Spooning Daisy

by Maggie McConnell

  “Well, just look at you,” Maeve said, misinterpreting his frown.

  He looked down on his Señorita Largatija Mexican T-shirt with its red-lipped, smiling lizard, frayed hem, and solitary sangria stain, and then to his faded jeans with a small rip in the right knee. “You thought I looked okay when you dragged me out of the house at some ungodly hour to visit every garage sale in the city.”

  “I was not wantin’ to be critical.”

  “But now . . . ?”

  “You’re lookin’ a bit too much like Seamus McGrew.”

  Max turned from his mother, searching again for the price tag. “I don’t know Seamus McGrew, Mom.”

  “Of course y’ do. He managed the rendering plant outside Bal-lyteansa. He was courting your cousin, Kyla. A nice boy underneath those entrails stains. You’ll remember if you think about it.”

  Stopping his search, Max looked at his mother, still formidable in her midsixties, although age had mellowed both her fiery temperament and her fiery hair, now paled to a new-penny copper that layered her head in waves. The same waves that Max had inherited, although his were a perfect match to the once dark brown of his father’s.

  “I was fourteen, Mom.” He did the math—twenty-seven years ago. “And I don’t remember Smelly McGrew.”

  “Seamus—”

  “You two have been over here a while,” Charity interrupted. “Is there something I can convince you to buy?”

  “My son is interested in the golf clubs.”

  “Your son has a keen eye. Those clubs are a steal. They’re Callaways. The best.”

  “Some consider TaylorMade the best,” Max said.

  “A man who knows his golf. Then I’m sure you can appreciate what a bargain these are. They’ve never been used.”

  Maeve laid a palm on Charity’s forearm. “Tell me, dear, how did the poor man die?”

  Charity cocked her head. “What man?”

  “Your friend’s husband.” Lowering her voice, Maeve sounded apologetic. “I overheard her tell that unpleasant woman about her husband’s passing.”

  “Oh, that man. Well, it was quite nasty. Jason—that’s his name—he, uhhh, fell into a tree chipper.”

  Maeve gasped. “A tree chipper? Blessed Mary Mother of Jesus!”

  Max cocked one dark brow.

  “Shredded him from the waist down. He lingered for days, in the most intense agony you can imagine, until he finally succumbed.”

  “Oh my! That poor man. Has it been long?”

  “Mmmm, about a year,” Charity said, trying to remember exactly when her best friend’s world turned upside down and inside out. “But please, don’t mention it to Daisy.”

  “What a cheerful name,” Maeve said.

  “Most of the time it fits her to a T, but she’s having a tough time cleaning out the closets.”

  Charity sighed and slowly shook her head. “When they laid Jason in the coffin, they had to stuff his pants with packing peanuts to fill him out.”

  “Oh my.”

  Max mentally rolled his eyes. “So how much for the Callaways?”

  “I’m sure the price is somewhere.” Charity dug into the bag. “Daisy is quite meticulous.”

  Max could think of another term, less flattering, for the woman who kept her garage swept and dusted. And what was that scent? It reminded him of his mother’s living room, all flowery and powdery. Garages were supposed to smell manly! Like gasoline and hot engines and car wax. Even the tables had been draped with burgundy-striped sheets, and every item he’d scanned—save for the golf clubs—had little descriptive stickers accompanying the price. Who, in their right mind, went to this much trouble to sell cast-offs?

  Charity came up for air. “Let me get Daisy.”

  Maeve leaned into Max. “Whatever she’s asking, give it to her.”

  “Why?”

  “The poor woman is obviously havin’ to sell off her belongings to make ends meet. Didn’t y’ see the Realtor’s SOLD sign in the yard?”

  “These are $4,000-dollar clubs! She’d be a fool to ask less than a thousand, and I’m not paying that. You’re the one who taught me to haggle.”

  “Not with widows. It’ll come back on y’.”

  “I guarantee you, Mom, she is not—”

  “You were asking about the clubs?” Mother and son separated. “They’re Callaways,” Daisy said, exhausting her knowledge about Jason’s passion.

