Page 87 of Book and Ladder
“You do. It may not feel that way. But you do. Anything that’s inevitable will come to pass. But often time reveals options and new developments in a situation that seemed to be barreling forward.”
“Like an endangered species,” I say softly.
“What?” Mom asks.
“Nothing. The girls were joking about releasing an endangered species on the property.”
Mom laughs softly. “You have the best friends.”
“I do.”
“Give yourself time,” she echoes her advice, knowing I didn’t take it in at all the first time.
“Okay. I will. Or at least, I’ll try.”
“I love you, sweet girl.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
We hang up and I drift to sleep, thoughts of the bookshop, developments, my friends and Patrick O’Connell filling my pre-sleep haze and my dreams.
A few days later, I’m in the office, working on payroll. I’ve been trying to take Mom’s words to heart. Hardship can make us project into the future, ushering in doom ahead of schedule. And more often than not, most of what we worry over never comes to pass. Or at least it doesn’t happen the way we’vefeared it will. One day at a time. My grandma used to say,Each day’s got enough in the bucket to last you and enough that you can carry it around.I never really understood those words until now.
A ping notification from my bank comes through my computer. I click the pop-up.
Low Balance Alert
A heavy sigh rushes out. “The O’Connells aren’t my only problem,” I say to myself.
A completely unhelpful memory of Patrick’s firm grip on my arm in the parking lot fills my senses. He smells too good—looks too good—acts too good.
“And that’s definitely a problem,” I grumble.
I pick up my purse. I’ve been meaning to talk to someone at the bank about my options. At the very least, I’ll have to transfer from my personal account to cover this week’s payroll.
“Winona, can you cover for an hour?” I ask when I step out of the office. “I have to run to the bank.”
“Come back with pumpkin muffins from Baker From Another Mother and I can.” Winona winks.
“Deal.”
I grab my jacket and step out the door.
I’m only halfway down the steps when I glance toward the parking lot. What I see stops me in my tracks.
Construction trucks? Bulldozers? And a giant wood sign boasting:Future Site of Home Mart.
They’re blocking the entrance to my parking lot.
I stride toward the spot. No workers in sight. Fine. I’ll climb into the cab myself and figure out the ignition if I have to.
Patrick pulls up, parking right next to the cluster of vehicles and hopping out of his car. He must be here to help his dad kick off the destruction of the field.
“You’re in the habit of blocking me in, O’Connell,” I say, popping my hip on my hand. “First your moving truck, now this.”
I’m mustering a fierceness I don’t completely feel, considering only moments ago I battled thoughts of the way his hand felt cupping my elbow at Fork and Fiddle.
Patrick leans on his car, his face unreadable, but I think I detect a hint of a smirk.
