“Tell you what, Daisy,” Adam said when Daisy hadn’t answered. “If you decide to grace me with your presence at dinner, I’ll be waiting in the lounge at”—Adam slid back his jacket sleeve for a consult with a watch that looked like a Rolex—“eighteen hundred. In the meantime, why don’t I escort you safely back to your cabin. Unless you prefer standing in the rain.”
Soot-colored clouds were assembling like an invading army. On her cheeks, Daisy felt the beginning pricks of their cold, wet assault. She started to shiver. “I guess it would be stupid to stay here.”
Adam offered his cocked elbow. “You have to let go of the rail.”
Daisy glanced at her frigid hands, still throttling the teak. “You never know when the next wave will hit.”
“I guarantee smooth sailing.”
She looked skeptical.
“If not, I know where the lifeboats are. I’m a veritable cornucopia of information, and someone you otter know.”
Daisy smiled. If only Charity could see her now—cold and shivering but moving on, taking risks, letting go . . . as soon as she could unclench her frozen fingers. Maybe Charity had been right. Maybe Max Kendall—however much she never wanted to think about him again—had actually done her a favor. No date could ever be as disastrous as that encounter.
“Go ahead, ask me anything,” Adam said.
“There is something I’m curious about. The initials in front of the ship’s name, Columbia. What does the M/V stand for?”
“And here I thought you’d be asking about the lost gold.”
“The lost gold?” Her eyes opened into saucers before she realized the joke. “Okay, I’m gullible.”
“Better gullible than jaded,” Adam said. “And the M/V stands for maritime vessel. Now may I escort you inside?”
Chapter Seven
Daisy woke in the dark, disoriented; she had to think where she was. When she started to rise, the cabin swirled and she fell back into bed. Was she seasick?
The Inside Passage had been unusually rough last night; she felt every subtle vibration, every infinitesimal thrust and retreat of the ship as it fought the waves. But the bottle of wine she and Adam shared at dinner had been tranquilizing; her head barely hit the pillow before she was out like a light.
She dismissed the possibility of a hangover. Three glasses of wine spread over four hours would hardly put her under the table. No. It must be the sea; her inner ear simply wasn’t accustomed to constant rocking.
She took deep breaths and the dizziness subsided. She slowly rolled her head toward the bedside clock; the illuminated numbers glowed red: 4: 28.
The last she remembered knowing the time was about ten o’clock last night. She and Adam had finished their crème brûlées. Daisy went to the ladies’ room and while there, looked at her watch. She’d been surprised by how late it was. Time flies . . . When she returned to the table, they finished the wine. After that, her recollection was spotty.
She switched on the bedside lamp; soft light washed the soothing seafoam-green walls. Feeling steady, she eased out of the sheets and into her slippers. Without a single wobble—perhaps she had finally found her sea legs—she walked the short distance to her window and parted the damask curtains.
Towering lights illuminated the dock, banishing the night as workers moved into and out of her sight, readying the ferry for its Alaskan journey. No wonder she was steady—they weren’t moving. A slight shudder and Daisy felt the engines come alive. Barely in her view, a line of cars started to advance. This must be Columbia’s first port, Prince Rupert in British Columbia.
Releasing the curtains, she turned toward her cabin. The best available, it was still small. On the lower deck were passengers without a cabin. She seemed to remember them from last night, rolling out their sleeping bags in the ship’s solarium—mostly the young and adventurous who didn’t mind sleeping among strangers or sharing communal bathrooms. Daisy shuddered at the thought. Besides, she had Elizabeth to think about. She couldn’t exactly cart her around and she wasn’t about to leave her unattended in the open where anybody could snatch her. And Daisy wasn’t good at roughing it. This cabin was about as rough as she cared to get. As it was, she had brought her own sheets and pillow for the bed, thanks to a television exposé about hotel sheets and body fluids that didn’t come out in the laundry.
Yet, here she was on a slow boat—“Boat, ship, whatever!” Daisy grumbled—heading to Otter Bite and the Wild Man Lodge. The idea of being executive chef at Wild Man hadn’t sounded so bad when it was just something she was going to do. But now that she was actually doing it . . .
