Page 147 of Book and Ladder
Patrick’s deep laugh rolls through the shop between his booming “Ho, ho, hos.” A few kids ask to sit on his lap and he welcomes them. I watch in awe, unable to keep myself from imagining our not-so-distant future when children with hair as dark as the night sky will crawl into those strong arms for their own story times.
A soft peace fills me, tangible and sweet. I can barely contain this new reality. It’s everything I couldn’t dare to let myself imagine or hope for—and Patrick is the heart behind it all.
Bells jingle as the door swings open again and again. The children’s nook fills and people spill out into the hallway beyond.
“Okay, kids from one to ninety-two,” Patrick says in a commanding tone that grabs the attention of even the most wiggly toddler. “Let’s all gather ’round so I can read you a few Christmas stories.”
Winona and Effie corral the kids and I join them at the back of the room, forcing myself to take my eyes off Patrick.
He starts in withHow the Grinch Stole Christmas!Winona circulates quietly through the room, hunched low and handing out miniature candy canes.
Patrick looks around the room, and then in a voice that sounds like he actually wrote the story himself, he reads, “Every Who down in Who-ville liked Christmas a lot. But the Grinch, who lived just north of Who-ville, did NOT!”
Several kids who are familiar with the story shout out “Did not!” along with Patrick.
When he gets to the line where the Grinch says, “Oh, thenoise!” He tells the kids to chant with him. And the noise, noise, noise, noise fills the rafters of the bookshop. Some children cover their ears, but their smiles give them away.
He ends with “Christmas Day will always be as long as we have we.” Then his eyes find mine and hold me—that familiar intensity drawing me like a magnet, promising holidays filled with us around trees, our family and our traditions—the connection we share only deepening with each passing year.
After Patrick reads'Twas the Night Before Christmas, kids sit on his lap, whispering their wish lists or posing for photos.
I’m standing next to Patrick, helping corral the children who are eager to see Santa. A preschooler named Mikey who is a regular at storytime shoots past me and charges toward Patrick’s lap. His mom runs up behind him, but she’s not quick enough. Patrick extends his arms wide. Mikey barrels into Patrick’s arms and grabs the itchy beard with toddler-on-a-mission determination. He gives it a solid yank, shouting, “You not Santa! You da fie-wah-man!” The beard slips from Mikey’s fingertips, snapping back onto Patrick’s face, lopsided and revealing.
Laughter erupts from the parents gathered in the room. Mikey’s mom catches up and takes him from Patrick’s lap, whispering something to him about Patrick playing pretend and “Could you help him play?” I think there may be a promise of cookies involved before Mikey nods his head in solemn agreement. He reapproaches Patrick, cups his hand to his face and stage whispers, “I’m not tellin’ anybody you da fie-wah-man. You can bweetend.”
Patrick, with his beard rearranged to disguise his identity again, leans toward Mikey and whispers, “Thanks, buddy. I appreciate your support.”
I grab the attention of the moms in the room. “Don’t forget to grab your blind date with a holiday book on your way out!”
Winona softly tugs at my elbow and leans in. “There’s a woman at the register asking to see you.”
“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 inThe 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 forThe Tennesseanand 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.
