Spooning Daisy

by Maggie McConnell

  Thinning forest gave way to thick, spring-green willows and budding salmonberry bushes, dappled with sun. At the end was Daisy’s new home.

  Constructed with spruce logs gleaming like honey, the triple-decker lodge stretched on either side of a tiered grand entrance ablaze with scarlet and salmon geraniums and soothed by an understated rock waterfall. The drive circled beneath a two-story overhang supported by massive totem posts while the carved hardwood double doors of the entrance could easily dwarf any member of the LA Lakers.

  Rustic elegance, Daisy thought; it reminded her of the luxurious celebrity lodges found in Aspen. After a short pause for Daisy’s awe—eyes wide and mouth gaping—Rita eased the Land Rover past the entrance, to the north and around back.

  Daisy turned to Rita. “When was the last time you updated your website?”

  Rita smiled. “Not what you expected?”

  “Not what anyone would expect. This isn’t even the same place.”

  “The cook’s cabin is around back,” Rita said.

  “Chef, actually.”

  “Sorry. I thought we’d get you settled and then we’ll go to the kitchen for a little lunch and afterward a tour.”

  “Great,” she said, barely able to contain her anticipation.

  The back of the lodge was no less impressive than the front, albeit more subdued. No totems, no grand doors, but manicured and tidy with an expansive deck, solid outdoor furniture, additional flowers, hummingbird feeders, and maintained walkways. Hummingbird feeders?

  “You get hummingbirds up here?” Daisy asked.

  “Sure. The guys like to sit out here and watch them.”

  Mulling that over, Daisy looked past the feeders. The view of Kachemak Bay and the distant Alaskan Range was inspirational. Each of the twenty guest bedrooms—ten to a wing—shared this same vista from their private balconies.

  Daisy smiled at the rustic sign pointing in the direction of the beach; even in summer the ocean never warmed above forty degrees, a temperature only polar bears and sea otters found inviting.

  “That path there goes to the hot tub,” Rita said, nodding to the next sign. “A word of warning. Some of our guests like to experience it au naturel.”

  Daisy mentally grimaced at a repeat image of big-bellied, middle-aged, wild man wannabes, now naked.

  “And don’t be surprised if they ask you to prepare their catch of the day, whatever that might be.”

  “Whatever that might be?”

  “The Japanese guests eat anything and everything. Octopus to seaweed. One time, Scully Jones rode his old horse, Buster, to the lodge, left him grazing outside for a couple minutes and when he got back, poor Buster was surrounded by a foursome with horse-chops on their minds.”

  Daisy didn’t believe—

  “Scully almost decked one of ’em. All because these guys have no boundaries when it comes to food.” Rita shook her head as if the incident still amazed her.

  “Every culture has traditional food.”

  “Horse is not a traditional Japanese food.”

  “No . . . but you eat whale blubber. I read it in my guidebook.”

  “Okay, first of all, I don’t eat muktuk. I’m Alutiiq. But if you lived in the Arctic where all you had was whales and snow, you’d make do, too.”

  Daisy turned to her surroundings, allowed a few seconds for the air to clear, and then said, “This is incredible, Rita.”

  “I know.” The drive veered away from the lodge and headed back into the trees. “This is where we live.”

  The drive widened into a parking lot; a dozen log cabins in the same honey-gold appeared among the trees with walking paths leading to them. Rita parked the Rover and cut the engine.

  The gravel disappeared into the woods. “Where does it go from here?”

  “The equipment and maintenance sheds are back there and the trash Dumpster and the greenhouses—that’s why we’ve got flowers in May and fresh vegetables—and farther on, the road swings back toward the cliffs and the boss’s house.”

  “Oh?”

  “But don’t go snooping. I made that mistake early on, and holy Jehovah!” Rita leaned into Daisy and spoke as if the trees had ears. “We’ll sneak a tour when the boss goes fishing for the day.”

  “Is that what you call him? The boss?” Bruce Springsteen came to mind.

  “That’s what he is.” Rita unlatched her door. “Let’s get you unloaded.”

