Chapter 24
Daisy
There is no such thing as chance;
and what seem to us merest accident
springs from the deepest source of destiny.
~ Friedrich Schiller
I miss my grandma.
The smell of her perfume—baby powder and flowers. I miss her laughter, melodic and full of joy. And the way she greeted customers, making every single person feel special.
Most of all, I miss coming to her when life pressed in. She wasn’t much for advice—she simply listened, feeling every emotion right along with me, then she’d draw me into her arms for a hug that said everything would be alright somehow.
She’d know what to say right now, with the bookshop she loved facing total annihilation. She’d probably say something like, “It’s all just stuff and things, Daisy. Life is short. You can’t take any of this with you, so let it go.”
Or maybe, “That son-of-a-gun, Conrad O’Connell. If he were a few years younger, I’d put him over my knee.” And then we’d both laugh, and I’d feel emboldened to stand my ground.
I set my purse on my entry table and slip out of my shoes and jacket. I pull a scrapbook off the shelf in the living room and curl up with it on my couch. These photo albums are one of the few things I have left of my grandparents. These, a few trinkets, and the bookshop.
I flip through pictures of my grandparents at Moss and Maple when I was a child.
There are photos of my birthday party that year—the year I turned eight.
And then a two-page spread of our family at the Christmas tree lighting in the town square.
I survey the people in the background of the photo and my eyes land on a boy with jet black hair. I can’t seem to shake him these days.
I saw Patrick skitter into his apartment tonight, avoiding me when I pulled up.
Good. He should run—him and his infuriating hand on my elbow.
Yes. He saved me from possibly twisting my ankle or scraping myself up.
But no matter how thoughtful he can be on occasion—no matter what he looks like holding a puppy with his shirt off—he’s still an O’Connell.
I shut the scrapbook, setting it aside. My laptop beckons me from the coffee table. I could check if the host of Burning Through the Pages is online. With all the hubbub about the development, we haven’t messaged in a few days. Is it odd that I miss him?
I won’t second guess myself. Not tonight. He’s never given me any indication that I’m bothering him. To the contrary, he seems happy to hear from me and just as engaged as I am in continuing our online relationship.
I open our DMs on the off chance that he might be online. His message pops up before I even start typing.
BTTP: Hey, are you around?
M)
BTTP: I watched very few of the later episodes, so I may not know everything, but Dean was her first love. He’s a considerate guy. Dependable. I mean, he built her a car—the car Jess wrecked, I might add.
M&M: Nice final jab there.
BTTP: Thanks. So, what do you have against Dean?
M&M: Immaturity. Passive aggression. Dean was great until he wasn’t—critical of Rory, jealous of Jess, even spying through her mom. He and Rory never had any real spark. Dean could have been a good friend to Rory, but he’s not Jess.
BTTP: I do agree there was far more chemistry with Jess. Dangerous chemistry, but yes—chemistry.
M&M: So, enough about Gilmore Girls—though I could reminisce about or rewatch that show forever, be warned. You messaged me first tonight. Did you have something you wanted to talk about?
BTTP: I did, but I feel better now.
M&M: Yeah? Me too.
He doesn’t type anything right away and I wonder if I scared him off. But then his answer comes.
BTTP: I had a rough week. I don’t want to go into it. Maybe another time.
M&M: I’m sorry you had a rough week.
BTTP: Well, like I said, I feel better now.
M&M: I’m glad. So, what’s the next podcast about?
BTTP: I thought I’d talk about books that have been made into movies. I’m starting with The Princess Bride.
We talk about The Princess Bride for a while. When I finally notice the clock, it’s almost an hour past my usual bedtime. Reluctantly, I do the responsible thing and let BTTP know.
M&M: I have to get up early for work. I’d better go.
BTTP: Me too. I’ll try to message you tomorrow.
M&M: Sounds great. Goodnight.
BTTP: Sweet dreams, M&M.
I’m brushing my teeth when my phone rings. Who could that be at this hour?
I pad into my bedroom and pick the phone up off my bedside table.
Mom.
She’s called a few times over the past two days since the vote. I didn’t stop to talk to her and Dad when I fled the scene at the town hall. I needed to get out of there asap. Hugging her would have burst the dam I was so diligently plugging.
Since then, I’ve been on autopilot. And each time I see Patrick, the knife twists.
I love my parents. They’re decent small-town people. Hard workers. Kind. But living in the same town you grew up in means having more than a few boundaries in place—otherwise, I’d end up living in my childhood bedroom forever. And they’d probably be fine with that—happy, even.
I can’t keep putting off this call. I don’t want to ignore my mom at all. She did nothing wrong and is always on my side. I settle on the side of my bed and answer.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Daisy! Are you alright?” Her voice drips with sympathy and concern.
“I am.”
“I know you like to muscle through situations. I’m trying not to pester.”
“You’re not. Don’t worry. I just knew if I talked to you I’d fall apart. And I have to function. You know?”
“So strong. I’m so proud of you. Mama would be proud of you too.”
I swipe at a tear at the mention of my grandmother.
“She’d know what to do, too,” I lament.
“She did always seem to. But you can’t always stop things from changing, sweet girl. And this one’s big. More than half the town wants a Home Mart. So, it looks like they’ll be gettin’ their wishes.”
“What about Moss and Maple?” I ask, as if she could predict the future.
“You stay in business as long as you can. Your daddy can meet with you if you like, make a plan to help you scale accordingly.”
Scale—as in, downsize in preparation for the end.
“I haven’t been having very kind thoughts about that family,” I confess.
“The O’Connells? Oh, well. They mean well.”
Do they, though?
“How have you been holding up?” Mom asks.
“Sad.” I pause. “Scared.”
And I feel like a failure. It doesn’t make sense, I know. But feelings rarely do.
“This was my dream,” I remind Mom. “Carrying on Gran’s legacy. And now … ???”
“Now you pivot. You don’t let go of the dream, Daisy. You find a new way to fulfill it.”
“That location is half of the magic of Moss and Maple—the woods out back, the open field just beyond the parking lot. Do you know how crowded and busy our street will be when a big box store moves in? And do you think Mr. O’Connell will stop there?
He’s going to want other stores to come in.
Condos. Maybe a hotel. Knowing him, he’ll talk an NFL team into moving to Waterford and next thing you know they’ll build a stadium! ”
My mom’s laughter is soft and careful, but she’s laughing.
“It’s not funny,” I practically pout.
“No. It isn’t. But you are. I’m sorry, sweetheart.
It’s a hard pill. I really wish we could predict the future and map out all the roads ahead of us in life.
Then we could prepare and ride along in ease.
But that’s just not life. Instead, it’s twists and turns and bumps and dips.
Sometimes we get unexpected blessings. And other times it’s a big box store taking over the precious little corner of the world we thought we’d preserve forever. ”
“I feel like there should be something I could do.”
“I know that feeling well.” That’s all she says. A gift of camaraderie and empathy. No quick fixes.
“You’re grieving,” she adds. “It takes a bit of time to adjust to a loss—even when the loss is something we thought would continue and is probably not going to, at least not in its current form. Give yourself time, Daisy.”
“I don’t know that I have the luxury of time,” I say, falling back onto my mattress.