  “We’re the Kendalls,” Maeve interjected.

  “Kendalls?” Daisy looked first at the petite, stylish woman and then at the rumpled, stubbled, stained hunk towering beside her.

  “I’m Maeve and this is my son, Max.”

  “Ohhh. Kendalls. I thought you were talking about golf clubs. Duh.” Daisy smiled. “I haven’t slept much and I’m a bit . . . I’m Daisy.”

  Nice lips, Max thought without meaning to. The gentle lift of her mouth lit her pale complexion like the soft glow of firelight.

  “You’re obviously not a golfer,” Max said. Her green eyes sparked. Like kryptonite.

  “No. That’s Jason’s hobby. He’s always chasing that hole in one.”

  “You poor dear,” Maeve said. “Your darlin’ man is still in the present with y’. My aunt Rose talked to her dear departed Henry for twenty-five years before she joined him.”

  Daisy narrowed her eyes on Maeve as if that would help explain what the hell she was talking about.

  “How much for the clubs?” Max asked.

  Daisy’s smile vanished and the glow died. “I don’t care. Make me an offer.”

  “A thousand,” Maeve blurted as if this were a bidding war.

  Daisy jerked back. “A thousand . . . dollars?”

  “Mom!”

  “They’re worth four,” Maeve said.

  Daisy stared. “I . . . guess . . .”

  “I don’t have a thousand dollars on me, Mother.”

  “How much do y’ have, Son?”

  “Maybe a few hundred, tops.”

  Maeve turned to Daisy. “Would you accept a check for the rest, dear?”

  “Uh . . . sure.”

  “I didn’t bring my checkbook,” Max said.

  “Well, then,” she began as if explaining to a child, “give Daisy what you have and you can bring the rest tonight when you pick her up for dinner.”

  “Dinner?” Daisy and Max said in unison.

  Daisy looked at Max; he shrugged. “Mothers say the darnedest things.”

  “Oh, Max, you know very well we were just discussing that.” Maeve turned to Daisy. “He’s a bit shy.”

  A pained smile crossed Max’s lips.

  Having been embarrassed by her own mother, Daisy felt genuine sympathy for the man. However, dinner was out of the question.

  “I know Max doesn’t look like much now,” Maeve began, lighting a motherly hand upon Daisy’s forearm. “But he cleans up nicely. And he comes from a God-loving family, y’ have my word on that. An absolute gentleman. And he’s quite successful, but with a kind heart. When he was seven, he raised a nest of sparrows after the mother had been killed by the neighbor’s cat.”

  “Oh Lord . . .” Max rolled his head toward the driveway and his only escape.

  Daisy didn’t want to smile, but how could she not? How endearing was this to use his mother as a go-between to ask for a date? And to be honest, in baggy sweatpants and with her hair taking flight, Daisy didn’t look all that appealing herself. If someone could see beyond that, she could certainly see beyond that stained T-shirt and morning stubble.

  Besides, she was the new Daisy Moon! Moving on. Taking risks. Embracing change. The Universe had obviously delivered this man to test her resolve. And on a day when she was ridding herself of the past. Was Max Kendall her reward for sacrificing the Lladró cake topper?

  Until that moment, she hadn’t comprehended what moving on meant—men and dating. But here was her future, staring her in the face—

  “I apologize for my mother. I’m sure she doesn’t mean
to embarrass either of us,” Max said with a pointed glance at Maeve. “And I’m sure you have other plans.”

  “Actually . . .” Who was she kidding? She was still the old Daisy—who wasn’t ready to be on the market. She didn’t care what she was getting in return. She wanted her Lladró back!

  “Actually . . . ,” Daisy began again, trying to manufacture other plans.

  “She doesn’t!” Charity shouted from behind.

  Daisy swung around. “Will you please stop doing that!”

  “Excuse us, just for a minute.” Charity pulled Daisy away.

  “What do you think you’re doing? I’m not going to dinner with a complete stranger”—Daisy surreptitiously eyed Max—“no matter how good-looking he probably is.”

  “Probably? The man sizzles.”

  “He looks a little scruffy.”

