Page 35 of Book and Ladder
His answer is equally immediate. The realization that we’re talking in real-time sends an unanticipated thrill through me.
No. Far from it. I did take debate years ago in high school, though. Forgive me for this, but I wonder if it would be better if we don’t share specifics about ourselves here online.My anonymity is critical to my podcast.
- BTTP
As much as I’d love to know who he is, where he lives, how old he is, what he looks like … I know he’s right. We have a rare and protected space here. This wholly unexpected connection would lose some of its magic if I suddenly discovered his name is Greg and he lives in Poughkeepsie, podcasting from his mother’s basement. And he’d know I’m me—Daisy, a small-town bookshop owner struggling to keep her family’s legacy alive, hanging out during her free time with the same group of friends she’s had her whole life.
I 100% agree. There’s something about our anonymity that makes saying whatever we think possible. I’m more unfiltered here … for better or worse.
- M&M
He answers:
I think it’s been for the better.
Is it okay to say I look forward to your emails?
- BTTP
I respond:
I do too—look forward to yours.
- M&M
He doesn’t answer. Life must have called him away from his laptop. I shut mine, go through the closing routine at the shop, and drive home. In a few days we’ll host the firefighter appreciation book event. Which means Patrick will be here—again.
And, this time it’s because I inadvertently invited him.
Patrick shows up to Moss and Maple at eleven. He’s on the porch, waiting his turn behind the crowd of moms and children I’m greeting as they walk in. He’s wearing his turnout, minus the breathing apparatus and mask. Instead, he’s holding a fire helmet and staring straight at me with those impenetrable eyes.
I’d hardly be surprised if lasers shot out of them, they’re so intense.
The moms on the porch try to be discreet as they steal glances at Patrick.
What is it about a man in uniform? Notthisman in uniform—just the presence of the uniform in general. Although, I can’t deny how objectively handsome Patrick is.
I turn my attention to Peyton and Whitney, twins who have been shopping here with their mom since birth.
“Here are your gift bags,” I say, handing them each a paper bag with a cartoon fire hydrant on the front. “Follow Miss Winona to the back room.”
“Coloring book!” Peyton exclaims, peeking inside while she walks further into the shop.
A few more moms enter with their children and thenPatrick looms in the doorway. Sucking up the oxygen, or at least he must be because I’m trying to breathe normally and can’t seem to catch a full breath.
“Do I get a gift bag?” he asks in far too intimate a voice.
“Sure! You can use it to carry your dignity with you. I noticed you left it in the yard before your entrance the other day.”
My grin is smug, so different than the one I’d give any other human on the planet.
A mom on the porch muffles a laugh, and I swear half the shop leans in closer.
I’m ready to move on, having landed a proper zinger, but he spars back.
“Admit it, Clark.” He smiles broadly. “You were impressed with my heroics.”
I don’t miss a beat. “If by impressed you mean disturbed, then yes.”
