“Knock-knock.”
Max looked up from Pete’s printed e-mail.
“Wow,” Daisy said, stepping into his office of wood, stone, and leather. “You got a lotta testosterone going on in here.”
Max nodded to the mug in Daisy’s hand. “Is that my coffee?”
“Campfire sludge.” Navigating between the plump twin leather chairs on the guest side of his expansive mahogany desk, she set the mug down near the sleek computer monitor. Her eyes traveled the length of the desk. “Aren’t you missing a mattress?”
Max leaned back in his buttery-soft cordovan chair and let Daisy get it out of her system. As she focused her attention on his office, Max brought the mug to his lips . . .
. . . and gagged with his first sip. Tears moistened his eyes as he stifled a cough. But he would not give Daisy the satisfaction she wanted.
“Jacques Cousteau called. He wants his fish back.” Daisy stared at seven impressive feet from tip to tale of a stuffed swordfish above the stone fireplace. Then, as if the thought just struck her, she turned to Max. “That’s not from around here.”
“It’s from Mexico.”
“I bet it was something to see when it was alive.”
He considered telling her that it wasn’t his catch when—
“I’m surprised there aren’t more dead animals on your walls.”
“I bet you are.”
Her brows tweaked together. “You spend a lot of time in Mexico?”
“Used to.”
“Anywhere in particular?”
Max paused at the sudden congeniality lacing their conversation. “Acapulco.”
“So your T-shirt is the real deal, huh?”
“The real deal?”
“Not just a week’s vacation.”
Suspicious of conversation that had no purpose, he asked, “Is there something you want?”
Daisy started to answer, then sighed. “How’s the coffee?”
“You could blacktop a road with it.”
“Then it’s to your satisfaction?”
“It’s horrible and you know it.”
The corners of her mouth lifted. “Y’ know, Max, we both want the same thing, maybe not for the same reasons, but Wild Man’s success works to everyone’s benefit.”
“But it’s at the definition of success where we part company. I don’t care what some magazine critic thinks about my lodge. I care what my clients think. I’m not in this for the spoons. I do this because I like it.”
“But why not have both?”
“I don’t want to be blinded by my own brilliance.”
Her brows arced. “Blinded by your own brilliance?”
“I have work, Daisy, and so do you.” He diverted his attention back to the stack of papers.
“Y’ know, Max, compromise is the cornerstone—”
He hammered the desk with his fist; Daisy winced.
“Enough! Go do your job and let me do mine.” He held out his coffee cup. “Take this tar with you and do it over!”
Mug in hand, Daisy left Max’s office in a sizzle.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“He’s an absolute jerk!”
In a comfy pair of sweats after a long day, Daisy paced the length of her cabin, stretching the telephone cord then releasing it to curl back into itself while she filled Charity in on the events, right down to the A-1 and the campfire sludge. This was the sixth time she’d called since arriving in Otter Bite yesterday.
“He’s inflexible and rigid and uncompromising and . . . and . . .” Her face puckered as she struggled for yet another unflattering descriptive. “. . . tyrannical. His way or the highway. He’s Otter Bite’s version of Attila the Hun!”
“Daisy, breathe,” Charity said. “And try to remember that this isn’t forever.”
Her best friend sounded distant. “It just seems forever.”
“I know it’s a challenge, but you can handle Max Kendall. A little charm, a little cunning, a little flirting, a little flattery. You might even get lucky—”
“Charity!”
“You admitted he was great in bed. And whether you like it or not, you’re hot for him. Might as well use it to your advantage. A little bit of nice goes a long way.”
“I can’t believe you’re suggesting I use sex to get what I want. What kind of feminist psychologist are you?”
“The kind who wants you and Elizabeth back in Seattle where you belong—”
Daisy glanced toward Elizabeth, making her way slowly across the living room rug.
“—And I’m talking subtlety and suggestion, not necessarily follow-through. It’s up to you how far you go.”
“So now you want me to be a tease? Whatever happened to an open and honest relationship?”
