Spooning Daisy

by Maggie McConnell

  He looked skeptical.

  “But in return, could you do me a favor? Emily says you two are going to the church.” The young girl nodded enthusiastically, so Daisy addressed her. “If I give you a dollar, will you put it in the cookie jar and light a candle for me?”

  “I think we can spring for the dollar,” Ian said.

  Daisy smiled at his lyrical r’s; Ian’s Scottish roots were close to the surface. He carried himself confidently, although he seemed reserved, cautious even. Probably a transplant, Ian might be connected to Alaska’s multibillion-dollar oil industry. Or an agent with MI6.

  “What should I pray for?” Emily’s eyes radiated faith.

  Daisy didn’t believe her problems merited divine intervention—not like Ian’s—but she wasn’t about to rain on Emily’s parade. “Well, Emily, when I was little, my grandmother told me to pray however the Spirit moved me.”

  Emily sucked her lower lip.

  “It means, you’ll know what to pray for when you get there.”

  “What was that all about?” Rita asked, joining Daisy after father and daughter had left the mercantile.

  “Just two adoring fans of my halibut chowder.”

  “Don’t let it go to your cranium.”

  Daisy stared at Rita—was cranium today’s word?—then laughed. “Not with you around.” But come to think about it, she had been receiving more than the usual number of accolades on her chowder lately. Could it be the new ingredient?

  “Are you about done?”

  “I want to look at cards.”

  “No one sends cards anymore.”

  Ignoring Rita, Daisy perused the turnstile display. With all the e-cards available, was Rita right? Would traditional cards become extinct? She lifted a belated birthday greeting—I missed your birthday and I feel so empty—then read the message inside—Any cake left? Giggling, she slipped it back in its slot. Her eyes cascaded down the turnstile when another card caught her attention.

  I love you more today than yesterday . . . She opened the card. Yesterday, you really pissed me off.

  Chuckling, she chose another. I have one simple rule when it comes to loving someone . . . it has to be you. Daisy sighed, held the card a little longer, then put it back.

  Rita came up from behind. “Are you getting anything?” She stuck her hand into a plump paper bag of gourmet jelly beans.

  Daisy put on a smile. “I suppose I otter get something.” To support the locals.

  “Want some?”

  Daisy filled her mouth with the sugary flavor of watermelon. She bought a quarter pound of marble fudge and offered Rita a piece. Taking a chunk for herself, Daisy put the bag containing the rest in her jacket pocket.

  “The ferry is probably here by now,” Rita said, before biting into the rich confection. Pulling open the door, she waited for a group of chatting tourists to make their way inside.

  Daisy jerked to a stop on the covered porch. “Is that a—”

  “Buster,” Rita answered.

  Big and brown, with his ears laid back and nose in the air as he nibbled on the red geraniums cascading off the mercantile’s hanging baskets, the horse almost looked like a moose.

  Rita clapped her hands to scare Buster away from the flowers. “He’s going to be glue if Jen catches him eating her geraniums.”

  Buster stopped snacking but looked beseechingly at the two women. Rita stepped off the porch onto the ground and dipped a hand into her bag of jelly beans, then offered her palm to him.

  “Is it okay for a horse to eat candy?” Daisy asked.

  “It’s only sugar.”

  “Can I try?”

  Rita poured a few jelly beans into Daisy’s palm; Daisy reached her hand toward Buster. His lips were as soft and nimble as fingers. Daisy beamed; she’d never been this close to a horse. Stroking Buster’s face, she looked into his big, luminous eyes.

  “We’ve gotta go,” Rita said, patting Buster’s neck and warning him to eat someplace else.

  Daisy looked across the street at FLuke Eleven-Nine; customers were jammed up at the door trying to enter. “Can we stop at FLuke’s?”

  “No time.”

  As they left the mercantile, Daisy glanced back. Buster was reaching for a geranium.

  “It’s just like Brigadoon,” Daisy said as the two women walked toward the docks.

  “Like what?” Rita weaved around a slow-moving couple.

  Daisy scampered to keep up, leaping a puddle from last night’s rain. “Brigadoon.”

