, holding a box and peering into the workout room.
I set the bar on the rack and sit up, my legs straddling the bench. I grab my towel and wipe the sweat off my forehead before standing to walk over to her.
Her eyes flit to my chest, rove across my arms. With a nearly imperceptible shake of her head, she squares her shoulders and meets my gaze. There’s no denying she enjoys checking me out. And, considering the death glare she’s giving me, I’m not about to tease her about it.
I wish I could say something—anything—to let her know I’m not sold on my dad’s proposal. But nothing I say would quell her frustration, convince her of my predicament, or change the outcome—which we both know might mean a huge hit to her shop.
“Your books are over here,” I say, brushing past her as I walk toward the kitchen where I left them on the table.
She follows behind me. And I realize she’s still lugging the box of our restocks.
I stop dead in my tracks and she barrels into my back with an “Oof.”
“Sorry,” I turn around, staring down into her brown eyes. There’s a golden hue to them with the light shining in through the bay. “I just realized I should offer to carry the box of our supplies for you.”
“I’ve got it,” she says, backing up a step and waiting for me to resume walking to the kitchen.
“Daisy … I …”
“I just need to pick up the books, Patrick. Please. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
Her eyes are missing that spark—that playful, cutting edge that usually slices me down to size. A cloud of heaviness shadows her features.
So, I walk to the kitchen, take the box out of her hands, and pick up her shipment of books.
“I’ll carry this out for you,” I say.
My tone must sound like I mean business, because she lets me.
I hate seeing her like this. There’s a sour taste in my mouth. I can’t blame her. My family is messing with her livelihood.
Maybe Home Mart and Moss and Maple could coexist somehow. I open my mouth to say something along those lines, but then shut it again.
We both know better.
If my dad’s development moves forward, it’s only a matter of time until Daisy will go out of business.
I carry Daisy’s box of books in silence.
The weight pressing on me has nothing to do with cardboard and paper.