“It’s not a big deal,” Max insisted. In a few more hours he’d be forever rid of Daisy and, hopefully, these unsettling feelings. “It was just unexpected. I never pictured you with a turtle named . . .”
“Elizabeth,” Daisy reminded him yet again with impatient emphasis. “So what did you picture me with?”
“I didn’t.”
“Really?” She sounded a little hurt. “I pictured you with lizards and snakes and frogs and—”
“All manner of reptile?”
Daisy twitched back. “Not only reptiles, but that was a clever comeback.” She smiled. “I pictured you—as a kid, I mean—with all sorts of animals. A real softie. Maybe because of what your mom said about that nest of baby birds you raised—”
Ah, yes, his mis-matchmaking mother.
“—Now I figure you have a dog.”
“Can we please order breakfast before it becomes lunch?” Max craned his neck in an exaggerated search for the waitress.
Daisy frowned. “A cat?”
“No and no.”
“I know you have something . . .”
Max pressed the table and leaned into her. “This is the annoying part I keep talking about. You don’t know when to quit.”
Daisy winced but was spared further response by the arrival of the waitress. Max ordered his usual plus a refill on his coffee while Daisy ordered strawberry crepes, orange juice, and hot water. The waitress scribbled down their choices, took their menus, and left, seemingly relieved.
It took a few moments, then Daisy looked at Max. “Y’ know what I just realized?”
“The mind boggles.”
“I just realized that I know practically nothing about you. And none of what I do know has come from your own disclosure.”
“Maybe that should tell you something.”
“It’s beginning to tell me a lot. Like maybe giving you the key to my cabin isn’t such a good idea.”
“I don’t recall confessions being part of the deal.” Actually, Max didn’t recall any of the deal, or even if there was one, but he was pretty sure confessions never came up. “And if you want confessions, then you can just keep your damn key.”
Softening, Daisy said, “I’m not asking for confessions. I just don’t see the harm in telling me a little bit about yourself, like”—she glanced at the Flying magazine beside his fork—“you’re a pilot. That’s not too personal, is it? As a matter of fact, it’s something we kind of have in common . . .”
As Daisy talked, his memory started to rewind. She had mentioned something about him flying, and recently, but what exactly had been said? And how had she known?
“Max? Hello?”
Max refocused on Daisy’s hand, waving like a metronome in front of him. “What?”
“Oh, never mind.” She dug into the front pocket of her jeans and slapped a key on the table. “Here’s your damn cabin key. That’s why I was late for breakfast. I picked up another key. Well, that and I stopped by the purser’s to see if, by some miracle, they’d found Myron Porter or my Lexus, but no such luck. Anyway, I thought you should have your own key so you can come and go as you please.”
Max looked at the key, then looked at Daisy.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He reached for the key.
“No, go ahead. You obviously have an opinion.”
Max wanted to ask why she’d gone to the trouble for a few hours’ inconvenience; why she didn’t simply give him her key when she left, but, looking at Daisy’s steeled expression—as if she was waiting for his criticism—said instead, “That was very thoughtful.”
Her steel melted. “Oh.”
The seconds ticked. The waitress arrived with Daisy’s orange juice and hot water, then poured coffee into Max’s cup. Daisy retrieved a tea bag from her purse and pushed it into the little pot of steaming water. It wasn’t long before spicy tendrils spun into the air around the table.
Max wondered if Daisy always carried her own tea—like his mother did—then berated himself for his curiosity. He didn’t care if Daisy always had a stash of tea. It was just another detail he didn’t need. He scrunched the sleeves of his sweater up his forearms and reached for his cup.
“That’s a nice sweater,” Daisy finally said, remembering it from the duffel bag. “What is that? Silk?”
Max reflexively looked down on the steel-blue, knobby weave his mother had bought him.
“No idea.”
“You obviously don’t do your own laundry.” Daisy poured tea from her pot into her cup. She looked up, then rolled her eyes at Max’s stony silence. “Oh, come on. Laundry? Don’t you think this privacy obsession of yours is bordering on the pathological?”