  “Is that a town in Washington?” Rita hailed a group of locals outside of the Lighthouse. Fitz was among them, his hand wrapped around a beer, his cowboy hat tipped back in friendly fashion, his boyish face one big smile. He called after the pair, but Rita shot back with, “Why are you drinking?”

  “Not flying today.”

  Rita stopped. “Is Scully with you?”

  “Inside. Hittin’ on Mavis.”

  “Tell ’im Buster is at the mercantile eating Jen’s geraniums.”

  “Come sit a spell. I’m buyin’.”

  Rita started walking. “No time. Just tell Scully.”

  In the adjacent parking lot, volunteers assembled booths for tomorrow’s Fourth of July carnival. Games, native crafts, and jewelry, as well as food, would all be represented, including two hundred rhubarb tarts from Daisy’s kitchen. The Bay City Trollers, a band from Homer, would provide the music.

  “So where’d you say Lornadoon was?”

  “Brig-adoon. In Scotland actually, or at least in the movie.”

  “I’m not following.” Rita had her eyes on their destination, her Mudruckers splashing a puddle.

  “Brigadoon is a place unaffected by time, y’ know, pristine and idyllic—”

  Rita glanced at Daisy. “And that’s how you see Otter Bite?”

  “Well, in the movie—”

  Another glance. “There’s a movie about Otter Bite?”

  “No. There’s a nineteen fifties movie called Brigadoon starring Gene Kelly and Van Johnson—”

  “Van who?”

  “Johnson. Really nice-looking. My mom had a crush on him. I bought the DVD for her a few years ago. Of course, he’s dead now.”

  Rita led the way down the long ramp toward the docks. “I don’t get the connection.”

  The tide was out, the ramp was steep, and Daisy grabbed the rail. “In the movie, Brigadoon only wakes up every hundred years, but to the locals, it’s like the next day. And Van Johnson and Gene Kelly stumble into the village the day it awakens and Gene falls in love with Cyd Charisse.”

  “This is a movie about gays?”

  It took her a moment. “Cyd Charisse is a woman. One of the locals. But if she leaves Brigadoon, the magic is broken and the village disappears forever. And if Gene Kelly stays, he can’t ever go back to his big city life.”

  Off the ramp and onto the dock. “This sounds like one weird movie, Daisy.”

  Daisy followed Rita along the narrow boardwalk. “Yeah.”

  Engines idling, the small ferry was gliding toward the dock. Rita hailed a deck hand, who tossed her a bowline. She pulled the line taut and the Kachemak Princess gently bumped the landing.

  Minutes later, passengers spilled from the boat onto the boardwalk. Hanging back and out of foot traffic, Daisy scanned the crowd for the Wild Man wannabes. Not the family of five, nor the gray-haired foursome. And for sure it wasn’t the young couple whose eyes kept darting back to each other as if magnetized. A trio of middle-aged men with duffel bags and fishing poles looked promising, but Rita let them pass. More families, more couples, a congenial group of thirty-something women who made Daisy really miss Charity, and then a pair of flannel-shirted, all-American men—father and son?—veered toward Rita as the remaining passengers headed toward solid ground.

  A hug for Rita from the older, distinguished man, a handshake from the younger, and Daisy knew they’d found their wild men.

  Rita waved Daisy over. Going against the current of passe
ngers, Daisy joined them.

  “This is Commander Knife Newton. Chef Daisy is our four-star chef.”

  “Call me Pete,” the former commander corrected. “No one calls me Knife except at reunions. This is my son-in-law, Dylan James.”

  Handshakes all around and the four trekked down the dock, up the ramp, and across the dirt lot to the parked Land Rover, splattered with mud. When all the bags were loaded, Rita excused herself for a quick jog to the post office, leaving Daisy with the pair in the parking lot.

  “Would that be navy?” Daisy asked about his title, shielding her eyes from the sun.

  “Thirty years,” Pete answered. “Annapolis into flight school. Great life except for the separations from family. My wife gets all the credit for keeping it together.”

  With an answer like that, Pete was instantly likeable.

  “But you’re making it up to her now,” Dylan remarked. He looked at Daisy. “My father-in-law owns a very successful construction company.”