  Rita’s cabin was on the first turnout off the main footpath; Daisy’s was the third. In between, Rita told her, was the cabin for the guide-slash-pilot. The year-round groundskeeper also had a cabin, as did Jasmine, the year-round masseuse. The rest of the cabins were for seasonal workers who came in late spring and left in the winter. Not that it really mattered since all the cabins were pretty much the same. Several local employees had homes in Otter Bite.

  “I thought the boss was the guide-slash-pilot,” Daisy said after a reflective moment. “Isn’t that what the brochure said?” Although . . . the brochure wasn’t exactly an accurate source of information. And now she was again wondering—

  “You’ve got to have more than one, especially now, with the boss out of commission.”

  “What do you mean?”

  With Daisy’s large soft-side in hand, Rita walked up the steps to the small wood porch and opened the door. “He had some freak accident a few weeks ago.” She stepped inside with Daisy close behind.

  Any follow-up to Rita’s disclosure was set on the back burner as Daisy checked out her new home. Setting down the suitcase, Rita opened the blinds on the two large windows, and the room awakened with natural light.

  “Living room, kitchen, dining room,” Rita said, pointing to the counter and the two stools separating the living room from the kitchen. “Bedroom and bath,” she added, her finger shooting from one darkened doorway to the next. “And furnace and hot water heater,” she noted, referring to the closed door on the other side of the bathroom.

  The air smelled of pine, which Daisy attributed to a recent cleaning. She set Elizabeth’s carrier down on the little blue squares of vinyl flooring. Without having to change directions, she considered the living room. Nubby beige sofa, Naugahyde recliner, pine coffee and side tables, sky-blue rug and ancient television. Pine paneling throughout shone as if freshly polished. Shifting her eyes, she took in the kitchen: U-shaped laminate countertops in speckled blue, pine cabinets, old microwave squeezed into one corner, beige refrigerator, beige stove, beige dishwasher, and stainless steel sink. Daisy quirked her head at an outdated beige wall phone, which hung above the far counter and sported a cord like a curled ribbon that dropped down to the floor.

  Picking up Daisy’s focus, Rita said, “Local calls are free, but you’ll be charged for long distance.”

  Who the hell would I be calling around here? Daisy wanted to ask. “I can use my cell.”

  “Coverage might be spotty unless you stand on the beach. But we have Internet. You can always e-mail.”

  Daisy took a fortifying breath. “This is . . . cute.”

  “A little smaller than your house, eh?”

  A little smaller? The whole cabin could fit into her living room and kitchen—with feet to spare. Heck, the kitchen alone was smaller than her master bath—without the Jacuzzi. But what had she expected? Actually, this was better than she had expected given the website and the outhouse-sized cabins it portrayed. What’s up with that website?

  “Yeah . . . but it really is cute,” she assured Rita. And herself as well.

  She passed Rita on her way to the bedroom. She flicked on the wall switch. The etched glass ceiling fixture shed light. Queen bed, twin pine nightstands, twin lamps with off-white linen shades, one with a slight stain—how does a stain get on a lampshade?—matching pine dresser, and a closet. Daylight leaked around the edges of long, beige drapes which hid the sliding glass door—she presumed—to the back deck.

  Rita peeked in. “You can dress it up.”

  “It’ll be a
cinch to clean.”

  “You don’t clean. Housekeeping does that once a week. Kind of a perk. And the lodge has washers and dryers you can use for your clothes. Or you can pay Evelyn—she’s the head—to do it. Personally, I like to do my own laundry.”

  “Great,” Daisy said, mustering enthusiasm. She took a couple of steps out of the bedroom and opened the coat closet—in the truest sense of the word. If she took the broom and dustpan out, she might have room for one coat.

  “Jerry—he’s head of maintenance—picks up trash on Monday and Thursday mornings. You have a bear-resistant receptacle around back. But don’t leave your trash there overnight. Take it out in the morning, on your way to the lodge. And if you have to get rid of trash any other day, call Jerry or just take it to the Dumpster yourself.”

  Daisy wondered where she’d store Elizabeth’s carrier.

  “I’ll bring in your boxes.”

