Chapter 10 Daisy #2
I haven't seen him since before the dinner.
We've texted (short, awkward messages about logistics and weather) but I've been avoiding an actual conversation because I'm not sure what to say.
He looks older than I remember, gray-faced and tired, his work jacket hanging loose on shoulders that seem smaller than they used to be.
"Daisy." He stops just inside the doorway, hat in his hands. "I wasn't sure if you'd want to see me."
"Of course I want to see you." I cross the store and wrap my arms around him, and he holds on like he's afraid I'll disappear. "You're my dad."
"I didn't know." His voice is rough. "About the exit plan, the press release. I never knew any of that was happening. I thought… when you told me about the arrangement, about what he offered… I thought we were saving the house. I thought I was doing right by you."
"I know."
"I should have found another way. Should have declared bankruptcy, sold the trucks, done anything except let my daughter marry a stranger to pay my debts." He pulls back to look at me, and his eyes are wet. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I failed you."
"No." I reach up to touch his face, this man who taught me to fish and to drive and to read the weather in the clouds. "You were drowning, Dad. You did what drowning people do. You reached for the nearest lifeline. I don't blame you for that."
"You should."
"Well, I don't. So you're going to have to live with my forgiveness whether you want it or not."
He laughs, wet and broken, and hugs me again.
"The house is safe," I tell him. "That was part of the original agreement: the lawsuit was dropped, the debts were cleared. Whatever happens with the divorce, that doesn't change."
"I don't care about the house." He pulls back, hands on my shoulders. "I care about you. Are you okay? Really okay?"
"I'm getting there."
Dad slides another stack of returns onto the cart, squinting at the spine of a battered paperback. "This goes in romance or fiction?"
"Romance. Yellow sticker means romance."
"Yellow means romance, blue means..."
"Mystery. Green is literary fiction. Orange is sci-fi and fantasy."
He shakes his head, smiling. "Nell's got a whole system."
"Nell has systems for everything." I shelve two more books, grateful for the mindless rhythm of it. Alphabetical. Spine out. Straighten the row. "How's the sourdough coming?"
"Terrible." He laughs, and it's such a familiar sound that my chest aches. "Third starter I've killed this month. Your mother always said I had a black thumb for anything that required patience."
"You grew tomatoes for thirty years."
"Tomatoes are forgiving. Sourdough holds a grudge." He passes me another book. "I'm trying this new method from a YouTube video. Kid's about twelve, has a million followers, makes it look easy."
"Everything looks easy on YouTube."
"That's what I told Martha at church. She said I should try the Dutch oven method, but I don't have a Dutch oven, so now she's lending me hers, which means I have to actually succeed or I'll never hear the end of it."
I smile despite myself. "Martha Hendricks?"
"She's very invested in my baking journey, apparently." He sets down the stack he's holding and looks at me. Really looks. "The garden could use some help this weekend. If you're free."
"Dad, you don't have to—"
"I'm not doing anything." His voice is gentle but firm. "I'm asking. The tomatoes are coming in, and my back isn't what it used to be, and I thought maybe you'd want to come by. Eat some lunch. Pull some weeds."
I focus very hard on the book in my hands, something with a shirtless man on the cover and a title involving dukes. "I'd like that."
"Good."
"I just—" The words catch. I try again. "It's been a long time since I've been home. For something that wasn't a crisis."
"I know."
"And I want… I don't know. I want to come by when everything's fine. When I don't need anything. When it's just... normal."
Dad sets down the returns and crosses to where I'm standing. His hands are rough when he takes mine, a truck driver's hands, always slightly dirt-stained no matter how much he scrubs.
"Sweetheart. You don't need a reason to come home."
"I know that. Logically. But I've spent so long only calling when things were falling apart, and I don't want… I want to be better about just... being there. Regularly. Not because something's wrong."
"Okay." He squeezes my hands. "Then come Saturday. Bring gloves. We'll tackle the back beds and I'll make sandwiches."
"The tomato and cheese ones?"
"Is there another kind?"
The laugh that escapes me is watery but real. "With the good bread from Moretti's?"
"I'll pick some up Friday." He pulls me into a hug, and I let myself sink into it, let myself be small again just for a moment. "I love you, kid."
"I love you too, Dad."
He holds on for another few seconds, then presses a kiss to my forehead and steps back. "Call me if you need anything. Anything at all."
"I will."