Trying to bolster hope, Daisy retrieved the manila envelope from her suitcase, spread open on the compact couch. Inside the envelope was everything she knew about Wild Man Lodge: the PR brochure, a copy of the menu, photos off the website, and correspondence from Rita Jakolof, including the letter offering Daisy the job and the agreed-upon salary.
Rita had come to Seattle to interview Daisy, as well as three other applicants. All men, Rita had confided, intimating that Daisy’s gender gave her the advantage—although she heard Rita mumble something about catching hell. Apparently in Otter Bite women were at a premium, and Rita was starved for female friendship. Nor did it hurt that Rita couldn’t get enough of Daisy’s cooking, being particularly enamored of her mango chutney on salmon. One thing could be said about Rita, she was a robust eater. Four hors d’oeuvres, two salads, one soup, three entrées, and four desserts later, she had found her chef.
An Otter Bite native who could trace her fraternal roots back to the Russian settlers of the 1800s and her maternal roots back to the Alutiiq people a thousand years before that, Rita was the lodge manager and a Jill-of-all trades handling a plethora of duties including supervision of the kitchen and housecleaning staffs. With long raven-black hair, luminous brown eyes and latte skin, she might’ve been plucked from the pages of a Zane Grey novel, except of course for the designer jeans and tight sweater accentuating her voluptuous figure. Rita was as easygoing as Daisy was tightly wound, seemingly unconcerned that the lodge was fully booked for the season and had no chef. Nor did she care about Daisy’s impressive credentials—
“The royal what?” Rita had asked when Daisy rattled off her membership in the Royal Academy of Chefs. “And all they give you is a spoon? Doesn’t seem worth belonging.”
Nor did the reason behind Daisy’s job search faze her; Daisy hadn’t cared enough to gloss over it. In fact, her problems with Jason seemed to be a plus.
“Grandmother poisoned Grandfather once,” Rita had said. “She found him messin’ with Kitty Shelikov. Wasn’t lookin’ to kill him. Just wanted to give him something to think about.”
Rita Jakolof was immensely likeable.
Perusing the brochure, Daisy wished now that she’d asked more questions; for instance, who was this M. K. Endall listed as owner/pilot, and what was he like? Wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, the man was but a small part of the photo, which was consumed by an old floatplane looking glued together and bearing the faded words Wil Man odge on its fuselage. A website photo had him holding a fishing pole on the deck of a small barge that looked like it had been resurrected from the ocean bottom. But Daisy hadn’t asked that question or all the others now filling her head because she hadn’t actually expected to take the job. She’d sent in her résumé between Thanksgiving and Christmas, when she was at her most depressed and the prospect of getting out of Seattle seemed like a godsend. Two months passed. Two months of unreturned phone calls and no job offers. She had forgotten about Wild Man, and then Rita called. The day of her cooking interview, Daisy had received two rejections from restaurants in San Francisco. In a panic, she’d accepted the job at Wild Man, grateful for someplace to go and relieved to be wanted. The questions never materialized. At least the salary was generous—surprisingly generous, given the dilapidated look of the lodge—and it came with room and board, although she dreaded what that might entail, since that was another q
uestion she hadn’t asked.
Daisy could’ve stayed in Seattle, if she didn’t mind being the cook at Adam’s Ribs for $11.75 an hour. Yes, she had actually gone to the interview—something she’d told no one, not even Charity. That’s when she knew she was desperate. And desperation makes a person do crazy things. There was no way she could suck in her pride and work for Adam’s Ribs or the Lobster Shack—she had answered that ad, too—or any other establishment that offered bibs and takeout.
But Wild Man Lodge at least sounded intriguing, and her friends applauded her adventurous spirit; some even commented that they wished they had the courage for such a daring move.
If only they knew, Daisy silently lamented, returning the envelope to her suitcase.
Her lawsuit against Jason had cut her savings in half. She made money on the sale of her house, but she had to pay for the china she’d broken or have her misdeed become a police record. Fortunately she hadn’t destroyed all the dishes or her restitution would’ve been four times what it was. Then there were the damages at Mama Mia’s. And now Max Kendall wanted $25,000.