“I can see how you might think so, Ms. I’m an open book.”
“I’m not either an open book. There are lots of things you don’t know about me.”
“Like what?”
“Well, for starters—”
“Really?”
Daisy bunched her brows.
“You’re about to prove my point.” Then his words took on steam. “Do you realize that before I even knew your last name, I knew you were going through a messy breakup, that your fiancé cheated, you were moving, you’re a clean nut and a control freak, that you’re sentimental with high-end taste and that you’re a chef without a restaurant.” Max breathed and calmed his speech. “This is exactly why Myron Porter picked you. And the same reason your fiancé screwed you out of the restaurant.”
Daisy looked stunned.
“My point is, Daisy, that you’re too damn open and too damn honest and too damn trusting. And you expect everyone else to be like you and they’re not. I’m not.”
After a moment, Daisy shrugged as if Max’s speech was water off her back. “Well, maybe I should be a little more guarded. But it wouldn’t hurt if you were a little less guarded.”
“Then who would pay for breakfast?”
“Look,” she said. “I’m just going through a little bad luck. But this blip in my life hardly defines me. Before this nightmare, I was executive chef at a four-star restaurant. And I’ll be that again. I might even fall in love again. And while I won’t be quite so blind next time, I will never be so . . . so . . . afraid . . . that I can’t talk about laundry.”
“Nice speech. Try paying the check with it.”
Daisy considered whipping out her meal vouchers, but Max needed a dose of guilt. “Fine,” she said, snatching her purse where it hung from the chair back. She rooted inside and pulled out a notebook and pen. “Last night I had the scallops and a Coke”—she scribbled on her pad—“plus tip . . .”
“What are you doing?”
She glanced up. “Oh, and one cherry tomato for Elizabeth . . .”
“Daisy—”
Pen to paper. “And for breakfast I’m having the crepes and juice plus tip . . .”
“This isn’t necessary. We have a deal.”
“Surely they don’t charge for hot water . . .” She wrote something down anyway. “But I am not paying for lunch yesterday. You showed up on your own without any suggestion from me.”
“You still ate it,” Max teased. “And you took my lettuce.”
“I’ll pay for the lettuce.” She scribbled in the notebook. “Twenty-five cents?”
Max grinned. The lengths Daisy was willing to go to for a point! “I’m kidding. I will gladly sacrifice my lettuce for a twenty-something turtle. As for the rest of it—”
“I’ll pay you back,” she said, zipping up her purse.
“I don’t want you to pay me back.”
Daisy looked at Max with the most soul-baring eyes that had ever been cast his way.
“Do you think I like relying on you?” she began with honest emotion. “Do you think I’m having fun eating off your charity? I hate that you have to feed me and Elizabeth. I hate the situation that I’m in, and I hate that I let myself get in it. Although, I still think your lawsuit is a crock. But,” she continued before Max could com
ment, “I promised myself this morning that I would stop taking my problems out on you, so excuse me if I’m just trying to make a little lemonade from my lemons. I had no idea laundry held such a hotbed of emotion for you. And from now on, we won’t talk about anything even remotely personal and I will pay you back because the last person in the world I want to owe is you.” For a few more seconds her eyes blazed for emphasis, then Daisy primly attended to her tea.
Well, he might’ve had that coming, Max allowed, politely appearing not to notice Daisy’s trembling hands as she poured from her teapot. He was being kind of a prick this morning for reasons he didn’t completely understand. Not that he would admit that. No, this situation called for something light and witty. Some clever quip to break the tension. Thanks to the arrival of their breakfast, he had a moment’s reprieve to think about it. Daisy smiled her approval to the waitress, and after confirmation that nothing else was needed, the young woman happily moved on.
Max picked up his fork. “Bon appétit.” He inwardly cringed as the words cleared his mouth. Light and witty? More like dumb and dumber.
