Page 134 of Book and Ladder
I didn’t plan on saying all that, but now that I’m on a roll, it seems I’m lobbing every grenade in the arsenal. My stockpile.
The urge to apologize bubbles up—an old habit.
I won’t take back or excuse one thing I said.
I didn’t insult my dad. I let him know where I stand.
We sit across the desk from one another—two men in their bunkers.
My hands tremble—adrenaline? I steady them on my knees.
“I need time to digest all of this, Patrick.”
“Take all the time you need. I have another project I’ll be working on. It’s going to take a lot of my time and effort.”
He nods. Doesn’t ask me anything about the project. I didn’t expect him to.
“I love you, Dad. This isn’t personal.”
He glances out the floor-to-ceiling French windows, finger tapping the desk once.
“It’s business,” he says, his tone neutral, controlled. “And I love you too. I misjudged the situation—misjudged you. Maybe I wanted to see what I wanted to see—a son who was eager, or at least willing, to step into my shoes. I thought you finally wanted to take a part in the family business. We don’t share much. I thought we could share this.”
“I know. And I understand.”
I could say a lot more, but I don’t. By definition, sharing something means that both people have an interest in it. We might never find common ground, and if that’s the case, I’ll grieve our lack of connection for the rest of my life. My father doesn’t enjoy recreational reading or spending time in nature. I don’t comprehend his need to build and develop on every square inch of open property he finds. Maybe oneday we’ll discover something to bond over. Today is not that day.
After a moment, I stand and excuse myself. In the hall, I release the breath I didn’t even know I had been holding. I pop my head into the home gym to tell Mom I’m taking a raincheck on the protein smoothie.
I’ve got work to do—rebuilding what my family has torn down.
I start by visiting the hardware store—the one Daisy’s dad owns.
“Is Mister Clark here?” I ask Gabriel, the guy working the counter.
“Let me get him,” Josh walks to the back and emerges with Daisy’s dad.
“Patrick? What can I do for you?” His smile is broad and kind—the smile of a man who sees his business as serving more than his livelihood.
I’m certain Daisy told her parents what went sideways the day we were supposed to do our presentation for the scholarship to Vanderbilt. They’ve never treated me differently, though her dad does have this nearly imperceptible guard up around me. It’s not in his words, which are always welcoming and warm, but it’s this lingering reality that hangs between us:You hurt my daughter.
“I’m here about Daisy,” I say.
“Daisy? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. I think. I mean, she was fine the last time I saw her—as fine as someone can be when the rug has been torn out from under them.”
His eyes soften and he studies me, probably trying to figure my angle.
“I’m here because I want to help save the bookshop.”
He blinks once, surprise flickering behind his glasses.
“Don’t you think it’s a little late for that?” His tone isn’t mean or accusing. It’s a point of fact.
“To save the actual building? I don’t think I can. But the shop itself? Moss and Maple? Absolutely. I’ve spent a lot of hours thinking about this. We all love that property. And Daisy still owns it. But it won’t be the same. We could send around a petition, gather resistance to Home Mart.”
I pause. Now that I finally have an audience with him, my words are flowing like a local river in spring. He’s quiet—probably stunned into shocked silence.
