Spooning Daisy
Page 1
KISSING DAISY
“Max—”
“The truth is . . .” He stepped toward her. “The truth is . . . I feel bad about giving you such a hard time at breakfast.”
“Ohhhh. This is an apology.”
“No, absolutely not.” Max retracted the step he’d just taken. “This is absolutely NOT an apology.”
Daisy huffed. Normally, she’d take great satisfaction in Max’s guilt and take equal pleasure in the banter that would surely follow. However, she was a woman on a mission, and she didn’t have the time, not with Otter Bite hanging by a manila envelope. “Fine. Thank you for coming here not to apologize and for that apple strudel thing. And”—she momentarily softened—“the money. But I just don’t have the time for whatever this is.”
Once again he stepped toward her. “You’re making this extremely difficult.”
“This? This what? What am I making—”
“This,” he interrupted, the word melting into her mouth.
The two hundreds floated from her hand to the floor. Then her arms wrapped Max’s neck, his body pressed hers, and Daisy was lost in a kiss she never expected to own . . .
Spooning Daisy
Maggie McConnell
LYRICAL SHINE
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
KISSING DAISY
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Teaser chapter
Copyright Page
For my mom
Helen Vivian Shelton
1922–2000
Acknowledgments
A lifetime ago, my mother handed me a memoir. She didn’t know the author, nor was she familiar with either title or story other than what she’d read in the local newspaper. I was visiting my mom in Illinois from Anchorage, where my own writing dream was withering unattended while I concentrated on my business career.
Mom explained that she went to the book signing and bought the book because one day I would be like this author and my mom wanted everyone, whether they knew me or not, to come to my signing and buy my book.
After that, what choice did I have? When I received my first Golden Heart nomination several years later, it was as much Mom’s as mine.
My mother would not give up on my dream and she made it impossible for me to.
Thanks, Mom. This is for you.
Many have provided a helping hand to Spooning Daisy. Here, in the order I drew their names out of my red plaid hat with the ear flaps, are those who have left indelible fingerprints:
Lt Col Brooks E. Shelton, USAF (Ret), my big brother and an all-around good guy, gave me the idea for a pivotal plot twist, which he will surely disavow. This page will self-destruct in 30 seconds. Read fast.
Gretchen Brinck and Lena Hubin are first, talented, insightful writers who influence every chapter and, second, intrepid guinea pigs for my vegan recipes. Strangers to me when our critique group banded, they are now cherished friends. God-willing, we shall still be sharing tea and conversation long after the Thesaurus has been shelved.
Elizabeth (Liz) Shelton, my big sister, and “Dixie,” to whom Liz has thus far devoted thirty-plus years, are the inspiration behind Daisy and Elizabeth.
John Scognamiglio, Editor-in-Chief of Kensington Books, gently tells me the bad, enthusiastically tells me the good. If not for John, Spooning Daisy would be just another file on my hard drive. And did I mention, Editor-in-Chief ?
Smiling Hill, and those living here, especially dog Molly, horses Quinn and Teena, and cat Sara, everyday demonstrate that in life, as in books, animals make the story.
David Cottrell is an Alaskan’s Alaskan—homesteader, businessman, entrepreneur, pilot, sailor, sportsman. By his side, I learned a lot, then shared it with Daisy and Max.
Marlene Stringer is smart, funny, loves animals, and knows talent. What else could I want? Sure, Lindt white-chocolate truffles, but I’m talking about agents. Because of Marlene, Spooning Daisy is CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE #1, Embracing Felicity is CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE #2, and Tempting Eveline is CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE #3.
Ken Taylor and Jerry Grover, my best buddies—gone too soon—invited me into their man caves so I might understand and write honestly, but with kindness.
Rebecca Cremonese, Production Editor for Kensington Books, guided me through the editing labyrinth much like Bartemius Crouch, Jr. helped Harry Potter survive the deadly Triwizard Maze . . . which is confusing since four wizards were competing. Thanks to Rebecca, revisions weren’t confusing. And no one died. That I know of.
Mari Klassert and Jeanne Dolan are my yin and my yang, oldest and dearest friends, influencing every “best friend” that starts in my head and ends on the page.
Linda Rupp, trail buddy & partner-in-crime, was there for the garage sale that started it all.
Victoria (Tory) Groshong, Copy Editor, has the unenviable task of suggesting revisions to writers who like to think their every word is gold. Tory has prevented blunders such as He screwed his face from going to print. More like fool’s gold.
Seldovia and Kachemak Bay, Alaska—where I scattered my mom’s ashes—are the inspiration behind Otter Bite. Forever in my heart, and now in the hearts of Daisy, Felicity, and Eveline, as well. Exactly as it otter be.
Chapter One
“What’ll ya take for this?”