  “Said the pot about the kettle—”

  Daisy tightened her eyes into viperous slits.

  “—And don’t act like you don’t know it.” Charity put on her sunny face and called back to mother and son, “We’ll be right there. Don’t go away.”

  She turned to Daisy and lowered her voice. “Trust me. This is how I make my living. That man knows golf, which means he’s got money—”

  “He could be a caddy—”

  Charity hushed her with a raised index finger. “And he’s kindly chauffeuring his mother around on a Saturday.”

  “He probably still lives at home.”

  “Hello—have you met his mother? If he lived at home, she would’ve mended his jeans and thrown out that T-shirt. Now stop being so pigheaded and do what the doctor orders.”

  “What if this guy is a serial killer?”

  “Then you can tell me I told you so.”

  Daisy glared.

  “He doesn’t fit the profile.”

  “Even so . . . it’s not like this date can lead anywhere.” Daisy glanced back at Max, who had impatiently crossed his arms like Mr. Clean.

  “Which is why this is so perfect! No pressure. No thoughts of the future. You can screw up and it won’t matter, but you’ll have gotten over the first date hump. And—heaven forbid—you might actually have fun and maybe even get lucky.”

  “Lucky? You want me to get lucky . . . with a stranger?” Daisy peeked at Max, who cocked his head at her, looking less pleased by the second. Obviously, Max Kendall was not accustomed to being the object of indecision.

  “Sometimes, Daisy, the best way to get lucky is with a stranger from a garage sale.”

  “You’re making this up.”

  “I’ll bet you dollars to donuts this man knows what to do between the sheets. It would do you good to let go a little. Just remember to be safe. And don’t fall in love.”

  “Love?” Daisy radiated panic. “I’m not ready for lucky. Why bring up love?”

  “You’re right. You’re much too pragmatic.”

  “Yeah, that would explain my very pragmatic attachment to a cake topper.”

  “Two entirely different things.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “This is the same advice I give clients before I hand them a bill for $150,” Charity said.

  “You set people up to get lucky and then you take money? Doesn’t that make you a pimp?”

  “A pimp with a PhD.” Charity spun Daisy around and pushed her back to mom and son.

  “Daisy would be delighted to have dinner with you,” she said as Daisy mutely smiled. “There’s a quaint Italian place not too far from here—”

  “Mama Mia’s?” Max asked.

  Daisy’s green eyes popped. How could Charity do that? She knew Mama Mia’s had been her and Jason’s favorite restaurant—after her own, of course.

  Dark brows slid together as Max looked curiously at Daisy. “If you don’t like Mama’s, there’s another restaurant, Fireflies—”

  “No! I mean, I love Mama’s,” she insisted through clenched teeth and a forced smile.

  “Mama’s it is,” Charity quickly concluded. “Why don’t you two meet there about . . . six thirty?”

  Max had tickets to the Mariners’ game. “How about six?”

  “I guess.”

  “Now you can finish your business with the clubs while I show Maeve your fabulous Royal Doulton.” Charity ushered away Maeve, leaving the two strangers staring at each other.

  “You’ve got quite the mother.”

  “Irish.”

  “Ahhh.”

  “You’ve got quite the friend.”

  “Psychologist.”

  “Ahhh.”

  “The truth is, she’s been trying for months to get me on a date and I’m afraid you’re the unlucky guinea pig. I’m . . . kind of going through a . . . splitting of the sheets.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t think your husband really fell into a tree chipper.”

  “A tree chipper?”

  “Your friend said—”

  “Got it.”

  Max reached into his back pocket. “Your ex-husband doesn’t know you’re selling his clubs, does he?”

  “Actually, he’s my ex but wasn’t my husband. Long story. Longer engagement.” Daisy might have smirked. “And they’re not his clubs.”

  Max lifted his eyes from his opened wallet. “That explains the blue grips.”

  “It does?”

  “Women’s clubs are usually lighter in weight with different head angles for greater loft, but you can’t see that. The color of the grips gives them away; men’s are usually black or grey.” He gauged her height. “But these fit someone about five-nine. They’re a little long for you.”