  Another few steps and Daisy was in the bathroom. She flicked on the switch; four frosted vanity lights illuminated the room. She sighed. Thankfully she’d not be sharing the bathroom with anyone; it was going to be a tight fit with just her and Elizabeth. Leaning against the doorframe, she sagged, as if the events of the past month had finally caught up with her in this tiny bathroom and were heaped on her shoulders.

  Rita was already setting the second box on the kitchen counter when Daisy turned around. She made a feeble play to help, which Rita ignored.

  “Change is always tough,” Rita said. “Especially big change, and you haven’t exactly had an easy move. Give it a little time. Before you know it, this place will feel like home.”

  Daisy smiled, hoping to God that bathroom never felt like home. A few months. That’s all she had to endure. She’d put Wild Man on the epicurean map, reclaim her golden spoon, and then she could go home and live like a person and not a packrat.

  “Here’s your house key.” Rita set it on the counter. “But everyone knows everyone, so . . .”

  Daisy wasn’t sure if that meant she didn’t need to lock her door, shouldn’t lock her door, or that a locked door wouldn’t keep anyone out.

  “I’m going to my place. Come on over when you’re ready and we’ll walk to the lodge.”

  “Great,” Daisy gushed.

  Grinning as if she knew the score, Rita shut the door behind her.

  The first thing Daisy did was to take Elizabeth out of her carrier and let her stretch her short, stocky reptilian legs on the living room rug. She found scissors in a kitchen drawer, mingling with cheap cooking utensils, and slit open her boxes. Removing wads of crumpled newspaper, she set bottles and canisters of cleaning supplies on the counter and nabbed her rolls of drawer liners. Then she stopped, checked her watch, and changed course.

  Elizabeth had crossed the rug to the television stand and was now paddling at the wall as she slowly followed the molding toward the corner. Leaving Elizabeth to her adventure, Daisy grabbed her suitcase, foregoing the wheels, and carried the rotund soft-side to the bedroom; the bubble-wrapped Denali print had taken more room than expected.

  Heaving the case atop the mattress, she unzipped the top and pulled the print out from under a layer of clothing, setting it aside. Folding open the closet doors, she was greeted by a hodgepodge of hangers, some wire, some plastic, a few wood. A column of narrow shelves was to the right, a set of white sheets in one cubicle. On the top shelf, which spanned the length of the closet, was an iron and a small tabletop ironing board.

  “All the amenities.” Daisy turned and assessed her small bedroom with just enough room to maneuver. Most of her clothes were of the folded variety, but she hung up a fleece jacket and a classic navy dress and her robe. Three pairs of identical khaki chinos went on the wood hangers, with camp shirts over the shoulders. Everything, it appeared, could use a hot iron touch-up. But that would have to wait.

  She ferried her cosmetics case and shampoo into the bathroom, checked herself in the mirror, and discovered the dismayed expression Rita had undoubtedly noticed. Yes, her current situation was a bit of a plummet from her glory days, but she had only herself to blame—well, herself and Jason, that deceitful snake. Speaking of deceitful, she wondered how many more women Max had finagled into her sheets after her departure. She could imagine his face as he read her letter. The outrage, the incredulity. She almost wished she could’ve seen it, except, of course, she never wanted to see Max again. Which didn’t explain why he kept popping into her head with annoying frequency. And it didn’t help to know that Max was only a plane ride away in Anchorage. Not that she’d ever try to find him. It was just disconcerting that he was in the vicinity. Which reminded her to call her attorney. He’d been out of town when she’d called him from Anchorage and his paralegal had no updates. Further, he was surprised by Daisy’s news that Max had dropped his lawsuit. But at least that ridiculous pendulum no longer swung overhead. Max Kendall was finally and forever out of her life.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Daisy found Rita on the back deck of her cabin, relaxing in a patio chair, face to the sun with her eyes closed. It was clear from the hanging baskets of purple petunias and the beds of scarlet geraniums and the used barbecue grill and the tabby cat stretched in the sun that Rita was a permanent resident and not just summer help. Daisy already knew that, but the accoutrements drove home the point.

  “Your flowers are beautiful,” she said, standing in the spring shoots of grass.

