“Chef,” Max corrected, looking stunned. “And I did not propose.”
“Then this is quite a misunderstanding.” She reached inside a cabinet for a mug.
“Exactly!” Max followed Rita back into the bright kitchen. “It’s a misunderstanding. A horrible misunderstanding.”
Rita helped herself to coffee. “The same kind of misunderstanding you two had in the woods last night?”
“That was just plain stupid.”
Rita stopped the mug at her lips—Is Max admitting he was wrong?—then she sipped the hot coffee. Taking a stool at the counter, she watched his thoughts through his changing expressions.
“From pepper spray to whipped cream in less than twelve hours. You should write a book.”
With a groan and a grimace, Max dragged fingers through his hair.
Rita softened. “Do you need to, uh, clean up?”
“I’m fine.”
So how do you suppose this misunderstanding happened?”
“No idea. One minute I was quoting Seneca—”
“Who?”
“Your grandmother.”
Her generous brows lifted.
“Fate leads the willing . . . ?”
“Daisy got a proposal out of that?”
“Actually, it pissed her off. And then I got pissed off that she got pissed off and then that damn parrot—”
“What name came up?”
“Tina.”
“Tina?”
“Max loves Tina!”
A twin glance at Napoleon. Max silenced him with additional sunflower seeds. “A year ago. The Alaska Air pilot? Had a tattoo of a winged horse on her shoulder?”
“Oh, right. I like Tina.”
“Daisy doesn’t.”
“Daisy knows Tina?”
“In a roundabout way.”
“And she knows that you know Tina?”
“It came up.”
“Small world. So then what happened?”
“It all came out in a rush. Sharing the newspaper. Her, me, us. Fish or cut bait—”
“Fish or cut bait? That’s some pretty heavy poetry. No wonder she said yes.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying this.” He swallowed coffee. “Obviously Daisy is in love and she’s hearing what she wants to hear.”
Rita stared at Max. “Poor, delusional Daisy.”
Max slowly shook his head. “I know.”
Rita pulled in her smile. “Did you say the L-word?”
Holding his mug near his mouth, Max frowned. “Does Napoleon count?”
“I wouldn’t think so. Especially after the mention of Tina.”
“Then no.”
“Hmm.”
“That’s it? Hmm?”
Rita shrugged and sipped her coffee.
“I guess you know this is all your fault,” Max said.
Her face pinched. “Me?”
“If you had been home last night—”
“You’re not the only one who has needs, Max. Although I prefer my whipped cream on actual waffles.”
“It was unexpected.”
“Like marriage?”
“You’re not helping.”
“I guess I just don’t believe in accidents or coincidence.”
“How ’bout mistakes?”
“Everything happens for a reason.”
Sometimes he wished he had that same unquestioning faith that had kept Rita hopeful in spite of a personal tragedy that would have drowned most mothers along with their sons. But Seneca notwithstanding, he always figured that even in the worst storm, people had rudders.
“Maybe subconsciously you really do want to marry Daisy.”
“Uh-huh . . . no,” Max said. “So how the hell do you tell a woman who thinks she’s getting married that she’s not?”
Rita held out her mug for a warm-up. “You don’t.”
“Are you nuts?”
Daisy held the phone away from her ear. Three thousand miles didn’t dampen Charity’s outrage one decibel. She waited for silence, then tried again.
“I’m not getting married. Max didn’t propose. But he thinks I think he did, so now he’ll have to break up with me, which makes me the injured party and gives me all the power. I’ve explained this once. Weren’t you listening?”
“Believe me, Daisy, I heard every word. From the pepper spray to the whipped cream. Nice, by the way. But you’re in very dangerous territory.”
Daisy scowled at the phone, then eased down to the kitchen floor and sat against the wall. “But you said—”
“I said you should try a little flirting, a little flattery, a little nice to soften Max up. I never said to marry him—”
“I’m not marrying him! I’m just giving him the taste of his own medicine. He scared the hell out of me last night. And now he knows what that feels like.”
