Page 132 of Book and Ladder
I’ll make a point of thanking Patrick tomorrow, when he’s home.
Before I take off for the library, I DM the host ofBurning Through the Pages.
M&M:You were right—my neighbor actually surprised me today.
I don’t expect an answer, but our DM pings.
BTTP: I’m assuming it was a good surprise. Maybe the people we think we hate are just the ones we haven’t seen in the right light yet.
M&M:I’m right to be hurt and angry. But I guess people can change. Or maybe they’re not all bad. Or … I really don’t know. Your words helped me loosen my grip on some of the bitterness.
BTTP: I’m glad to hear you say that.
BTTP: Oh! I almost forgot. Promise me you’ll listen to this week’s episode—please.
M&M: Okay … why? Grisham?
BTTP: You’ll understand everything after this episode.
Chapter 35
Patrick
If people would only look to the cookie,
all our problems would be solved.
~ Jerry Seinfeld
I leftDaisy a box of cookies on her porch yesterday.
A box of cookies.
As if that says, “Sorry I played a part in you not going to your dream college, and in losing the shop you inherited from your grandma, and also inadvertently agreed to my family building condos on your property.” A lifetime’s supply of cookies wouldn’t begin to make up for her losses.
I didn’t even know what to do when she emailed me as the host and then wanted to DM. I’m so gone for her, I responded. And then, maybe selfishly, I suggested she go easy on her neighbor—aka, me.
I wasn’t kidding about winning her over. And this part isn’t selfish. If she never speaks to me, I’ll understand. I won’t like it, but I dug my own grave on this one.
So, when I clock out and climb into my car after a long twenty-four-hour shift, the first stop I make is to my childhood home, also fondly referred to as “the mansion,” in my family. The house is behind the gates, on a large parcel, in the same neighborhood as Blaire’s family.
My car looks out of place in the driveway next to Dad’s Mercedes and Mom’s Bentley. I walk up the stone steps to the double-tall doors. The size of this house has always overwhelmed me, even though it was my childhood home—even when I lived here before moving into the duplex. It suits my parents. They love opulence and making a statement.
I ring the doorbell and my mother answers, wearing a lavender coordinated yoga outfit.
“Patrick! What a pleasant surprise.”
I lean in and kiss Mom’s cheek. “I’m here to speak with Dad.”
“Well, come on in. Jillian’s here for my personal training session. We’ll be making protein shakes in a little while. Maybe you can join me.”
“I’d like that,” I smile at Mom.
“Your father is in the downstairs office, wheeling and dealing, as one does.”
“As one does,” I echo.
“He’s been so thrilled about your involvement in the local Home Mart expansion. He may not tell you, but it’s all he talks about when he’s not busy with work.”
