Epilogue #2
“To see me?” I ask. “Okay. Can you run interference on any kids on a mission to de-beard Santa?”
“I’ve got you,” she says with an amused smile. “No one exposes Santa on my watch.”
I make my way past customers who are browsing shelves or helping themselves to our complimentary cocoa. I recognize the woman at the register immediately. She’s not a local. As a matter of fact, the last I heard she was living in New York City.
“Hi. I’m Daisy Clark, the owner of Moss and Maple. May I help you?” I ask her.
“Yes,” she smiles broadly. “I have heard so many sweet things about your bookshop. There’s a lot of buzz about your relocation after the article ran in The Tennessean.”
I grin recalling the peace offering of sorts that Conrad O’Connell orchestrated.
I guess grand gestures run in the family.
He got a hold of a news writer for The Tennessean and told them all about how he was putting a local bookshop out of business and his son was helping save the shop.
The layers to the story served as human interest, so the journalist came and did a piece on us.
“I’m planning a tour for my next release,” the author says.
“My publisher arranges most of the details. I do know I’ll be touring through Tennessee, stopping at Neighborly Book Shop in Maryville, Plenty Bookshop in Cookeville, and Landmark Booksellers in Franklin.
I thought I could add Moss and Maple to the tour while I’m here. ”
“We’d love to have you,” I tell her. “I’m a fan.”
“Oh? That’s so sweet.”
“Let me get your contact info and I’ll send you a link to our calendar. Even if there’s not an opening, we’ll move things around to make it work.”
I envision a day when I might be the one on tour—while Patrick stands in the background, his eyes never leaving me, a gorgeous distraction and a steady presence as readers who love my stories introduce themselves and ask for my signature.
“That’s wonderful,” she says, her eyes roving the shop. “This place is just as darling as I’d imagined it would be. Homey.”
Homey.
I almost tell her to swing by the old property, but something stops me.
The old shop is a piece of the past and it will always hold a special place in my heart, but this spot is the future—the one I share with Patrick because he took a chance on us when I was too stubborn and hurting to see him for who he is.
The author and I exchange information and she walks away from the counter, lingering to explore the various rooms we’ve converted into spaces for books and nooks for customers to curl up with their current read.
Patrick sidles up to me, seemingly out of nowhere.
“For a big man dressed in red, you’re awfully stealth,” I say, grinning up into his eyes.
“What was that about?” he asks.
I tell him who the author is and that she came in because she heard about us through the article.
“I’ll tell Dad. He’ll be glad to hear it.” Patrick pauses, his expression growing serious. “That will be you one day.”
“Keeping the calendar of special bookshop events?” I glance up with a playful smirk. “That’s already me.”
“Signing your books—touring through local bookshops to meet readers.”
“We’ll see,” I say softly. “I’m just starting my classes next month.”
“I have faith in you.” He tugs me close with the arm wrapped behind my back and I fight the temptation to usher the crowd out the door and flip the sign to CLOSED just so I can get him alone.
“Thank you,” I whisper up to him. “You made it possible.”
“You are worth all of this and more,” he says softly.
“Mommy!” Peyton shouts from the doorway leading into the main room. “Santa is hugging Miss Daisy!”
“She’s only been a little naughty,” Patrick says, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Mostly nice.”
“I’m not the only one,” I tease him under my breath.
His arm drops away and he steps out from behind the counter to mingle with customers.
I eventually give Patrick the sign that it’s okay to change out of that itchy costume. He ducks upstairs and comes down wearing jeans, work boots and a henley under a flannel. His hair is ruffled from wearing the hat and wig. Irresistible. Mine.
My heartbeat still thrums faster at the mere sight of him, even two months after we’ve officially started dating. He always had this effect on me. Only now, I’m able to admit it.
The afternoon sun is dropping low when I announce, “The shop will be closing in fifteen minutes. We’ll see all of you at the tree trimming in the town square.”
This will be the first year Patrick and I will be at the annual tradition together, even though we’ve always both attended separately.
Patrick rounds the counter, placing a soft kiss on my cheek. “I have to drive the truck, but once the star is lit, I’ll come find you.”
“Okay,” I tell him. “I’ll see you there.”
I watch him stride out the front door, a soft sigh leaving my lips.
Winona steps up next to me. “I want to sigh over a man one day.”
“You will, I have no doubt.”
We lock up and ride together to the town square, the heater humming between us.
Carli, Cass, Emberleigh and Sydney are already there when we arrive.