“That comes with vows.” Charity paused. “More or less. Up until then it’s all about making the right moves on the game board. You’ve got to use whatever power you have. Think like a man; act like a woman.”
Daisy mulled that over, glancing around her cabin as she did, and imagined how wonderful it would be to return home. With a fistful of 4-star reviews and a dozen job offers.
Then again, with the money she was making, coupled with her savings, she might be able to swing a down payment on a small café of her own. Then she wouldn’t need to kowtow to another man ever again. Too bad she had spent so much money on that lawsuit with Jason. She needed this salary; that meant staying in Otter Bite until the winter closing. Months and months of A-1, campfire sludge, and Max Kendall. If she thought her circumstances were bleak before . . .
“Not that I would consider it, but I doubt Max would come near a bed with me in it, real or imagined.”
“Yeah,” Charity agreed. “You have kind of dug yourself into a moral hole. Which is not to say you can’t dig yourself out. But it would be easier if you hadn’t already played your ace.”
“But, Charity, he was standing there looking all hunky and full of himself, denying we’d ever had a deal, and suggesting I was the one who had seduced him! And it absolutely galled me that he thought he’d gotten away with the blonde. I had to let him know I knew.”
“Y’ know, Daisy,” Charity said soothingly, “it’s really not the same situation as with Jason.”
“Close enough.”
“But there really might have been a misunderstanding.”
“Are you actually defending him?”
“Of course not. But there was no commitment.”
“He had her in my cabin, in my bed!”
“I’m merely saying that sometimes men are not very smart—”
“That’s your argument?”
“I’m not done,” Charity snapped.
Daisy rolled her eyes.
“And don’t roll your eyes.”
Daisy frowned at the phone. It was just plain eerie how well Charity knew her.
“Men are not very smart,” Charity repeated. “But they’re not necessarily malicious. They’re kind of like puppies—”
“Max Kendall is no puppy, believe you me.”
Daisy heard Charity’s long-distance huff. “The world to a puppy is like a new relationship to a man. It’s both frightening and exciting. They explore and test their limits and their boundaries, and they don’t always understand what’s expected of them or what dangers exist. Sometimes they pee in the house. But with firm and gentle guidance, a little patience and lots of love, they can grow into faithful, loving, and loyal companions . . . who are housebroken.”
A few seconds of silence, then Daisy said, “You may be right—”
“I’m the doctor.”
“—I should get a dog.”
“I wash my hands of you, Daisy Mae!”
“Do I need to remind you, Char, that I’m in this mess because I followed your advice in the first place?”
“What advice?”
“Have you forgotten my garage sale? You insisted Max was just what I needed. Had I followed my own instincts and not met Max at Mama’s that ni
ght, none of this would be happening.”
“Well, some of this would be happening.”
“But not like this!”
“But it might be happening different. It might be happening worse.”
“How could this be happening worse?”
Three raps on her door. Daisy stopped dead in her pacing and stared at the solid pine panel. “If that’s some old guy with a sickle—”
“What?” Charity asked.
Daisy glanced down at the mouthpiece. “Someone’s knocking at my door. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
The knocking repeated as she hung up the phone. She stepped over Elizabeth. Her heart picked up its pace as she turned the doorknob. . .
“Howdy, neighbor. I’m Ferris Fitzsimonds. But ever’one calls me Fitz.”
The surf spilled across the shore, frothy fingers sweeping and stretching, reaching for the knife-edged sea grasses, chasing the bent-winged seagulls shrieking into flight before dragging back, empty and exhausted, into the ocean, leaving the sand polished and glistening in the evening sun.
On a cliff above, caressed by a salty breeze, Max relaxed on his deck and watched the intercourse of sea and sand.
In another week, this tranquility would be a luxury. Soon Wild Man Lodge would feel like an ant farm, with guests wandering here and there, leaving footprints in the sand while their voices mingled discordantly with the chittering of eagles and the ocean waves.
