Chapter 33
Patrick
Don't let your loyalty keep you in situations
your common sense should have gotten you out of.
~ Trent Shelton
I look over at my dad—effortlessly composed, naturally dominant. His mouth curves into that familiar, passive grin that presses his lips thin and lifts the skin beneath his eyes. It isn’t warmth. It’s satisfaction—the quiet assurance of a man who’s come to mistake his authority for benevolence.
I don’t dare turn to see Daisy’s expression. I can already imagine the horror and shock she’s experiencing at the mention of plans for her property.
“Moss and Maple,” I whisper in my father’s direction, not turning toward him, eyes fixed on the podium.
“Mmmm,” he hums his affirmation.
I won’t have molars left if he keeps this up. Seeing the land plowed clear next to her property was jarring enough. Now this? My stomach tightens, a slow burn spreading like heat under turnout gear.
I’m squirrelly—channeling adrenaline the same way I harness it on the way toward a fire that’s quickly becoming an inferno. Outside, I’m the benign image of composure. Inside, I’m rabidly scaling the walls.
Daisy just closed shop. The body of Moss and Maple hasn’t even gone cold. Books still line the shelves like the gauze around Lazarus—seemingly dead, but awaiting resurrection.
Minutes tick by while townspeople take to the microphone discussing best practices for road and bridge salting schedules, emergency winter storm shelter options, then parade routes, floats and volunteer opportunities.
My knee bounces. My neck pulses with the need to make eye contact with Daisy.
My father stands without invitation and strides to the front of the room, tugging at his suit coat as he steps to the podium. The rest of us are dressed in jeans and thermals or sweaters.
“Good evening, friends and neighbors,” he smiles and scans the room. “I want to thank each of you for your support in the Home Mart project. We’ve broken ground, as most of you know, and hope to have the grand opening before Memorial Day—with any luck, by Easter.”
He pauses for reactions. Some people around the room whoop and clap. A number of us remain still.
“I know the land looks awful at the moment. Hang in there and we’ll have a beauty of a store for you soon.” He smiles confidently.
“Now, I don’t want a pitchfork mob coming for me,” he laughs, a refined burst of amusement. “I just want to bring up some options and let you mull them over.”
He’s placating. I don’t even think it’s calculated. Like a dancer who’s run her routines so often she can rely on muscle memory for every plié and arabesque, he’s operating on practiced skill. This is how you win the crowd: charm, relatability, a slow coaxing.
“We could really develop this side of town. Imagine some condos, out of the way, not in your neighborhood, we’re talking about the outskirts of Waterford.
You don’t want your grown children leaving and never coming back.
Let’s give them beautiful housing they can afford before they purchase their first house.
Keep your grandkids here in town. And I know your ranch hands often live on your properties, but if you wanted to provide an alternative, the condos would be an option. Or …”
He beams with unrestrained anticipation. His softer, polished grin morphs into a smile that takes over his face.
“What if we were to build a practice facility for the Tennessee Thunder? All those football players would need a place to stay when they come here during pre-season. We could build the infrastructure of this town in such a way that we preserve the historic quaintness while adding value and building revenue for all of our small business owners in the process.”
“Is that in the plans?” The words are out before I can stop them. I shoot out of my seat, locking eyes with my father—those eyes that look so much like my own I could be looking in a mirror. “A football training facility for an NFL team? Here in Waterford?”
“Think big, Patrick,” Dad says, not showing one ounce of disturbance at my interruption.
He turns away from me, addressing the townspeople.
“Think big. Wouldn’t it be special to have all those football players here in town before the season starts?
It could put Waterford on the map. Your small shops wouldn’t change or go out of business.
As a matter of fact, you could ensure they’d stay in business, making more than ever before. Progress means everyone wins.”
Everyone but Daisy. The thought is on the tip of my tongue.
I realize I’m still standing, so I sit, my wheels turning.
In an instant, it occurs to me. There may be a way for me to preserve Daisy’s property—her family’s legacy—while still appeasing my dad.
I stand again, waiting for my father’s nod in my direction to speak.
"Is it possible …” I suggest. “… if we go forward with more development near the current site …
Could we at least make sure to preserve the aesthetic and guarantee to protect the woods surrounding the area?
We could prevent overcrowding by retaining some of the original structures.
Is there a way to build condos without overriding that particular property? "
“I like the way you’re thinking, son,” Dad’s praise rings through the speaker system in the rafters for everyone in the room to witness.
My head pivots, my eyes instinctively seeking for Daisy.
I hope she hears the compromise in my words, the effort to protect what matters to her.
But when our gazes connect, her expression hardens.
She looks down. Then the reality of what I’ve done slams into me like an unexpected uppercut to the jaw.
My pulse stutters, a hollow thud in my throat.
My dad’s voice fades—muffled, distant, like words being spoken under water. Daisy’s shuttered look of disappointment and betrayal screams over everything.