  “We do okay,” Pete said. “Personally I think Clutch is the real success. How can you beat this life?” His gaze swept the sheltered waters of Sedna Bay, then lingered on Kachemak Bay and the distant mountains.

  “Clutch?”

  Looking at Daisy, his pale blue eyes sparked with mischief. “Max to you.”

  “Interesting nickname.”

  “Actually it was his call sign in the navy. He always came through . . .”

  In the clutch, Daisy silently finished. “So you’ve known Max a while.”

  Before Pete could get past a grin, Dylan warned, “Don’t get Dad started. He’s got more Clutch Kendall stories than Alaska has salmon. And he’s not shy about telling them. It was worth the trip just to meet the man.”

  “So you haven’t met Max?”

  “This is my first visit. But I’ve certainly heard about him. Sometimes I think Pete got the wrong son-in-law.”

  Pete laughed and roughed the blond hair on Dylan’s head. “Ellen married wisely and we both know it.”

  It was just friendly ribbing, Daisy knew, and Dylan obviously thought the world of his father-in-law. Gears ground to a halt. “Is Ellen your daughter?”

  “Our youngest,” Pete answered. “And only girl. Our little rebel. There were times—”

  “Dad.”

  Daisy recognized the warning. Some topics were off-limits to strangers. But she’d gotten all the information she needed—for now. Pete was an old navy buddy with a daughter named Ellen. Coincidence? Or the opening line of a true story?

  “So, Daisy, a four-star chef, huh?” Dylan asked, obviously eager to shine the spotlight elsewhere. “How did Max find you?”

  “Actually . . .” She paused. “At a garage sale.”

  Pete and Dylan shared a glance.

  “But the official version is, I had a restaurant in Seattle. Was engaged to the owner. Was un-engaged to the owner. Otter Bite seemed like a good place to regroup.”

  “Out here, a good-looking gal like you must beat ’em off with a stick.”

  “Dad.” Dylan shook his head, looking embarrassed.

  “You know what they say,” she said, preferring not to disclose that no one, save for Max, had paid her much attention. And even that had gone to seed. “The odds are good, but the goods are odd.”

  By the time the laughter faded, Rita had returned, a stack of mail in the crook of her arm. Saying nothing, Rita handed Daisy a certified letter. “Anyone need anything from town?” she asked, herding her charges into the SUV. “Then let’s roll.”

  The drive seemed long with an unopened letter from her attorney in her lap, but Daisy assumed it expressed the tying of loose ends. She’d known for weeks—after she’d pried into his duffel bag and found the correspondence from his lawyer—that Max had dropped his lawsuit. Her letter was probably official notification of that discovery. Probably a final bill. Probably a mention of his unreturned phone calls. Three, to be exact, in the last two weeks. But her days had been hectic and by the time she could get to a phone for a private conversation, Seattle business hours were long over. She’d have more time to put this to bed after the July Fourth celebration. After the barbecue. After the fireworks. After the two hundred rhubarb tarts. And then, this outrageous ordeal would be behind her.

  Except, of course, for one little thing.

  Somehow she’d have to muster up her courage and swallow her pride and thank Max for finally being reasonable. She’d have to manage a smattering of gratitude for something that wasn’t her fault to begin with! She’d have to praise his generosity in ending something he had started. And she’d have to do it with sincerity . . . and less anger than was churning her stomach right now.

  For such a little thing, it would take huge effort. Especially in light of their last encounter. Eight weeks gone and she was still at the lodge and in her cabin, like a CD on continuous play. Truth is, she hadn’t expected him to be so concerned, hadn’t expected kindness in his crystal-blue eyes or warmth in his touch or gentleness in his words.

  Of course, he didn’t want to marry her; that was a given from the start of her charade. But she never expected the truth from him, never expected an honest reaction. Never expected her own startling emotions. . .

  She had been only seconds away from playing the abandoned lover to Max’s unfeeling cad—as she’d planned. But what she hadn’t planned was the ambivalence gnawing at her gut. When Max sat with her on the sofa, his blue eyes intent, his jaw granite, his hands hugging hers . . . the tears threatening her eyes were not manufactured from thoughts of her departed mutt, Sophie. In fact, she had no idea where they came from.