Daisy Moon lifted her glazed eyes from a makeshift plywood table where she had been tidying pieces of her past. She focused on the midlife, mostly brunette whose brassy streaks fit her gravel voice. Backlit by the golden afternoon pushing into the garage, the woman appeared heaven-sent. After a closer look, Daisy knew better.
In her right hand, a cigarette was wedged between two fingers while her left hand strangled a porcelain figurine, its milky pastels and melted contours in unhappy contrast to the black polish on the woman’s talons.
“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t smoke,” Daisy said politely. “There’s a bucket outside—”
Too late. The cigarette was crushed between the sole of one strappy stiletto sandal and the pristine concrete of Daisy’s double garage.
“So how much?”
A cloud dulled the sun and the saintly aura faded.
Stepping back to allow yet another stranger to judge the resale value of her life, Daisy answered the brunette. “Doesn’t the tag say fifty doll
ars?” as if she couldn’t remember how, in the wee hours of the morning while Lady Antebellum pleaded “Need You Now,” she’d painstakingly tied the price tag around the necks of the porcelain lovers.
“Ye-ahh,” the woman answered as if Daisy were dense. “But how much will you take?”
“Excuse me,” a voice from behind interrupted. “What size is this?”
Daisy turned to a stout woman who held a Kelly-green midcalf skirt and matching short jacket. Daisy loved that suit—it perfectly complemented her Irish genes—but love wasn’t a good enough reason to keep something that squeezed the breath from her. “Size six.”
“Is there some place I could try it on?”
“Try it on . . . ?” Daisy imagined popped buttons and exploding seams.
“I’ll handle this,” Charity Wagstaff whispered, coming through the milling browsers. “You take care of Cruella.”
Daisy shot her eyes toward the heavens.
“But remember,” her best friend softly chided, “you’re turning the page, moving on, taking risks. You’re letting go—”
“I know, I know.” Forcing a smile, Daisy attended to the brunette. “Make me an offer.”
“Ten bucks.”
“Ten bucks? That’s a Lladró!”
The brunette stared impatiently, as if she were tapping a foot.
“It’s a limited edition and it cost $275 last year. They’ve probably broken the mold.”
“Well, if it’s so valuable, why’re y’ selling it?”
Because it was meant to crown the top layer of a fabulous, five-tier Amaretto wedding cake . . . “Because I’m moving,” Daisy said instead. “And I don’t have the room.”
The brunette yawned.
“It’s like this—” Daisy tried to look pitiful. But it took memories of her long-departed mutt, Sophie, to produce the tears needed for effect. “My husband died and I have to downsize.”
“Twenty bucks,” countered the dry-eyed shopper.
“She’ll take it,” Charity said, sneaking up from behind.
Her auburn frizz quivering with indignation, Daisy spun toward the sunny blonde. “Have you lost your mind? It’s worth more than twenty dollars. It’s worth more than fifty dollars!”
“Let it go.”
“It’s so beautiful.”
“It’s only clay. Let it go.”
“I don’t have all day.” The woman held out a rumpled bill. “Y’ want the twenty or not?”
Reaching across the plywood, Charity snatched the money.
“I’ve changed my mind, it’s not for sale!” Daisy screamed. Charity blocked her attempt to chase the woman, who fled down the drive like a hyena with carrion.
Daisy wilted, then quickly tensed. The browsing had stopped and all eyes were upon her. A Miss Marple–type linked elbows with her equally tweedy companion and the two scurried out of the garage, pausing briefly at the garden tools displayed along the drive before glancing back and continuing their escape.
Sympathetically, Charity said, “Why don’t you take a break? You’ve been at this for hours.”
Daisy took a shuddering breath, the embarrassment and humiliation of the last year dumping on her like a sudden downpour. She didn’t even know these people who were picking over the remnants of her life. Why should she care what they thought? It was her garage—for another two weeks. If she wanted, she could be as contrary and unpredictable as the Seattle weather.
“Maybe a short break,” Daisy conceded, before wending her way between bookshelves and lamps and a widescreen television marked with a SOLD sign. Who could’ve predicted that only weeks after Jason had replaced his reliable television with a sleeker state-of-the-art model, he’d do the same with his fiancée?
Certainly not Daisy, who, nonetheless, had taken the high road, thanks to the example set by her mother, a corporate wife who always kept her smile in the face of adversity. With more at stake than just her personal relationship, Daisy had been civil, allowing Jason to move out at his leisure; she had never intended to keep either the television or the telltale Callaway golf clubs until she received the certified letter from Dritz Klak & Smite.
She’d fantasized about bashing the $2,500 television with the $600 driver, but the ever-pragmatic Charity convinced her to sell them instead.
“You’ll get the best price on eBay,” Charity had told her.