“Are you sure that’s what’s happening? Are you sure you haven’t fallen for the man? Are you sure you don’t actually want to marry Max?”
“Are you kidding? I was engaged for ten years! I’m thinking I never wanted to be married at all.”
“I’m thinking you never wanted to marry Jason.”
“Good heavens, Charity, the last thing I need is to be married! What I really want is my restaurant and my spoon and this is just part of my plan to get my life back.”
“Interesting plan. But I’m not so sure Max will cooperate. He might really love you. And you said yes, Daisy. What if Max takes you up on that? What if he really did propose?”
“Please. Max and marriage are two words that will never again be in the same sentence. And Max loves himself more than he’ll ever love me. I’ll bet my Cuisinart that right now he’s conniving a way to break our engagement.”
Max’s blue eyes hardened on Rita. “So I should just order my tux now . . . ?”
Rita ignored the hard stare and sarcasm. “As much as I’d love to see you in a tux, you’d make Daisy miserable.”
“I would?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Uhhhh—”
“You’re not husband material.”
“I’m not?”
“Are you?”
“Women seem to think so.”
“That’s because they experience only a snippet of your life. And I just used today’s word,” Rita proudly added.
“Snippet?”
“They experience you at your best. You give them romance and attention and incredible sex—”
His eyes flinched.
“—It’s no wonder they think a lifetime of that would be great. But if they experienced the real you—”
“The real me?”
“You know. Selfish, self-centered, rigid, uncompromising . . . forgetful.”
“Forgetful?”
“My birthday was two days ago.”
“Okay, okay, I get the picture. Let me know what you want.”
“You need to paint that picture for Daisy,” Rita explained. “And she’ll be the one who breaks your engagement. But you can’t be obvious.”
“Obvious?”
“No blondes-in-the-bed kind of thing.”
Max remained conspicuously silent.
“In fact, I’d ask her to move in.”
“Move in?”
“A few weeks of day-in, day-out living, and Daisy will be over you before you can say I do.
Is that what he wanted? For Daisy to be over him? “Sounds risky.”
“As risky as . . . Acapulco?”
Max narrowed his eyes on her, wondering what she knew, how she knew, and who else knew.
Rita waved away his concern. “Your secrets are safe with me.”
Max relaxed . . . a little . . . and answered, “Different kind of risk.”
“And you’d rather have a gun to your head?”
“I’m not sure I don’t have one now.”
“Fine. Do it your way. March over to Daisy’s place and hit her with the truth. But put on some clothes first and don’t forget your knee thi
ngy. You’ll need all the sympathy you can get not to come off as a jerk. And one more thing . . . I assume you’ll never want to make waffles with her again.”
“Why?”
“Because after you tell her she’s an idiot for thinking you want to marry her, she’ll feel too humiliated to even think about waffles with you . . . ever again.”
Max visibly mulled that over.
“It’s certainly a good thing I put those ads in for a chef. We’re going to need one,” she reminded him. “But if you must know, I’m kinda relieved to be rid of her.”
“Yeah?”
“Ever since Daisy came into the picture, you’ve been a little moody.”
“Moody?”
“I’m not the only one who’s noticed it. Fitz said you were as surly as an old mule last night.”
“He did, did he?”
“He really felt sorry for Daisy. But then it all works to his advantage—you and Daisy being on the outs, I mean.”
Max drew back. “How so?”
“Duh. It leaves a clear path for him.”
“Fitz isn’t Daisy’s type.”
“That would explain the bottle of wine they shared at her place. Before she blasted you with pepper spray.”
“Daisy and Fitz? I don’t believe you.”
“Ask her. After you tell her you don’t want to marry her. Should be an interesting conversation.”
“Wait a minute . . .”
Rita looked at Max with big, brown, innocent eyes.