Daisy cocked her head at him. “Vraiment? Vous voulez jouter en français? Allons-y!” She waited, superiority sparking her eyes.
Of course, Daisy spoke French, Max realized too late. And while he should’ve been guarded about what was surely to come, he was instead oddly intrigued.
“Ahh. Vous ne comprenez pas,” she said sympathetically when Max offered no response other than a curious expression. “Vous ne parlez pas français. Vous êtes un imbécile ignorant.” She shook her head sadly. “Quel dommage.”
Yes, indeed, nothing made a woman’s lips more kissable than a little French, even when those same lips were calling him an ignorant fool.
“Aussi,” Daisy added coyly, when one dark brow inched up roguishly. “Aussi, vous êtes beau, charmant, et spirituel, mais désagréable, ergoteur, et difficile. Pourquoi?”
The seconds ticked as the words lingered, chipping away at his resolve. Then he shook off the spell. “You have me at a loss.”
Daisy smiled sweetly. “La plupart du temps.”
“Okay, you can stop now.”
Napkin in her lap, Daisy picked up her fork with a self-satisfied air.
Two bites of egg later... “So, where did you learn French?”
Daisy dabbed her lips with her napkin and looked at Max. “A little personal, don’t you think?” Back to her crepes.
His plate was almost clean before he tried again. “I do my own laundry.”
Daisy turned toward him. “Really?” As if their French interlude had never occurred.
“Well, most of it. I do send stuff to the dry cleaners.”
“You own clothes that need to be dry-cleaned?”
Max indignantly raised his brows. “Well, I do have a Sunday go-to-meetin’ suit.”
“You have a suit?”
“I have five suits, to be exact, plus a number of sport coats, and this is exactly why I don’t like talking about personal things. I tell you I do my own laundry and now you know how many suits I have. You have no limits.”
“You have five suits and sport coats? What do you do, Max? When you’re not moving trucks north.”
“Enough,” Max declared. “Max Kendall has left the building.”
“I studied French in high school and college,” Daisy began. “And then I spent two years in Paris at Le Cordon Bleu. In Seattle, I belong to a French-speaking lunch group. There’re five of us. Charity and me and three others who get together twice a month to practice our French. That’s where I met Charity, actually, over ten years ago.”
“How old are you?” Max asked, kicking himself afterward.
“Now that is personal.” But Daisy smiled as she said it.
“Forget I asked. Really. I mean it.”
“Thirty-five. I graduated high school at seventeen. And the rest adds up.”
Max mentally bowed to his mom’s intuition, then braced himself for Daisy’s inevitable next question, which, of course, he’d have to answer because she had answered his.
Instead, Daisy reached for her orange juice, draining the glass. “Well”—she glanced at her watch—“I guess I ought to get going. We should be docking in Ketchikan soon and I want to spend as much time on dry land as possible.” She scooted her chair away from the table. “I don’t suppose you’re getting off... ?”
“Walking around Ketchikan for three or four hours probably isn’t the best thing for my knee. But you’ll like the town and especially some of the shops—” Max stopped when his brain caught up with his mouth. “Sorry.”
“Actually, I can shop without spending a dime. Looking is almost as much fun as buying. And it’s not like I need anything.” She paused. “Actually, I need everything. So, are you going back to the cabin?”
“Naaah. I think I’ll sit here and finish my coffee, then maybe go up to the solarium.”
Daisy stood and Max politely followed suit. “Thanks for breakfast and I guess I’ll see you when I see you.”
It was one of those awkward moments where the best good-bye was less than obvious. Should he shake Daisy’s hand, peck her cheek, give her a hug or—
“Catch y’ later, Max.”
She left before Max had even gotten through his choices. He watched her maneuver through the restaurant until she was out the door and gone from view. Then he took his seat, regretting that he hadn’t done something to acknowledge their parting. At the very least, he should’ve insisted she take some money.
The ship bellowed its impending arrival in Ketchikan.