There would be laughter and cigar smoke, snifters of brandy and late-night camaraderie beneath a midnight sun, then early mornings, misty and damp, giving way to crystal afternoons of diamond seas and salt air and sated evenings and sore muscles and aching backs—
Max tensed in his lounge chair. “When did I become such an old man?”
“Old man! Old man! ¡Hombre viejo! ¡Hombre viejo!”
With a grunt, Max trained his eyes on his teal-feathered companion. “Napoleon—”
“¿Dónde está la cocaína?”
“Napoleon,” he began again, this time smiling at the parrot.
“¡Policía! ¡Tiren sus armas!”
“Okay, okay,” Max cooed as Napoleon bobbed up and down on his perch, flapping his wings.
“¿Dónde está el dinero?”
Max pulled himself off his lounge chair, his knee throbbing from the sudden weight. “Let’s talk about something else, shall we?”
“Cocksucker!”
“Bad Napoleon,” Max said as the parrot grasped his fingers. “How many times have I told you not to say that word? I think we should fill your beak with a cracker.”
“Cracker! Cracker!”
“Good Napoleon.”
“Max is hot!” the parrot squawked as Max entered his house with Napoleon perched on his fingers.
“Yes, I am.”
Napoleon hopped onto the kitchen counter, then waddled across the smooth granite surface toward the cracker jar.
“Max loves Jackie!”
Max slowly shook his head. The women visiting his life couldn’t resist teaching his parrot that phrase or its reverse. And once a phrase was part of Napoleon’s vocabulary, it was absolutely futile trying to delete it. All he could do was encourage his next random phrase.
“Max loves Tina!”
Holding a cracker, Max looked sternly at Napoleon. “If Daisy hears you say that—”
Max frowned as Napoleon crunched the cracker. Why should he care what Daisy heard? Or saw? Or thought? Or did? Or anything else, for that matter? They were done with each other. Ended. Over. Terminado. Fini. Finito. Kansei shimashita. Finished. And moving on.
“If only Daisy would move on,” Max grumbled. Mango chutney. Rum and nutmeg. What next? Napkins folded like swans? Before he knew it, Daisy would have her silver spoons into everything. And everyone.
“Daisy loves Tina.”
“Oh man,” he said, realizing the mistake he’d made mentioning Daisy. He gave Napoleon another cracker and said, “Max loves Napoleon.”
“Max loves Daisy,” Napoleon said instead.
“Now that would be real trouble,” he mumbled. “Max loves Napoleon.”
“Max loves Napoleon!” the parrot repeated.
“Good Napoleon.” Max gave him another cracker as the phone rang.
Rita was on the other end, letting him know that Fitz had arrived, she’d sent him to his cabin, and she was off the clock.
Max liked Fitz. The kid was smart and had potential. If he didn’t self-destruct before he realized it. But people made their own choices and a person could do only so much to help another. Still, a little fear of God often went a long way.
Max gave Napoleon one more cracker then headed for the front door. Hand on the knob—
“Max loves Daisy!”
—Max groaned, then left the loud-beaked parrot behind.
“I like your picture,” Fitz said of the lone print.
In the Naugahyde chair opposite Fitz on the sofa, Daisy looked at Denali as if she hadn’t been sure what print. “Thanks. I got it in Anchorage.”
Ferris Fitzsimonds was a couple years younger than Daisy, originally from Montana, and had been kicking around Alaska for the last eight years, ever since he’d earned his commercial pilot’s license. He was the youngest of five boys, three of whom were still back in Montana working the family ranch—“I had t’ get outta there.” His youngest brother, Martin—Marty, for short—had died years back in a hunting accident on July Fourth. Fitz didn’t say it, but Daisy could tell that the loss lingered.
Ferris had been his grandfather’s name on his mother’s side and Fitz had given his share of black eyes because of it. Which explained his nickname Fitz. Apart from that, he had a shy smile and an infectious twinkle in dark eyes on a sweet face that seemed incongruous with a five-o’clock shadow. Tall and lanky, he wore his Levi’s tight and his boots pointed and sported a well-cared-for silver buckle on his belt, won for bull riding ten years earlier.