  “They’re not mine.”

  “If these aren’t his and aren’t yours . . .”

  “The pro shop called,” Daisy confessed. “Said my clubs were in. Except I don’t play golf, obviously. Yadda, yadda. It was a terrible thing to do.”

  Max grinned and his blue eyes twinkled.

  Yes, twinkled, Daisy thought. “So if . . . So if buying stolen clubs offends your morality, you don’t have to.”

  “I’m sure I’ll hate myself in the morning, but what the heck.” He counted the bills in his wallet. “Here’s $647.” He held out the cash. “And while I’m going into debt, I’ll take the Superman comics, too.”

  Sheepishly, as if this were an illicit transaction, Daisy took the money.

  “I owe you $380.”

  “Why don’t we call it square?” she said, her discomfort rising like dough. She didn’t want to dine with this man. And she certainly didn’t want to like him, let alone find him attractive. But she might be doing all three. Worse, she had just confided her relationship woes—something every courtship guru warns against.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You might have some valuable issues in that stack of comics.”

  “I doubt it. I found them at a garage sale myself a few years back.”

  “Think about it. We’ll talk at dinner.”

  “About dinner . . .”

  Max jerked back. “You can’t possibly feel guilty about dinner.”

  Guilt? Is that what she felt? Guilt, for selling clubs that her fiancé of ten years had bought for his girlfriend?

  “Look, if you’d rather not,” Max said.

  “It’s just that, well, you were kind of roped into it.”

  “So were you.”

  Not the reassurance she was hoping for. “So . . . if you’d rather not . . .”

  “Hey, I’m fine with it”—the edge to his voice hinted otherwise—“but I certainly don’t want to force you.”

  “I hardly think you could force me into dinner.”

  “Okay then,” Max said, sounding a little too breezy.

  “Okay then,” Daisy said, going for the same nonchalance.

  In one fluid motion, Max hefted the clubs to his substantial shoulders. Then he nested the stack of comics in the crook of one elbow. “I’m sure my mom has a few more garage sales to hit. If I don’t move her along, I’l
l never make Mama’s by six..”

  “If you’d rather make it later . . .”

  Max huffed. Yes, huffed. “Six is fine.”

  “Okay then. I’ll see you at Mama’s.” An awkward moment later, Daisy asked, “You’re not a serial killer, are you?”

  His brows jumped, then he smiled. “Not yet.”

  Max collected his mother, who was paying for three Royal Doulton figurines. Along with the cash, she handed Charity a business card.

  Daisy busied herself rearranging items into the bare spots while surreptitiously watching Max and his mother head toward a very new, very shiny, very expensive, very red Chevy truck with temporary cardboard plates. After putting the comics inside the cab and the clubs in the bed, he helped Maeve into the passenger seat, then went to the driver’s side. Daisy watched until the truck was gone from sight.

  Chapter Three

  “You’ve done good,” Charity said to Daisy three hours later when only a sprinkling of items remained. “I’m proud of you.”

  “If I’ve done so good, why do I feel so lousy?”

  Charity squeezed Daisy’s shoulders. “This too shall pass.”

  “And people give you money for this? Boy, am I in the wrong profession.”

  Charity ignored the sarcasm. “It’s almost four-thirty. I’ll take down the signs. Why don’t you get cleaned up for your date?”

  “Oh boy, my date.”

  “Stop! You’re acting like this is the worst thing that could happen to you.”

  “No. This is the second worst thing.”

  “A breakup is hardly the worst thing—”

  “I was talking about Fireflies.”

  “You’ll see—this is a blessing in disguise. Now make a ‘bad things’ list. Bunions. Allergies to chocolate. Getting eaten by a bear—”

  “Mangled by a tree chipper?”

  “Just imagine how nasty that would be. See how lucky you are? Now go get pretty.”

  An hour later, Daisy came down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Charity sat at the island with a calculator beside stacks of currency spread on the granite. Clustered on her other side were a plate of crackers, a half-eaten bowl of salmon pâté, and an opened bottle of Chardonnay next to a full goblet.