  Suddenly benevolent, she had decided to make it easy on him, to let him off the hook, to break their engagement that never really was. Before Max beat her to the punch . . .

  “Daisy—”

  “I don’t want to marry you,” she blurted.

  A second of silence, then Max had answered, “You don’t?”

  “God, no.” She turned away from eyes that read her like a polygraph.

  “Not even a little bit?”

  “I just wanted to watch you squirm.” She slipped from his grasp and stood. “Last night, you scared the bejeezus out of me. I wanted you to know how it feels.”

  He relaxed into the sofa cushions. Relieved? Disappointed? Daisy couldn’t tell.

  “And to think I came over to set the date.”

  A second of silence, then Daisy had said, “You did?”

  “God, no.” He grinned, although his eyes didn’t go along.

  “Well, then . . . no harm, no foul,” she said with more air than a spindle of cotton candy. “I better get to work.”

  “Right. I hear your boss is a real ass.”

  “I think he’s just misunderstood.”

  “Yeah,” Max said, rising from the sofa. “I’m sure that’s it.”

  Daisy watched his departure, wishing he would get there faster. Then, to her anguish, Max had turned at the door. “Move in with me.”

  “Sounds like an afterthought,” Daisy had said.

  “Actually . . . a forethought.”

  “Let’s just call it a bad idea.”

  He shrugged. “I thought you might say that.”

  “So why ask?”

  “So you know I did.”

  His last words had left Daisy speechless. He left her cabin and left her, or so it seemed. She’d barely seen him, and spoke to him even less, and always about the lodge. Was he avoiding her or just occupied with work? The days he spent fishing were long, she knew that. Sometimes late at night, she’d be finishing up in the kitchen and hear him in his office. More than once, she had headed to his door only to turn away at the imposing slab of wood.

  It’s better this way, she reasoned. She and Max had no future, so why go there? Why give her heart to a man who only wanted to shack up? She’d been there, done that . . . for ten years. Besides, she wasn’t even sure Max meant it. Had he asked her to move in because she’d say no—and thus be o
ff the hook—or did he ask in spite of the expected rejection? Had he really laid his pride on the line or was it just strategy?

  Trying to decipher Max Kendall was like reading Latin, and Daisy had other things to concentrate on—like the review from the Anchorage Daily News restaurant critic. He had been in her restaurant last weekend and his review would be in the paper any day now. Not exactly Bon Appétit, but it was a start, and better than working her buns off in obscurity with no hope of discovery.

  Max Kendall was part of her past, she vowed . . . again. This time she meant it. This time—

  “Here we are,” Rita announced, turning past the sign and into the drive.

  “Wow, this is something,” Dylan exclaimed.

  “It is something.” Daisy remembered the first time she’d seen the impressive structure with its herculean timbers and soothing waterfalls.

  “But it’s not exactly the rustic pit you’ve been telling Mom about,” Dylan teased Pete.

  “Sure it is,” Pete insisted. “That’s our story and we’re sticking to it.”

  “Sounds like a conspiracy,” Daisy said, before the wheels in her head started turning. The brochures, the website. Even the Wild Man Lodge postcards. None of it conveying the truth. And not a single woman on the guest register. Ever. But women—and one man—going into and coming out of the guest rooms late at night; Daisy saw them when she occasionally walked through the guest wing to her cabin after the kitchen was tucked in. Massages, Rita had told her.

  Daisy knew Jasmine, of course, early forties and gorgeous; she lived in the cabin next door. The other five masseuses, including Scottie, seemed to be on a rotating schedule, leaving and returning to the lodge every couple of weeks. Although late-night massages made sense—guests were gone during the day, returning with sore muscles—something about those women, and Scottie, niggled at her. Maybe conspiracy had merit.

  “Ignorance is bliss,” Pete retorted. “My darling wife is enjoying a fabulous week at a spa with her girlfriends, feeling no guilt or envy at my two weeks roughing it with the guys.”

  “Marie isn’t as gullible as you think,” Dylan said as the Rover eased to a stop in front of the carved double doors.