“We called ’im the old man,” Fitz said, accepting his third refill of wine from the bottle he had brought. “’Cause he was older than most bulls on the circuit and ’cause he made old men out of us young’uns.”
There it was again, that shy smile. Daisy sipped from her first glass of salmonberry wine and smiled back.
It would’ve taken real effort not to like Fitz. The man was open and honest and self-effacing and, borrowing from Charity, puppy-like, although Daisy sensed something simmering beneath the twinkle and the smile. However, compared to Max Kendall and his suit of armor, Ferris Fitzsimonds was naked as a jaybird, his life an open book.
“Is that your turtle?” Fitz asked, oblivious to the obvious.
Without Daisy realizing it, Elizabeth had made a U-turn from the kitchen and returned to the living room.
“Her name’s Elizabeth.”
Fitz bent over and cocked his head at the turtle stretching her neck toward the cowboy. “Well, howdy, Elizabeth. Ain’t you a fine-looking gal.” He gently reached a finger toward her and touched her nose.
“Wow,” Daisy said, impressed that Elizabeth didn’t shrink into her shell. “She likes you.”
“Me and critters get along pretty good. It’s people I have problems with.”
“I don’t see that.”
Fitz shrugged. “Well, I suppose I’ve roped enough of your evening.” He downed the remaining wine in his glass. “Unless you need help unpacking.” He nodded toward the stack of unopened boxes that had arrived not too long before Fitz. “Seeing as how I made you dig in there to find these glasses.”
“That’s really sweet, but it won’t take long to unpack and I had to find these glasses eventually. Besides, you brought the wine.”
“I hope it was okay. I mean, I know you’re a fancy chef from Seattle and the Seldovia general store don’t carry that Don Perryman guy—”
Daisy kept a straight face.
“—and I’m pretty much a Wild Turkey man, so . . .”
“It was an excellent wine,” she embellished, picking up
the bottle. “I had no idea there were wineries in Alaska.” She studied the sketched label of a brown bear, a mountain, a kayaker and . . . a Russian Orthodox church? “Kodiak Island Winery . . . I’ll have to remember that.”
“They have blueberry and raspberry, too—”
A sudden flashback of Boone’s Farm and her senior prom.
“—but I thought you’d like something really Alaskan. Otter Bite has salmonberries, y’ know.”
“I do.” She cocked her head at Fitz. “You said you got this in Seldovia? Before you came here? But how did you know about me?”
Fitz grinned. “Shoot, Daisy, ever’one from Homer to Nanwalek knows about you.”
That was a bit unsettling.
“You’re big news. ’Course, anything that happens out the ordinary round here is big news. It’s local entertainment.” Fitz rose and maneuvered around the boxes to leave his glass in the sink. “But don’t worry about it,” he added, heading for the door. “Soon enough you’ll be as local as the yokels.”
That was a sobering thought. Daisy put down her wine on the coffee table and joined Fitz at the door. “Thanks for coming over. And for the wine. It was very thoughtful.”
“Well, I have to give my mama credit. It’s her advice I’m following—”
Wow, Daisy thought, a man who follows his mom’s advice. And isn’t embarrassed to say so.
“—If she told me once, she told me a hundred times. ‘Ferris, wherever you hang your hat, make nice with the cook.’”
Daisy’s smile was spontaneous—in spite of the cook reference—remaining even after Fitz had thanked her for her hospitality and made a beeline for his cabin. He waved to her at his front door and she waved back. After he disappeared into his cabin, she turned for her door but stopped short. Her boxes could wait. The evening called to her and since it was only—Daisy could scarcely believe her watch—nine o’clock, she answered.
Low in the sky, the sun had not yet dropped to the horizon, which meant she had time for a short walk before dusk. She grabbed a jacket, stepped off her porch, then made a one-eighty back inside to find her bear bells and king-sized pepper spray.
Spooning Daisy Page 20