But money was less the objective than expediency; Daisy didn’t have time to photograph, upload, monitor, and mail. And fear of another “Craigslist Killer” kept her away from that website. So, the old-fashioned method it was; anything remaining at day’s end would be donated to the SPCA thrift shop.
Of course, Jason didn’t know his precious belongings were the main course at a garage sale.
Although short-lived, the thought cheered Daisy as she passed from the netherworld of her garage into the haven of her kitchen. But not before fluffing the potpourri of carnation petals strategically placed between a crystal mantel clock and a silver-plated chafing dish.
Chapter Two
“That poor woman,” Maeve Kendall said to her grown son.
“Widowed at such a tender age.”
“Uh-huh,” Max Kendall agreed, but his attention was on a page from a surprisingly blemish-free 1952 Superman comic book he’d lifted from a stack of twenty. The sign in front read: $2 EACH OR $30 FOR ALL
After flipping through a few more pages, he laid the comic back on the pile, then scrutinized a set of Callaway golf clubs. Removing the driver from its bootie, he gripped Bertha and spread his feet as if he were about to swing.
“She couldn’t be much more than thirty . . . five? Wouldn’t you say, Max? Thirty-five?”
“I’d say she’s crazy, whatever her age,” proving that he was sort of listening. Raised with four effervescent sisters, Max tuned out most of the chatter that accompanied women. He had learned this skill from his father, who would occasionally smile and agree, then go back to his own thoughts while Maeve kept talking.
“I’m sure you would be emotional, too, if you were selling off your belongings.” Maeve scanned the garage. “And she has some lovely items. She’s obviously a girl of culture and breeding. Not to mention being tidy and organized. With a nice figure and a sweet face. Don’t y’ think, Max?”
“These clubs are custom-made graphite. With great balance. They don’t look like they’ve been used. Way too short for me, but they might fit Dad.”
“The grrrips are blue,” Maeve pointed out, her brogue adding melody to her words.
“A lighter shaft might improve his game,” Max joked.
“I bet her people are Irish. Don’t you think she has a sweet face? A sweet Irish face?”
“Who?”
“The redhead.”
He stopped the imaginary swing that had him teeing off at St. Andrews. “What about the redhead?”
“Don’t you think she has a sweet face?”
“How should I know? You can barely see it for all that hair.” He exchanged the driver for the putter; his fingers curled around the grip. Waggle-waggle. If Max Kendall sinks this putt, he’ll be the new grrrrand champion . . .
“You should ask her to dinner.”
Max lifted his eyes from his winning putt. “I’m getting these for Dad. He can rewrap the grips or sell them in the shop if he doesn’t want them.”
“Maybe you should go home and shave. I’ll wait here.”
“Okay.” He returned the putter to the butter-soft leather golf bag, then shot his eyes to Maeve. “What?”
“I’ll wait here while you go shave.”
Max rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Why do I need to shave?”
“So you don’t look like a bum when you ask her to dinner.”
“Ask who to dinner?”
“The widow.”
“What widow?”
“The widow selling these golf clubs.”
“You mean . . . the crazy redhead?”
“Well, why not?”
&nbs
p; Max stared at his mother as if she were crazy. “We’re total strangers for one—”
“That’s why y’ have dinner. To get to know one another.”
“—And she’s crazy.”
“All redheads have a fiery temperament.” Maeve smiled, remembering her own eruptions.
“I prefer docile blondes.” He fidgeted with the clubs. “Where the hell is the price tag?”
“Seriously, Max, it can’t be very excitin’ sitting around with Da and me each night.”
“Visiting your parents isn’t supposed to be exciting. Besides, I’m only here until Monday. What would be the point?”
“Not everything has to have a point. Sometimes the best things happen without having a point.”
“Uh-huh. No.”
“You’ll probably have a great time.”
“No.”
“I just want you to be happy and settled.”
“I am happy and settled.”
“A man without a wife is not happy and settled.”
Max laughed and shook his head. “You have a short memory, Mom.”
“That was a long time ago and it was the navy’s fault.”
“Whatever.”
Softening, Maeve cupped his face and went eye to eye. “Max, darling, y’ can’t be dragging around that cross for the rest of your life.”
He gently pulled away. “I love you, Mom, but give it a rest.”
Maeve shook a finger at his face. “Maxim Avery Kendall, you’re more stubborn than your father and you’re going to end up alone in a houseful of pigeons just like your Uncle Arvis.”
He took a heavy breath, having heard it all before. Although, this was the first time he and the never-wed Arvis had shared the same pigeon fate.
“Oh, never mind. She’d probably turn y’ down.”
Max frowned. Rejection? From a woman whose flaming hair tugged at her head as if trying to escape? Not likely. And when you factored in her volatility—honestly now, how many offers did a woman like that get?
Max didn’t know her, but he knew all about her. This detour in her life was not her idea. She would just about kill to have someone help her steer through it. Rejection? No way.