I’d run to her—run out of here—but old habits die hard and I’m rooted in this familiar tug. Feet splayed wide. One on the gunwale, the other gripping the splintering plank. Water lapping beneath my duplicity.
Dad takes his seat. The meeting wraps up. People stand and mingle.
He turns to me, clapping me on the shoulder.
“You’re coming around, Patrick. Finally thinking like a businessman, and one who will hold a position of influence in Waterford in the years to come.
I didn’t appreciate the challenge in front of everyone, but in the end, I’m glad to see you taking an interest in the direction we’re moving. You’re showing promise.”
The weight of his hand lingers—warm, heavy, nearly impossible to shrug off.
I open my mouth to answer him, but he turns to greet an old friend.
Betty Faye Holt beelines toward me as I’m trying to disappear into the mid-sized crowd.
She grasps my bicep and looks up at me. “Patrick, it might not be my place.” She squares her shoulders. “But Waterford has always had a certain feel. We like who we are. We don’t need fixin’.”
All I can manage to say is, “I know.”
She drops her hand and pats the spot where her surprisingly strong grip had me stopped in my tracks. “You’ve got sway, Patrick. A lot more than you know.”
Do I, though?
Daisy passes by. She’s surrounded by her friends.
She stares at me. Keeps walking. Then she turns back, catches my gaze, which is already trained on her, and says, “You’ll never change. You’ll always be your father’s puppet.”
Before I can answer her, she walks on. What would I say anyway?
Betty Faye pats my arm. “Now there’s a woman in love.”
“What?!” My outburst comes out louder than I expected.
“Did you see the disappointment in her eyes?”
“Yes. Thanks for bringing that up.” As if I’m not feeling badly enough about it on my own.
Betty Faye shakes her head like I’m the dullest crayon in the box. “Patrick. Only the people we care deeply about have the power to disappoint us with a magnitude that matters. Those were the eyes of a woman who had high hopes for you.”
“I think the key word in that sentence is had—if you’re even right.”
“I’m right.” She smiles a sugar-sweet smile that belies her skill at dressing a man down.
“I hate to disappoint you. Daisy Clark would rather see a shallow grave dug for me on the newly plowed field next to Moss and Maple than explore something romantic—or even platonic with me.”
“Tsk tsk.” Betty Faye literally scolds me with that old-school noise. “Young men these days. Where’s your fight? This is not the time to give up. Daisy doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. She looked at you with the expression of a woman who wants more. Give her reason to believe in you again.”
As if it’s that simple.
We’re interrupted by June, Betty Faye’s next-door neighbor. I take the opportunity to slip away and continue my escape.
Daisy’s car is out front of our duplex when I arrive home. Her upstairs bedroom light is on. I walk the porch steps like a man facing the gallows, Betty Faye’s words echoing in my mind like a taunt.
A woman in love? Hardly!
Daisy has always resented me. And I keep giving her reasons to be disappointed.
I retreat inside the safety of my side of our duplex, and then I reach out to Daisy the only way I can. Maybe I’m a coward—at the very least I’m a beggar, hungry for a crumb of her affection. I have to be more careful now that we both know we’re here in Waterford.
Dear M&M:
What a night. Town hall was brutal. And, yes. I was there.
I’m trying to make sense of progress vs. preservation.
How about you?
Outside that, I’m reading The Whistler by John Grisham. Have you ever read any of his works? It’s a thrill ride, and honestly the timing might not be wise considering life around here is suspenseful enough these days.
I’m preoccupied, thinking of ways I can show you I’m the kind of man worthy of a second chance from a woman like you. You are right to make me work for it.
Looking forward to hearing from you, but only when you feel up to writing back to me. Until then, I’ll fill your inbox with one-sided ramblings.
- BTTP
I yank my shirt off over my head, carrying my laptop upstairs with me in the off chance she’ll write back tonight. Surprisingly, my inbox pings with a notification just after I’ve finished brushing my teeth and pulling on my pajama bottoms.
Dear BTTP:
Brutal doesn’t begin to capture the town hall experience. Without telling you who I am or what I do, I can say the town decision has impacted me—deeply.
You were there? I wish I had taken roll—even in my mind. I couldn’t tell you who was present outside the mayor, my friends and a certain family who will not be named.
I’m not anti-progress. I’m against one family defining what progress looks like for an entire community. I want to frisk that man for a Pied Piper whistle.
Sorry, still fuming a bit.
I have not read John Grisham. I read a lot of different books from a variety of genres, but when it comes to thrillers, I’m a wimp. Maybe I should give him a chance. You know, in the spirit of second chances.
I’m exhausted. Going to sleep now. I’ll deal with reality in all its forms tomorrow.
- M&M
My hand reaches up and palms the wall between my bedroom and hers. She’s right there—reeling from everything my family has done. We’re talking about second chances, but how do I earn one when I helped cause the damage?