A gleam electrified his blue eyes. “I can’t believe I almost fell for this.”
Wider and more innocent. “What?”
“You can cut the act, RJ. I’m on to you and I’m on to Daisy.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“And while I might be able to—on some level—admire Daisy’s gamesmanship, you, Rita, are supposed to be on my side.”
“I am on your side, Max.”
“Then cut the crap and tell me what you really think.”
Rita dropped her eyes to her mug as if it might offer advice, then she looked up. “I like Daisy. More importantly, I think you like Daisy. A lot. And I think Daisy likes you. A lot. But I also think you and Daisy are about the stupidest people I’ve ever met. Each of you trying to want something different than you both want because it will ruin what you think you want and you’re both too damn obstinate to accept that what you really want is a lot better than what you think you want.”
“Don’t sugarcoat it, RJ.”
Rita pressed the counter. “I mean it, Max. Happiness doesn’t show up on your doorstep every day. Not like this. Not in Otter Bite. You’re lucky if it finds you once. And you keep slamming the door in its face. What’re you afraid of?”
Max twitched back at the unexpected question . . . at the unexpected answer. He ditched the sarcasm. “It’s not that simple.”
“It’s as simple as you make it.”
“Daisy has plans—”
“We all have plans . . . until something—or someone—changes them.”
Admiration softened his eyes as he thought about the heartbreaking changes Rita had endured. “You’re the one I should be with.”
“Oh, please. I wouldn’t have an old fool like you.”
A grin pierced his dark stubble. “Wise woman.”
“Yes, I am, but flattering me won’t win Daisy.”
His grin faded. “I’m not sure I want to win Daisy.”
“But you’re not sure you don’t.”
“She’s a lot of work.”
“Anything worth having usually is.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Geez, Max . . . you start with a conversation.”
“That’s how I got here in the first place. And look what happened. I lost money and golf clubs, and wrecked my knee.”
“Max—”
His palm shot up. “Some things are not meant to be. It’s best I throw in the towel now, before lightning strikes twice.” Shaking off his mixed metaphor, Max left Rita at the counter and headed for his bedroom.
“You’re making a mistake,” Rita called after him. “Difficulties are just a test of your resolve. Max? Are you listening?”
The discussion was over. Fifteen minutes later, groomed and determined, he was out the door.
Forty-five minutes later, tousled and vexed, he was back in.
Rita forked a mound of whipped cream onto a bite of waffle. “How’d it go?”
“Great.”
Rita put down her fork and watched Max drain the coffee pot into his mug. “Daisy wasn’t upset?”
“Noooo.” His spoon clinked the ceramic as he noisily stirred cream into his coffee. Then he took his mug and headed for his deck.
“Max?” She slid off her stool and followed him. Standing in the threshold, she spoke to his back as he stood at the rail in the mist and stared beyond the shore. “What happened?”
Max sipped his coffee and slowly shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe . . .“I’m an idiot.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Alone and unnoticed beneath a canopy of towering spruce, the last frozen patch of winter pooled into crystal drops of summer. Carpets of dogwood sprouted tiny white blossoms, scenting the shaded hills and valleys surrounding Otter Bite with their sweet fragrance. Crops of lupine, their spears of petals unfurling into a profusion of purple, basked in the long days of the short summer.
Like a spell lifted, Otter Bite shook off its winter hibernation, refreshed and renewed.
Dall lambs, under the watchful eyes of their moms, tested their coordination on the granite outcroppings as they plucked tender shoots from among the rocks. Leaving the ocean, schools of salmon fought against the current to fulfill their destiny in the shallow streams and creeks where life ended, then began anew. Riding the waves, awww-dorableotters, some with babies, floated belly-up among seaweed beds as eagles circled high above, their chittering banter carried on pristine wind, eyes keen for the king gasping its last breath.
Shrieking seagulls boldly hovered over the docks demanding halibut scraps from the fishing charters. Perched above a colorful FOURTH OF JULY banner, sassy ravens, sleek and shiny like black patent leather, greeted visitors to the festivities with clucks and caws.