If she had left her job at Fireflies without a fuss, she’d have all that money plus the $50,000 Jason had offered as severance—if she had signed a “non-comp” agreement. She might even have her own restaurant instead of working for someone else—again. But her pride wouldn’t let her be dumped like dishwater. Not after ten years.
Maybe, hopefully, Charity was right. Maybe, in a few months, memories would fade and Daisy would no longer be the pariah she seemed to be now.
Besides, she had a plan. She would put Wild Man Lodge on the culinary map, just like she’d done for Fireflies. That kind of recognition would surely get her back in the good graces of the Seattle restaurant establishment, not to mention the Royal Academy of Chefs. Sure, she was being punished now, but when it came to filling dining rooms, people wanted talent. When it came to food, Daisy had talent. She would get her Golden Spoon back!
Not that it was going to be easy, adding stars to a restaurant that actually had fish’n’chips on its menu, but the alternative was permanent exile in Otter Bite . . .
Daisy shook off that nightmarish thought. Even in the wilderness, she was a chef to be reckoned with!
Feeling much better, she exchanged her oversized sleep shirt for comfy sweats, intending a few laps around the deck. This early it would be quiet and the poor schmucks without a cabin would be hunkered into their sleeping bags.
“I’m going for a walk, Elizabeth,” Daisy said, tying her shoelaces. “I won’t be gone long.” She searched the cabin for her key, but had no luck. She stopped and thought, trying to retrieve her memory like a file from a crashed hard drive.
Adam. He had used her key to unlock the cabin door, then his lips brushed hers—true to his word, Dr. Bricker was mostly a gentleman; afterward, he gently steered Daisy into her cabin.
Surely not. Racing the few steps to the door, she swung it open and looked down at the knob. Her key was still in the lock, its pendant with her cabin number hanging from the key chain.
“Oh my God,” Daisy groaned, thankful someone hadn’t come along and taken it . . . or worse. How lucky was that?
Lucky. With key in hand, she paused. She had been lucky. Not an experience she’d had lately. But last night with her handsome doctor she’d felt really lucky. Lucky that the evening ended with a kiss and not a lawsuit.
It seemed like forever since she’d had blessings to count, but maybe her rough seas had finally given way to smooth sailing.
It was breezier on deck than Daisy had expected and crisper, too, but it felt great to be out of her cabin and walking in the early morning salt air. Deck lights blended with the fading dark; it was hard to distinguish where one began and the other ended. Voices reached her from the dock below, mingling with the shrieks of seagulls floating on invisible winds, chasing the fleeing night. The rhythmic slap-slap-slap of a jogger came toward her then faded behind, a nod of greeting exchanged as he passed. Skirting the occasional puddle, along with the occasional stalwart passenger cocooned in a lounge chair, Daisy stopped at the forward observation deck, outside the solarium with its glass walls. She looked east toward the city of Prince Rupert and the pink and golden glow rising off the horizon; she watched until the sun crowned, birthing a new day. Continuing her walk, she rounded the corner to the starboard side, where a blast of wind flailed her curls about her face.
“Oh, maaaan!” Blinded, she pushed into the glass door of the solarium and cleared the hair from her face. In climate controlled comfort, she headed toward the heart of the ship, her eyes drifting over sleeping bodies, each claiming a small piece of the solarium like a squatter.
Something familiar snagged her gaze. She stopped and cocked her head, fighting the urge to run. Craning her neck, she focused on the snoozing bundle only a few lounge chairs from where she stood glued to the speckled teal carpet. Pushing out the side of the unzipped sleeping bag was a socked foot. The attached leg seemed to be wrapped in a hard plastic brace or splint with Velcro fasteners, but the sleeping bag prevented Daisy from seeing above the calf.
She jumped at the sudden rattle of dishes and the accompanying raft of voices from the awakening cafeteria. Daisy was tempted to go with her first urge and flee, but curiosity forced one step, then another.