It’s already dark, and far colder than it was this afternoon.
We’re bundled in our coats, gloves and scarves.
People mingle with cocoa and cookies near the base of the sixty-foot tree.
The hook and ladder truck arrives. This year Patrick’s driving and Cody’s in the bucket, holding the star as he rises to the top of the tree.
He places the star and it lights, setting off a chain reaction of string lights in the branches below.
The glow spreads, illuminating the crowd, catching on the faces of the people I love most.
I glance at Carli, her eyes are fixed on Cody. She has a soft, wistful smile on her face.
“Everything okay?” I ask her.
“Huh? Oh. Yeah. I was just hoping we don’t get a rogue wind,” she says, watching Cody descend lower. “Wouldn’t want anything to happen to him … to any of them.”
I nod, only the way she’s looking at him, you’d think he hung the actual moon, not a star on a tree. I might be imagining things, but the look on Carli’s face wasn’t one I would call “concerned.”
I already asked her about Cody—she insists he’s like her older brother.
Winona shakes her head, and under her breath mutters, “Maybe. But I never looked at my brother that way.”
I whisper, “You don’t even have a brother.”
Winona glances at me and deadpans, “Exactly.”
I chuckle softly to myself. She’s one of a kind.
The fire truck pulls to the curb across the street and the firemen exit the truck with so many eyes trained on them. Dustin makes a beeline for Emberleigh, wrapping her in his arms and lifting her off the ground, causing her to squeal with surprise.
Patrick’s approach is reserved, but no less passionate. Even in a crowd, I sense his nearness—the steady warmth of him, a constant thread between us, pulled taut over the years, and now loosened but more securely connected.
He takes his place at my side and looks down at me as if we’ve been separated for months, not mere hours.
“I have this photo,” I tell him. “In one of my scrapbooks.”
“Yeah? What’s the photo?”
“Me at the tree trimming when I was eight.”
He nods.
“You’re in the background,” I tell him, smiling at the thought—our lives so intricately intertwined I don’t know why I ever believed they’d untangle.
“Really?”
“Always hiding in plain sight,” I tease him.
“Not anymore, Daisy. I’m right here. No more hiding.”
I wrap my arm around him, squeezing his side and nestling in close.
We follow our friends to the table lined with boxes of ornaments.
Patrick and I each make our selections. Then together we walk to the tree where neighbors and friends are already placing their ornaments.
He takes my hand in his and doesn’t even let go when he hangs his angel at eye level. I put my Rudolph down lower.
“Want some hot cocoa?” Patrick asks, placing his hand on my back.
“I will never turn down cocoa.”
“I was thinking, though …” his dark eyes practically glisten. “If you want …”
“What, Patrick?”
“We could head home and have cocoa at my place.”
“I’d like that.”
“Let’s say our goodbyes, then.”
My friends tease me about sneaking away. Patrick’s clap him on the back. Only Dustin gives him a hard time, but it’s all in fun.
Back home, Patrick turns the lock in the key to his side of our duplex.
Mrs. Hellman hollers out to him from her porch. “You gonna propose to her tonight, Patrick? It’d be a good night for it!”
Patrick chuckles and shouts back. “That question never gets old, Mrs. Hellman!”
“Make an honest woman of her already!” she scolds.
“What do I say to that?” he asks me with an amused smile.
“I don’t even know.”
“One day!” he shouts over to our nosy but adorable neighbor. Then he turns and looks down at me and says, “One day.”
“It would be crazy if it were today,” I say.
“Not so crazy,” he says softly, popping the door and holding it open for me.
The chill wind follows us in and I shiver despite the warmth of his living room.
Patrick’s home is the mirror of mine, only it feels like him—masculine, tidy, but with unexpected touches. And lots of books.
He switches on the kitchen light and warms a pan of water and milk on the stove.
“Grab a blanket and get comfortable on the couch,” he tells me.
“I’m spoiling you by always doing what you say,” I tease, grabbing my favorite fleece blanket and curling up on the couch.
Patrick comes through the kitchen doorway holding two mugs. The scent of cocoa fills the room, bringing with it memories of so many winter nights in my childhood with Gran and my parents.
“I could get used to this,” I murmur, half to him, half to myself.
“I hope you do.”
He takes a seat next to me, handing me my cup of cocoa. I wrap my fingers around it and he wraps his arm around me.
“I wish we were at the cabin,” he says in a voice that sounds as if he’s already there.
“Mmmm,” I hum my agreement, blowing a breath across my cocoa to cool it.