The population of Otter Bite swelled to a thousand-plus as tourists milled about Main Street, visiting the docks, patronizing the mercantile and the general store, before savoring clam chowder at the Kachemak Kaffé or relaxing with a bottle of Alaskan Amber on the deck of the Lighthouse Inn, aflutter with tiny American flags. Hearty visitors hiked the hill to the historic Russian Orthodox church, its open doors an invitation to light a candle, say a prayer, and stuff a dollar into the vintage monk cookie jar.
Summer had settled in Otter Bite, bringing with it a nest egg for the long, cold winter ahead.
“Busier than a one-armed crabber,” Jen Owens happily answered Rita from behind the candy counter at the Otter Bite Mercantile. Rita barely had time to introduce Chef Daisy before Jen excused herself to help a tourist with a purchase.
“This is so cute,” Daisy said of the old-fashioned decor. It was her first visit to the store since she’d arrived in April. The lodge had kept her so occupied that her infrequent trips into town had been limited to quick stops at the general store or post office. Today, however, Rita had insisted that Daisy get out of her stainless steel cave and experience the lighter side of Otter Bite before they met the ferry.
Daisy turned from the candy counter that tempted her with fudge and truffles, and mingled with the shoppers. One young girl—maybe eight or nine—followed Daisy as she drifted from ceramic bowls and cups painted with forget-me-nots and fireweed, to displays of gold and silver charms of moose and bear and dogsleds. The little brunette stopped when Daisy stopped, and walked when Daisy walked, to tables of carved wood toys and a wall with Alaskan art prints. She watched Daisy slide hangers of T-shirts and night shirts, each silk-screened with Ott
er Bite’s namesake and slogan, Where you otter be . . . , then stood behind her as she perused books, books, and more books on anything imaginable about the Last Frontier.
Finally Daisy turned. “Can I help you?”
“Are you the Chef Daisy?” the girl asked.
Apparently the moniker Rita had chosen for Daisy was starting to stick. “I guess I am. And who are you?”
“Emily. Me and my dad live in Anchorage. We ate dinner at your restaurant last night. He’s been real sick and doesn’t eat much, but he ate all your chowder. I thought maybe I could get some to take home.”
Daisy glanced around the shop for a possible dad, then smiled at Emily. “I wish I could, sweetie, but . . .” Health regulations swam in her head. She knew them too well from researching how to bottle and sell her sauces. “Tell you what, Emily. Come to the restaurant tonight for dinner. The maître d’—”
Emily sucked her lower lip.
“—the person who greets you at the door and seats you,” Daisy explained. “He’ll be expecting you. Tell him your name, and you and your dad will be my guests. Then order anything you want and as much as you want and whatever you don’t eat, I’ll make sure it’s wrapped to take home.”
Emily beamed.
Daisy scanned the store again. “Where’s your dad?”
“He had to get batteries.”
At the general store, Daisy presumed.
“After here, we’re going to the church.”
“Emily.”
Emily turned toward the voice . . . and lit up. A man came toward them wearing a baseball cap. Attractive but thin, he bore a second-look resemblance to Daniel Craig’s brooding 007. His long-sleeved, blue T-shirt stated I SURVIVED CHEMO AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT.
Was that shirt his idea or, more likely, a gift from someone special? Judging by the pride in Emily’s gaze, Daisy had a pretty good idea who that special someone was.
When Emily’s dad introduced himself as Ian MacIntyre, Daisy faintly heard a rolling r. Then words tumbled out of Emily as she parroted Daisy’s dinner invitation. But Daisy couldn’t tell whether Ian was embarrassed or grateful.
“That’s very kind, but really we couldn’t.”
Emily, however, was clearly disappointed.
“It’s no big deal, Ian. We do this all the time.”
Spooning Daisy Page 24