Inch by painstaking inch, Daisy crept between empty loungers and sleeping passengers toward the object of her dread. As she closed the gap, her heart leapt into her throat.
She stopped short of the socked foot. Her gaze traveled the length of the bundle and rested on the face at the other end. Stubbled, just like the first time she’d seen it. And, yes, still pleasing—as if that mattered—in spite of the discontented furrow marring its brow. But near the hairline, above the temple and just tickling the forehead, was a healing wound she’d not seen before.
Or had she? She thought back to the brown stains on her cashmere sweater, the grimace on this same face, to the blood flowing over an anguished blue eye. It all belonged to the man looking most uncomfortable in the chaise before her.
Of all the places Max Kendall could be, of all the boats, what was he doing here, on hers? And why in the world hadn’t he booked a cabin? Probably too cheap, she figured, remembering their disastrous date and how Max insisted she finish her drink. If only they’d left when she wanted, she lamented yet again, before deciding this was not the time or place to be lamenting anything. She’d verified her fears and now she needed to get out of there, fast. If Max woke and saw her . . . well, she didn’t want to think about his reaction. The lawsuit hanging over her head said all that needed to be said about Max Kendall’s spite.
As if retreating from a snoozing bear, Daisy slowly backed her way to the next lounge chair and was starting to turn for the exit when the ship bellowed its departure. She froze as those around her woke. Her eyes locked on Max’s face, expecting at any second to meet his blue eyes . . .
But his eyelids stayed shut without so much as a flutter. Daisy stared, disbelieving her luck, before those moving around jolted her senses. Feeling their questioning gazes, she spun from the scene and headed quickly for the outside door.
Why did she look back?
Max scarcely believed his eyes. Was that his date from hell? He blinked and Daisy disappeared through the door, tassels of red hair streaming behind her. Impossible, he insisted, although he didn’t doubt for a moment that he’d just seen the woman who’d put him in this splint and given him a new scar and forced him into the cattle car of the observation deck. Of all the places she could be, of all the ships, what was Daisy doing here, on his?
He groaned from both the uncomfortable chaise and the unwelcome sighting; he reached into his shirt pocket to calm the small alarm clock vibrating against his chest. Freeing himself from the top portion of his sleeping bag, he plucked the foam plugs from his ears. Sounds of the morning came at him from all directions. The ship bellowed again and Max knew they would soon be leaving Prince Rupert. If he hurrie
d, he might get into the bathroom before the throngs made their morning pilgrimage.
Three more long nights he’d have to sleep—or rather toss and turn—in this lounge. Three more long days he’d have to go without a shower. And now he’d have to contend with that demented mop-top stalking him.
Why me? He raised his eyes toward heaven while his knee throbbed like hell.
It took two quivering hands for Daisy to unlock her cabin door. Breathing hard, she scrambled inside and immediately latched the door behind her as if she expected Max to be nipping at her heels. While her heart drummed, she tried to figure out what to do.
Four hours later, she was hungry and still no closer to a plan, but at least she’d forsaken her vigil by the door. Sensitive to every shimmy and surge of the ship, she lay on the bed, watching the passing sky through her window.
Her stomach yowled. She looked over to the bedside table at the jar of baby food she’d recently opened for Elizabeth. Beside it was a small can of minced dog food. Sitting up, she retrieved the spoon she’d used to mix the two and brought it to her mouth. Bits of Elizabeth’s breakfast remained on the stainless. She scrunched her eyes closed and swiped the spoon with her tongue.
“Uck-uck-uck-uck!” Gagging, she thrust her tongue from her mouth as she scrambled for the bathroom faucet.
“I can’t believe I did that,” Daisy said to the mirror. “Why don’t you people have room service?” Obviously, sharing Elizabeth’s food was not an option, nor was staying in her cabin. She’d have to go out. Soon. She’d simply have to keep an eye open for Max. There were over nine hundred passengers on the Columbia. Surely, the odds of bumping into Max again had to be slim, especially if she ate only in the dining room. Max Kendall was too chintzy to eat there. He was probably in the cafeteria robbing the condiment tray and making tomato soup by mixing ketchup and hot water.
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