Darling Patrick
After her dear friend Libby passes away, Jamie fears her new neighbor won’t carry on her lovely sidewalk library. But when Libby’s nephew, Patrick, comes along, Jamie finds hope for the library’s future… and maybe even for love A Moment for
My neighbor Libby’s sidewalk library was charming. A miniature shingled house with a peaked roof and a delicately etched glass door, it sat atop a sturdy post at the edge of her front lawn with a sign inviting passersby to Leave a book to share, or take a book to love. I placed two volumes inside, blinking back sudden tears, not believing that Libby was really gone.
Just then, a broad-shouldered man wearing a flannel shirt emerged onto Libby’s front step, book in hand. His hair was thick and dark, his eyes coffee brown with a hint of stubbornness in them— exactly as Libby had described him.
A widow with no children, Libby had doted on her nephew, “Darling Patrick,” as she’d called him. She’d spent hours talking about what a talented carpenter he was, and so sweet, but nothing prepared me for the warmth that spread through my belly when he smiled over at me.
“Good morning,” he said warmly as he placed his book behind the library’s door. The faint, woodsy scent of his aftershave conjured images of cozy evenings by a fire.
“You must be Patrick,” I said. “Your aunt was a dear friend of mine.”
His beautiful smile tugged at something long dormant in my heart, making me wonder if I’d made a mistake resisting Libby’s matchmaking efforts. I extended my hand. “Jamie Ross.”
His eyes widened as he took my hand in his. “You’re ‘my neighbor Jamie’! My aunt talked about you all the time. Do you have a minute?” I nodded as Patrick sprinted back into the house, then returned with another book. It was Jane Austen’s Emma. A note in Libby’s handwriting clung to the front cover: Patrick, when the time comes, please give this to my neighbor Jamie, 614 Chestnut. “Her favorite novel,” I said, touched. “But…you should keep it.” “A romance, right?” I nodded, as Patrick stared into the distance. “Not a subject I know much about…did Aunt Libby tell you about my divorce?” I winced. “I’m afraid so.” Patrick shrugged, then smiled. “That’s okay. She told me about yours too.”
“The scent of his aftershave conjured images of cozy evenings by the fire”
We burst out laughing, and suddenly the day seemed brighter.
That evening, I curled up with Libby’s book. I’d always enjoyed the heroine’s stubborn belief in her own matchmaking skills—not unlike Libby herself! I hadn’t made it far, however, when I found an inscription inside to “Darling Patrick.”
I quickly closed the cover, feeling like I’d opened someone else’s mail by mistake. The book had been intended for him, despite Libby’s note. I had to return it.
The next morning, I knocked on Libby’s door. “Come in, ‘my neighbor Jamie,’” Patrick smiled playfully, ushering me in.
One glance told me that Libby hadn’t exaggerated Patrick’s construction talents. Her once-modest bungalow was now truly gorgeous. I imagined it would sell the instant Patrick put it on the market.
Suddenly, a mixture of loss and longing swept over me. “I’m so sorry about Libby,” I said around the lump in my throat. “She fell ill as I was helping my sister move. I didn’t hear she’d passed until a week ago.”
I took a shaky breath, handing him the book. “I want to give this back. There’s a message inside for you.”
Patrick opened the book, his face blooming into a smile. “Did you read this?” “No, it was meant for you.” “I’m not so sure.” He sat on the couch, patting the space beside him as he read Libby’s note aloud: “Darling Patrick, I was a teacher for 30 years and a librarian for 10 more, but helping you and Jamie find each other is the hardest work I’ve ever done!”
Patrick’s laugh twined around mine, warming the space between us. “How many times did she try to fix you up with me?” “Three or four. You?” “Four at least.” He paused, suddenly serious. “I didn’t turn her down because I thought I wouldn’t like you.” His cheeks flushed. “I was actually afraid I would.”
“I felt the same,” I said quietly. “It’s not easy trying again after you’ve been hurt.”
Patrick kept reading. “I’m giving this book to you both, hoping that in sorting things out, you’ll realize you need to give each other— and yourselves— a chance.”
A silence fell. “I sure hope the new owners keep the sidewalk library going,” I said. “Of course I will,” Patrick replied. My breath caught. “You’re staying?” His gaze was steady. “Great house, beautiful neighbor…why would I ever leave?”
Darling Patrick, I mused. Libby couldn’t have been more right! — Le Ann Dowd