Chapter 31
Patrick
Man cannot discover new oceans
until he has the courage to lose sight of the shore.
~ André Gide
The line at Sip and Repeat is longer than usual. Or maybe it just feels that way because I’m antsy—first-date jitters over bringing Daisy a coffee she might throw in my face. I’m showing up as Patrick … but also as the host of her favorite podcast. Only she doesn’t know that yet.
I’m supposed to meet Dad later to walk the property. I’m a man with one foot on the dock and one on a boat that’s already moving. Trying to balance between the life he wants for me and the one floating away. If I straddle both for too long, I’ll end up going splishy-sploshy from being wishy-washy.
I chuckle to myself and garner more than a few stares. My responding smile feels unhinged.
It’s official: I’m losing my mind—reciting ad-lib nursery rhymes over a woman.
My order’s up. I grab it and bolt, volleying greetings to a few townspeople along the way.
I’m driving like Daisy’s house is on fire and I’m not sure she’ll even open the door.
And what if she does? I’ll stand there like a kid at a seventh grade co-ed skate, hoping she’ll accept the coffee from me, not having a clue what to do next.
She didn’t respond to my email—the one I sent as BTTP.
Not yet. She’s had more than a few things on her mind with the shop closing.
Maybe she hasn’t seen it. Or maybe she has and decided she wants nothing to do with a man who would stand her up.
It wouldn’t be the first time she drew that line—I wouldn’t blame her.
I climb her porch, latte in one hand, a paper bag holding a chocolate croissant in the other. I knock. No answer. Knock again.
The door opens and she’s in a towel, holding it to herself with one hand. One wide-eyed look at me and she slams it until only a sliver remains, one accusing eye peeking through.
“Patrick!” She yells like I’m an intruder. “What are you doing here?”
“Why are you answering the door like that?” I want to swallow the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth.
“I thought you were Carli.”
“So you answered naked?” Stop talking, Patrick.
“I’m not naked! I’m in a towel. Trying to shower.”
“And Carli was going to …” I catch myself. “Sorry. I’ll just leave these—unless you want me to set them inside.” Even through the crack I can see her patented irritation. “If you head upstairs, I’ll put them on your entry table so you can finish your shower.”
Mrs. Hellman strolls past with her dog. “Aren’t you going to let him in?”
Daisy shoves the door nearly shut.
“Morning, Mrs. Hellman!” I call.
“I’d have let you in ages ago if I were younger!” she shouts back.
Daisy snorts. “You and your admirers.”
We stand there on opposite sides of her door until Mrs. Hellman is out of earshot—which is farther than one might think.
“I can’t shower,” Daisy grumbles. “The water is like ice. It won’t get hot—or even warm.”
“Let me see what I can do,” I offer.
“You’re not coming in here!”
“Just to check the water heater. Go upstairs.”
Her head bobs and she disappears. I count to ten, nudge the door open with my foot, setting the coffee and croissant on her entry table. I head into the kitchen. Her duplex has the same layout as mine. The water heater should be in the utility closet. Sure enough.
Bending, I check the flame. Yep. Pilot’s out.
“Where do you keep matches—or a lighter?” I call upstairs.
“Last drawer by the back door!”
I grab the lighter, turn off the gas, and wait a beat.
I’m about to turn toward the kitchen doorway so I can shout up that it should be on in a few minutes when Daisy barrels into me, wearing a fuzzy pink robe that matches the flush in her cheeks. Drops of latte splatter on my shirt. She steps back, tightening the belt.
“Sorry …” we say in unison.
“I was just checking if you figured it out.” She takes a sip, eyeing me. “And also if you poisoned this.” She holds out the cup in my direction.
“Nope. Once again, too busy to rustle up iocane powder.”
She squints at The Princess Bride reference.
“Well, thank you. It’s delicious. What’s your angle?”
“Angle?”
“You brought me baked goods and caffeine."
If her hands were free, I’m certain she’d cross her arms—but her gaze isn’t as sharp as usual. I’m in her kitchen fixing her water heater. That has to mean something.
“It should light now,” I say.
She sets down her cup and crouches beside me, tucking her hair behind her ear and smoothing the rest over her shoulder.
“Teach me.”
“Teach you how to light a pilot?”
“No, how to maneuver a Black Hawk helicopter. Yes, O’Connell—I want to know how to light my own pilot.”
A flirty answer sits on the tip of my tongue, but I like my tongue and my dignity, so I keep my thoughts to myself and point to the lever that controls the pilot. “Turn that lever to pilot.”
Her shoulder brushes mine as she does.
Not how I pictured this morning going.
I make the mistake of turning to look at her. We’re too close. She’s sleep rumpled, giving her a certain irresistible vulnerability. She stares back into my eyes.
“Won’t the gas asphyxiate us if we leave it running?” she asks.
“Um.” I practically stutter. “Yes. Right.”
I light the wand lighter and connect the flame to the pilot.