But it wasn’t too late. They hadn’t docked yet. Daisy would still be in the cabin. For Daisy’s sake, he should give her the kind of good-bye she would remember. The kind of good-bye that would take the edge off her lousy trip. The kind of good-bye—
“Excuse me, sir?” The waiter held out a small pink envelope; its perfumed scent sparked his imagination. “The lady asked me to give this to you.”
His spirits rising, Max took the envelope, was about to lift the flap when he realized the young man still stood by the table. He’d never paid out so much in tips, Max silently groused, handing the waiter a five.
Alone at the table, Max pulled the folded stationery from the envelope and got a dose of Chanel. He read the script, his spirits flagging by the final word.
He returned the note to its envelope and stuck it between the pages of his magazine.
Another soulful call to the passengers, and diners rose in concert. Soon the restaurant looked like a scene from a disaster flick. With Max as the lone survivor.
He relaxed into his chair, stretching his legs in front of him. He had a system. And it worked. So why rock the boat, make waves, go against the current? Why look for trouble, tempt Fate, spit into the wind?
Why fix something that ain’t broke?
“Are you done here?”
Completely and totally, he thought but answered the waitress with a simple yes.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“What else could I possibly need?”
The young woman curled an errant strand of hair behind her ear, then began collecting plates and silverware. “Apple strudel?”
Obviously, the waitress didn’t recognize a rhetorical question. “I’ll just take the check,” Max said.
“Be right back,” she said, her hands laden with dishes.
“And maybe,” he added before she completed her turn, “a very small piece of apple strudel.”
Daisy could not believe her lousy luck. In one hand, she held Max’s passport. In the other, the sealed manila envelope it was supposed to be in.
“This is what happens when you steal,” she chastised herself. “Remember that, Elizabeth,” she warned the turtle, who was plowing a corner of the cabin. Daisy put down the passport and envelope and crawled the short distance to Elizabeth. Lifting the turtle, Daisy looked into her trusting eyes, kissed her little turtle nose, then turned her one-eighty. Soon Eliza
beth was off and, not running, exactly, in another direction. If only Daisy had someone who could pluck her out of corners.
Obviously Max didn’t trust her, she thought, more indignant than the situation warranted. But what, exactly, did this sealed envelope mean? Did Max know his passport was missing—and she was the culprit? Was he now challenging her to put it back? Or had he only suspected Daisy’s snooping—overlooking the missing document—and thus sealed the envelope to prevent her further prying?
Whatever the scenario, Daisy couldn’t win. She had to return his passport. Somehow, some way, before they disembarked at Haines. He couldn’t get off the ferry—at any port—without it. And to think she’d suggested he might want to join her in Ketchikan. Of course, that was before she knew about the sealed envelope. Still, how lucky for her that he’d declined.
Luck certainly was fickle. One moment it was lousy, the next good. Back to her lousy luck and the sealed envelope.
Examining the seal, she wiggled her little finger into the tiny space between flap and envelope, but there was no way she could pry the flap free without ripping. She was pretty much stuck with no choice—confessing and begging for mercy. She shuddered at the distasteful image. Besides, knowing how Max guarded his privacy, she wasn’t sure of either his compassion or his forgiveness.
As her mind dwelled on her latest corner, she moved Elizabeth from her latest corner into the shower stall, where she left her with the first of her two cherry tomatoes. She looked at the remaining cherry tomato . . .
Another cherry tomato! That’s all she needed. Or, in this case, another envelope. It was so obvious, why hadn’t she thought of it sooner?
Her heart pounding with hope, she scrambled for her own suitcase, lying open on the sofa, and burrowed beneath her clothes for the manila envelope containing the information on Wild Man Lodge. And just that quickly, her hope was gone. Why must she label every damn thing?
She returned the envelope to its designated spot, then looked out the window. On the dock, half a dozen workers tended to the ferry’s arrival while a flock of seagulls watched from the pillars. A hodgepodge of tourists—from one of the cruise ships, no doubt—milled about the dock while local fishermen walked past.
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