"And tell Nell thank you for letting me mess up her shelving system."
"You didn't mess it up." We both know that's a lie, but I let him have it.
"I definitely put that yellow one in the blue section." He looks entirely too proud of the crime.
"Dad."
"See you Saturday, sweetheart."
He's halfway to the door when I call out. "Saturday. I'll be there."
His smile, when he turns back, is worth everything. "I'm counting on it."
The bell chimes behind him, and then he's gone, and I turn back to the returns cart with the strange relief of having something ordinary to look forward to. That night, my phone rings.
It's late, almost eleven, and I'm curled up on the bed in Nell's spare room with Chaucer on my feet and one of Annie's books in my hands. The caller ID says INGRID SMITH, and my heart stutters before I remember that Ingrid is the one Smith I'm not afraid to talk to.
"Daisy." Her voice is warm, concerned. "I'm sorry for calling so late. I wanted to give you time, but I also wanted you to know: I'm here. For whatever you need."
"Thank you." The words come out thick. "I wasn't sure… after everything—"
"After everything, I'm more on your side than ever." There's steel in her voice, the kind of protective fury I've only heard from her a few times in five years. "What my son did, what Victor encouraged him to do, is inexcusable. I've told them both as much, in terms they won't soon forget."
"You didn't have to do that."
"Yes, I did. I've watched you try to love my son for five years, Daisy. I've watched you show up to every dinner and every event, smile for every camera, build a life around a man who couldn't be bothered to notice you were there. You deserved better. You still do."
The tears come without warning, sliding down my cheeks and soaking into Annie's book. Chaucer shifts on my feet, warm and solid.
"What do I do now?" I ask, and my voice sounds small. "I left. I finally left." I wipe my cheek. "Do you think Adam can change?"
"I don't know." Ingrid's voice is honest, careful. "I think he wants to. I think losing you has broken something in him that needed breaking. But wanting to change and actually doing it are different things, and you're not obligated to wait around while he figures out the difference."
"I know."
"Whatever you decide, I'm here. A lawyer, a spare room, a mother if you need one, any of it. All of it."
"Thank you, Ingrid." The tears are still coming, but they feel different now. Cleaner. "That means more than you know."
"What are you reading now?"
"One of Annie's books. She left a whole shelf of them when she—" I stop. Try again. "Anyway. This one's about a woman who inherits a vineyard in France and has to decide whether to stay or sell."
"What does she decide?"
"I'm only on chapter four. But I'm guessing she stays."
"The hopeful ending."
"Something like that."
We're quiet for a moment. I can hear something in the background on her end, maybe the television, turned low.
"The basil's bolting," Ingrid says suddenly. "I waited too long to pinch it back, and now it's going to seed."
"You can still harvest the leaves."
"I refuse to give up on perfectly good basil just because it got a little leggy."
"There's a metaphor in there somewhere."
"Probably." She laughs. "I was going to make that pesto recipe you gave me. The one with the walnuts instead of pine nuts."
"It freezes well. You can make a big batch and have it all winter."
"That's the plan. If I can salvage enough basil." A pause. "You should come help me. When you're ready. You can tell me whether I've planted everything too close together."
"I'd like that."
"No pressure. Whenever you want. I just… the offer's there."
"I know." I curl tighter around the phone, like I can hold onto her voice. "Thank you, Ingrid. For all of it."
"Get some sleep, sweetheart. It's late."
"I will."
"Goodnight, Daisy."
"Sleep well, Ingrid."
The line clicks, and I'm alone in the dark with just the glow of my phone and Chaucer's warm weight on my lap. He butts his head against my hand, demanding attention, and I scratch behind his ears while I scroll through the messages that have piled up over the past few days.
Nell: Coffee's ready downstairs whenever you want it.
Ruth: If you need someone murdered, I know people. Kidding. Mostly.
Priya: The video from today has 50k views already. You're a legend.
Bev: Choir practice tomorrow at 6, you should come. We're doing Dolly Parton.
My father: Love you, sweetheart. Call whenever you need me.
Ingrid: Remember. You're not alone. Not anymore.
One person missing from the list. One name that doesn't appear anywhere in my notifications. I set the phone aside and pull Chaucer closer, burying my face in his warm fur.
"He didn't show up," I whisper to the cat. "He's still not showing up."
Chaucer purrs and doesn't judge me for the fresh tears soaking his fur.