“I wanted to do that,” Daisy says.
“You’re doing the important part of the job,” I tell her.
“You sound like you’re talking to Boston and Ariella.”
The ease with which my nieces’ names roll off her tongue warms me. A sign of how interwoven our lives have been all these years. I know her. And she knows me. Maybe, with any luck—if I don’t blow it—we’ll build on that foundation. “Keep holding it,” I tell her. “Thermocouple needs thirty seconds.”
“Thermocouple? Are you making this up as you go along?”
“Usually.”
Her laugh crinkles the corners of her eyes. For one heartbeat she’s open. And then she shakes her head and fixes her attention back on the task at hand—her task, getting the water to heat.
My task spans more than fixing her shower, but she doesn’t need to know that.
“Now release the knob,” I say. “If the flame stays, turn it to on.”
She does, watching the blue light flare. “You really know your way around a water heater,” she murmurs.
“It’s lit,” I tell her, pretending not to read subtext into her words.
I return the lighter to its drawer. “You’re good to go.”
She pops her cup into the microwave, pink robe brushing the backs of her thighs, hair mussed, face void of makeup. She’s beautiful.
“Thanks, Patrick,” she says over her shoulder.
“I’ll just let myself out.”
Neither of us says another word, but she follows me into the foyer.
My phone buzzes. I make the mistake of checking it.
Dad: Reminder. Property walk in thirty.
Daisy peers at the screen over my shoulder and steps back. The light in her eyes shutters. The drawbridge rises. I almost hear the clang, clang, clang of the chain, the slam of the massive wood doors, the thud of the drawbar, securing every point of access.
I pocket my cell, the silence stretching between us until I can’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound like an apology or excuse.
On the drive to the Home Mart site, our morning lingers with me—the smell of coffee—of her—the brown waves of her hair loose over one shoulder. What it could have been like if I hadn’t messed things up so royally over the years. We might even be sharing a water heater by now.
The road crests a hill. Moss and Maple comes into view—perched on its slope like a child waiting after school, forgotten and small.
I park at the edge of the clearing and climb out of my car. I’m stopped in my tracks when I look around. The land is cleared and raw. Dirt where there was once grass. Roots exposed, air smelling like diesel and dust.
And inexplicable anger rises up in me—tight, hot, overpowering. My fists clench at my sides. I grind my jaw.
He did this. A place of refuge and beauty stripped bare to make way for another box store. A glaring intrusion on what had been simple and timeless.
How did over half the town agree to this?
How did I?
An elderly couple shuffles toward an old sedan in the gravel lot between Daisy’s shop and the scar of land beside it. In my shock, I hadn’t even noticed their car.
The woman waves; I wave back. Her husband lingers by the door while she steps closer, resting her hands on the low fence.
Pointing back toward Moss and Maple, she says, “That little store underwrote half my class fundraisers when I was teaching.” Her lips thin and her eyes narrow at me. “Daisy and her family helped hundreds of Waterford kids learn to love books. We can’t pretend places like this don’t matter.”
The lump in my throat feels too big to swallow. “I couldn’t agree more.”
The corner of her mouth pinches up, quiet judgment cutting deeper than her unspoken words. If you agree, what did you do to stop this?
I swallow hard. Nothing. I did nothing.
“Have a nice day,” I say in lieu of a defense.
“You too.” She turns back, waving off her husband’s apology for her bluntness. I admire her grace and grit—reminds me a lot of Daisy.
My dad’s black Mercedes rolls up, a stark contrast to our surroundings. The gleam of it looks obscene against all this dirt.
“Thanks for coming,” he says, clapping me on the back like Mr. Potter in It’s a Wonderful Life.
What are you doing, George Bailey?
Dad and I cross the churned earth to where a man I’ve never met studies blueprints. His pressed shirt and dress shoes look as out of place as Dad’s car.
“Phillip, this is my son, Patrick.”
Phillip’s grip is firm, practiced. “Your father speaks highly of you. I’m glad we’re finally getting a chance to bring you in at the ground level. Looking forward to partnering with you on this build.”
I glance at my dad as if we’ve been speaking in two different languages with no interpreter. That’s on me. I’ve never given him reason to think I wasn’t fluent in his.
Boat. Dock. Water. I’ve straddled for too long. Now something’s about to tear.
Dad beams—pride I’ve never seen aimed at me. “This is only the beginning, son. We’ll make improvements the town will thank us for later. People cling to the past. They resist change. But innovation—that’s what made this country great. Waterford won’t wither on our watch.”
I remain silent, and not the kind that speaks volumes. I’m complicit—doing what I always do. Agreeing. Going along. Never bucking against the iron fist.
If I keep this up, I’ll never have a chance with Daisy.
It’s time to abandon the dock. The ship is leaving the harbor.
If I’m going to be the man who wins her heart—or even has a chance at a friendship with her, I have to start standing up for what matters to her.
I can’t keep kowtowing to my father.
I’m going to have to take a stand.