Chapter 22
Daisy
Mom
they are about something big.
~ Robert Spector
The day after a storm always goes one of two ways. Either everyone hunkered down in the rain, so they come out in droves at the first sign of sunshine, or they’re too busy taking care of the aftermath to think about books.
Personally, I’m never too busy to think about books.
The shop has been quiet all morning, so Winona and I restocked the basement for the next emergency this morning. Now I’m heading outside to rake leaves and sweep the sidewalk of debris. I grab my coat to head out the door.
“I’ll be out front!” I shout to Winona and Effie, who are in the back room tidying shelves.
My eye catches on the mat at our entryway.
The image of Patrick mopping my shop invades my thoughts again.
He didn’t have to clean up after himself.
He didn’t even have to come check on us, though I guess he was merely doing his job.
But the mopping was extra—and thoughtful.
I feel my face soften. And then my cheeks heat when I think of his eyes holding mine as we tussled for that cup of milk at the chili cook-off.
Even now, his effect on me is disturbing.
He’s too attractive for his own good. I despise him, but I can’t deny the way he makes my blood boil and my skin tingle. It’s a mess.
I step out the front door, grabbing the broom and swishing it across the porch steps.
I try to muster up my usual warning bells where Patrick O’Connell is concerned, but apparently something shifted last night.
He had barreled down the basement stairs, his eyes searching the room until he landed on me.
The way he asked if we were alright instantly lifted the weight I’d been shouldering on my own all night.
His presence was an anchor, as much as I didn’t want it to be.
Dustin, rightfully, only had eyes for Emberleigh.
But Patrick would have gone to any lengths to protect each and every person in my shop—including me.
“He’s still Patrick,” I mutter, but the words land with half their usual punch.
More images of Patrick flood me: his smile, posing for the calendar, on our porch, fumbling for words the night of our last town hall.
The town hall. “Daisy. Are you losing your mind? His family is about to bring you to ruin!”
“I know. I know,” I mutter.
Every time I drop my guard and allow myself to soften around Patrick, I pay a steep price.
I shake my head and continue sweeping, singing one of my favorite songs to drown out all thoughts of Patrick O’Connell.
Speaking of the town hall, tonight’s another one. Among the usual business, we’ll iron out Fall Festival details, but most of the residents of Waterford are only concerned about one thing: the decision about the Home Mart development.
Customer after customer has stood at my counter, advising me not to worry.
People say things like, “We’re not a big box town, Daisy.
Don’t you fret.” I want to believe them.
But we’re not dealing with average humans here.
These are the O’Connells, and somehow they always seem to manage to push their own agenda at the expense of everyone around them.
When I step back into the shop, Winona’s waving a small scrap of paper overhead.
“Tom called!” she’s giddy, and my hackles rise. “Tom Winston?”
She waves the paper like a winning lottery ticket.
Tom is a guy I’ve known nearly as long as I’ve known Patrick.
He left for a job with the stock exchange years ago.
Apparently, he’s been back in town for a few months and he’s eager to reconnect.
And, how do I know this? He’s called multiple times this week, and if that weren’t enough, he’s DM’d my socials too.
He’s polite, but more persistent than a door-to-door solar salesman.
“Thanks,” I say to Winona, grabbing the paper and promptly tossing it into the trash can next to the register.
Her mouth pops open and she asks, “Why did you do that?”
“I don’t want to talk to him.”
“Why not?”
“This is the third time this week he’s called to ask me out.”
“What?” Her eyes glisten with excitement. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“To you?” I practically snort with my laughter. “The woman who wrote a Dear Future Husband letter on my behalf? Hmmm … I wonder why I didn’t mention my real life suitor to you?”
She looks hurt, so I add, “Besides, I haven’t seen much of Tom since high school. He wasn’t my type then, I don’t think he’ll be my type now.”
Effie strolls up to the counter and nonchalantly assesses my life in one sentence. “When it rains, it pours, I tell ya.”
“And here I am in the Sahara,” Winona practically whines.
“Maybe Tom would like to take you out,” I offer.
Winona rolls her eyes. “I’m not taking sloppy seconds. When a man wants me, he’ll call me, not my boss and best friend.”
“That’s a girl,” Effie praises Winona. “You wait for that man. He’ll be the one.”
Winona actually beams. I wish I could bottle her resilience.