  Rita dropped her face from the sun. “I can’t take credit. Freddie—the groundskeeper—takes care of them. All I have to do is bring them in at night until it gets a little warmer. I’m sure if you asked—”

  “No, no,” Daisy quickly said. “It’s not like I’ll have the spare time to enjoy them. Is this your cat?”

  “Samantha.”

  The unimpressed cat lifted her head and flicked her tail tip then returned to her nap.

  With lazy effort, Rita separated herself from her chair. “If you’re ready for lunch . . .”

  “Sure,” Daisy answered, although her tumbling stomach disagreed.

  Rita parked the Rover in back of the lodge and she and Daisy entered through the deck doors . . .

  . . . and stepped into the testosterone zone.

  Wee-ooh, wee-ooh . . .

  If a man’s home was his castle, the Wild Man Lodge was his kingdom. Wainscoted walls stretched twenty feet to the ceiling, where wrought iron chandeliers flickered with the illusion of candlelight. Gilt-framed paintings of bears and moose and mountains and sea—punctuated by an occasional sconce—hung against muted plaid wallpaper. Beneath Daisy’s feet, irregular slabs of gray slate defied destruction from the heaviest of footsteps.

  “Wow,” Daisy breathed, walking forward.

  “It’s something, isn’t it?” Rita said with obvious pride.

  It was definitely something. “Is the whole place like this?”

  “Pretty much. It ain’t called Wild Man for nothing.” Rita pointed out the stairs to the lower level—“We don’t call it a basement”—where the gym, swimming pool, and sauna were. Down the hall was the billiards room with a wide-screen television.

  “Twenty-four-seven sports,” Rita explained. A few steps later, she pointed out the bar; Daisy peeked inside the dimly lit room. More chandeliers, barrel chairs in leather, cherrywood wainscoting, and wallpaper with mountains, log cabins, and moose. A wide-screen television hung in one corner. A gleaming cherrywood bar, sparkling crystal hanging above it, spanned the width at one end with a dozen padded stools for its patrons. On the opposite wall, a massive stone fireplace anchored the floor and climbed to the ceiling. The room evoked Arthurian sensations, although Daisy was pretty sure none of Arthur’s knights sat around in padded chairs drinking from Waterford crystal and watching ESPN.

  Rita pointed out the entrance into the kitchen behind the bar, then she led Daisy across the hall and through an arched doorway into the dining room.

  Airier than the bar due to the wall of windows showcasing Kachemak Bay, t
he generous room still managed a masculine ambience with burgundy and forest-green striped wallpaper and butcher-block tables with overstuffed leather chairs.

  Fit for a king, Daisy thought, or at least for men who wished to be kings.

  Rita took her the length of the room, past the massive painting of Mt. McKinley—Denali now that Daisy was a local—and around a quick bend into the kitchen.

  “Holy-moly,” Daisy muttered, scarcely believing her eyes. From every direction, stainless steel winked and teased and tempted her. Whatever medieval fantasies Wild Man inspired, its kitchen was the new millennium.

  Rita took a stool at the butcher-block island as Daisy waltzed around the kitchen, caressing surfaces and exploring drawers and cabinets, looking like a kid at Christmas. Her fingers brushed gleaming pots and pans hanging like culinary wind chimes above the griddles and gas burners. Her eyes danced across the black knife handles protruding from wood scabbards. She nearly hugged the refrigerator, barely containing her ecstasy over the hulking appliance. Her expression as bright as the silver surrounding her, Daisy turned toward Rita. “It’s absolutely fabulous. And so clean.”

  “How ’bout we eat?” Rita suggested, lacking Daisy’s predilection for metal.

  “Let me.” Simultaneously opening the refrigerator’s double doors, Daisy audibly sighed at the vast interior. After a string of similar reflective pauses—at the razor sharpness of the knife blade, at the walk-in cooler, at the half-dozen bread-makers—Daisy and Rita were finally sitting together at the island enjoying turkey sandwiches with lodge-grown lettuce and freshly baked bread. And drinking diet sodas out of Waterford tumblers.

  “So . . . ,” Rita began after finishing the first half of her sandwich. “You like the kitchen?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Daisy nodded, her mouth full. She followed up a swallow with soda, then dabbed her lips with a paper towel. “It’s fabulous.”