Page 92 of Those Two Words

I came back to Sutton Bay worried there wasn’t much left for me here, but deep down, something other than my dad and the restaurant lead me home.

Patrick Sadler was that beacon guiding me home. My lighthouse in a stormy bay.

On a day I usually hide away from the world, I seek out the person I know needs comfort. A person who always puts others’ needs above his own.

And hopefully this is where part two begins.

thirty-seven

PATRICK

Am I a good father? Do my employees respect me? Do I spend enough time with my siblings? Why wasn’t I enough for Jo?

Those are some of the questions that float around my head regularly.

Today, there’s only one.

Would my dad be proud of me?

I’d like to think he was when he was alive, but would he be proud of the man I am today?

My dad was always a straight talker to all four of his kids, never making us feel like we’d disappointed him. He’d listen carefully as we talked through our feelings before offering up his guidance.

One piece of advice that’s always stuck with me was from when I was eight years old.

I was crying in the mud with grazed knees and hands, probably more embarrassed than anything. Jo and all our friends watched me eat dirt after I tried to show off on my new bike along the trail behind my house. My front wheel didn’t even make it off the ground before I was thrown over the handlebars.

Dad calmly walked over, sat in the mud with me, and cleaned my cuts. He picked up my bike and said, “Tomorrow is a new day, Patrick. Make it count. Let the failures of today build the foundations of tomorrow.”

At eight years old, those words didn’t make much sense, but he repeated that phrase over the years. The older I got, the more I understood the meaning.

I’ve lived my life by those words. We all make mistakes—I still make them—I just try not to dwell on them. I’m only human, and perhaps that’s naïve of me, but life’s too short.

Losing my dad proved that.

Not telling Jo how I felt all those years ago was a mistake. Holding her at arm’s length when she first returned was another.

But she doesn’t speak about her years in Tennessee as a mistake. And having Lottie was most definitely not a mistake.

I’d assumed Jo had given up on us, and the pieces of herself she’d given me were all I was ever going to get. I suppose that’s why I always keep a piece of her with me at all times.

I’m not ashamed of crying; I want to show Lottie it’s healthy for men to be open with their emotions. But when she asked me if I thought Grandpa Teddy would have liked her, I excused myself from the table, kissed Lottie on the head, and walked out of the family dinner being hosted at my mom’s tonight.

Mom gave me a look of understanding, not questioning or asking me to stay. Giving me space she knew I needed.

Lottie’s innocent question gutted me. I should have stayed and told her that of course her grandpa would have liked her. He would have loved her and spoiled her rotten. Knowing he never got the chance to meet his first grandchild is one of the most painful realizations about my dad’s passing.

I stare out across the horizon. The dark storm clouds reflect exactly how I’m feeling. The sounds of the crashing waves and birds usually calm me, but today they’re drowned out by a torrent of emotions. I stand there for what feels like hours, trying not to think about anything at all.

It’s not the squeaking of footsteps on the sand that lets me know she’s here. It’s the presence I felt moments before. The tips of my fingers are going numb from the biting wind, but having her close by warms me.

Jo loops her arms through mine and rests her head against my shoulder. We look out at the bay together, the whirls of dark grays and purples painting the sky. The storm hasn’t reached us yet, but it will soon.

“They loved this view,” she murmurs softly. I turn my head to look at her as she continues to stare out at the choppy waters, looking peaceful as she takes in the moody horizon. “Do you remember that barbeque we had on the beach one year? I think it was before Harriet and Florence were born. Your dad convinced us there was treasure buried in the sand. We spent hours digging holes; there were so many of them along the beach, I’m surprised we weren’t charged with ecocide. After every hole he would act confused and say he forgot what the treasure map said. Right as the sun was about to set, he suddenly remembered.”

I nod, a weak smile pulling at my lips as I recall that memory.

“I don’t know how your dad did it, but I remember the excitement of digging that final hole and finding one hundred gold chocolate coins. We didn’t even wipe the sand off them before we started devouring them. I was so sick that night. I’m pretty sure Graham and Booth ate them with the foil still on.” She laughs and nuzzles closer to me. Dropping her hand from my elbow, she intertwines our fingers, her warm ones a reminder of how long I’ve been out here.

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