That afternoon we’re a little busier, and it’s six o’clock before I know it. I close up and walk to the parking lot, gazing over at the open field as I stroll to my car.
I picture a Future Site of Home Mart sign sitting right at the edge of the property and my stomach clenches with unease.
“Patrick’s one of them,” I admonish myself. “Don’t you forget it.”
The parking lot at the community center is packed when I pull in.
I find a spot, grab my notebook and make my way through the double doors.
Craning my neck and searching the crowd, I finally see Winona waving her hands overhead.
I excuse myself as I weave past people standing in the center aisle, chatting with friends and neighbors.
“Deja vu,” I say, taking my seat between Winona and Carli.
“Should we switch seats?” Winona asks. “Do you want Emberleigh or Sydney to sit next to you? Maybe that will trick the deja vu voodoo.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Carli says, peeking her head around me to smile adoringly at Winona.
“You don’t know that for certain,” Winona answers her.
I chuckle. “I like you two right where you are.”
“Anyway,” Carli says. “I was talking to the ranch hands, and they’re unanimous—no way we’re getting a Home Mart.”
I cross my fingers and hold them up, giving them a quick shake. “One can only hope.”
Mayor Briggs opens the meeting. We run through school issues, storm follow up, the fireman calendar fundraiser, and then I’m bracing myself to hear about the last item on the agenda.
“For our last item of business,” Mayor Briggs says, “We’ll discuss the O’Connell development of a Home Mart on the outskirts of town.”
He looks around the room, making pointed eye contact like the seasoned politician he is.
“Conrad O’Connell has done his due diligence, submitting his land surveys and environmental impact report.
Those are all on file at city hall if any of y’all want to check them out in your leisure time.
” He chuckles. “And everything went through like a butter slidin’ down your granny’s warm biscuit. ”
I glance at Carli and silently mouth the word, yikes.
“We still have to vote,” she whispers.
“We will now open the microphone so y’all can come up and share your thoughts about this opportunity,” Mayor Briggs says. Then, with the expression of a father warning his children to behave, he adds, “Keep it civil.”
Hands shoot up all over the room and the low murmur of private conversations fills the air.
“Bucky Dennison!” Mayor Briggs shouts. “Come on up and tell us what you’re thinkin’. And for the sake of all our bedtimes, let’s keep these brief.”
Bucky eases his way out from the center of the row where he’s sitting, saying, “’Scuse me. Pardon me,” to each person he passes. When he’s at the mic, he says, “I’ve been knowin’ Conrad for years. Haven’t I, Connie?”
Mr. O’Connell is seated two rows ahead of me. And right next to him, in his dutiful-son seat, is Patrick. Mr. O’Connell nods his head in agreement with Bucky.
“Anyhoo, I believe in Connie and his heart for our community. To tell the truth, I’m sick of runnin’ to Nashville whenever I need something special.
It would be awfully nice to have a supercenter right here in town.
And if anyone’s gonna be the one to bring it to us, I’d say that’s the man, right there. ”
Bucky steps away from the podium, then he turns around, re-approaches the mic, and adds, “Also, we’re havin’ a sale on end-of-the-season corn at the farmer’s market this weekend, so come on out.”
Winona’s hand lands on my knee. Usually her touch would comfort me. Right now, it feels like confirmation that my ship is going down and I’m going to suffer the fate of Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic.
Hands shoot up before Mayor Briggs even makes it back to the microphone.
“Okay, then.” He chuckles. “Let’s have Aileen McFarland come on up. Aileen?”
“I’m comin’!” She shouts and then she practically runs to the podium like a contestant on The Price is Right, her big blond curls bouncing along with her.
She’s out of breath and smiling big when she reaches the podium.
“Hey, everyone!” Aileen waves. “So, here’s all I have to say.
Y’all know I love a bargain. And with my children at the ages they are, I can’t just be zippin’ off to Nashville every time I want to go shoppin’.
I really think the Home Mart would be a blessing to all us moms. Think of it.
Gettin’ your kiddie pool at a discount each summer.
Christmas decor. Towels and whatnot. That land’s just sittin’ there wide open.
We’ve got plenty of space ’round here. Giving up that one spot won’t hurt a fly.
” She pauses and giggles. “I mean. It might hurt a fly or two, but we’ve got flies to spare, am I right?
” She looks around. “That’s it. Bring on the deals! That’s what I say.”