Daisy tensed. “You really are cold. Cold and unfeeling.”
“I don’t have the luxury of breaking dishes every time things don’t go my way.”
From tense to venomous. “And when do things ever not go your way? When are you ever not in control?”
He puffed up as if he might explode. “Be damn thankful I am in control because right now—”
“Right now what?” Daisy leaned into him.
“Right now—”
“What?”
He stared at her, his eyes stormy, his voice low, deep, and thunderous. “Right now . . . I might forget that you saved Fitz’s life. I might forget what kind of day you’ve had. I might forget that you’re emotionally distraught.”
“Emotionally distraught?”
Max managed to find a little sympathy. “When was the last time you faced a gun?”
It took a moment. “Fitz wasn’t going to shoot me.”
“Of course not.”
Her brows edged together. She looked hard at Max, at the blood smear still on his right cheek, at the unfathomable ocean in his eyes. A stew of emotions boiled inside her. “Tim can handle dinner,” she said, referring to her assistant. Hugging Elizabeth and unlatching the door, she scrambled from the truck, mud flaking off her clothes as she went.
“Hey,” Max said as Daisy turned to slam the door. “Why are you so angry?” At me, he wanted to add. Instead, he let the question unwrap itself.
Daisy looked at him as if she sensed his real question, but she wasn’t prepared to answer either variation. The truth was, she didn’t know exactly why she was angry except that . . .
“It’s the best choice I have.” Then she shut the door between them.
The steamy water pelted Daisy, pooling at her feet in chocolate drops that disappeared down the drain. Her jeans lay in a wet, indigo heap at the other end of the small bathtub where she had shed them after hosing off the mud outside.
If only she could separate herself from Otter Bite as easily.
Without Daisy even realizing it, the tears came, silently at first and then in sobbing waves and breathless heaves. Her hands shook, trying to shampoo her hair as if everything were normal. Just another day of breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Just another day of almost getting shot, maybe even killed. Just another day in a life that had become a spinning top—going round and round and round in every direction while getting absolutely nowhere.
Light-headed, Daisy managed to finish her shower; managed to stop the tears with deep, quivering breaths. She spread the shower curtain and stepped into steam that prevented reflection.
By the time she had dried her hair to damp, the fog was disappearing. She knew her eyes would be puffy, her face blotchy. She didn’t need the mirror to confirm it so she quickly left the bathroom in her robe.
She checked on Elizabeth, who was happily munching her last leaf of lettuce—need more lettuce—completely oblivious to her own mortality . . . or maybe just accepting it.
Acceptance wasn’t one of Daisy’s strong points. Kicking and screaming was more her style . . . although she couldn’t say that approach made much of a difference in the outcome.
She curled up on her sofa beside Elizabeth’s terrarium, remembering when Elizabeth had come to live with her. Daisy was only twelve, and Elizabeth was barely three inches long. Not exactly the kitten she’d begged her parents for, but, as her father had explained, a turtle has many merits. For one thing, turtles live a long time—a real plus for her dad, who seemed to suffer more from Daisy’s grief over the passing of their dog, Sophie, than the death itself. For another, they didn’t take much space. And you could travel with them—an important consideration for a duty-free corporate family who had lived in Honolulu, Paris, London, and New York by the time Daisy was eighteen.
For twenty-three years, she and Elizabeth had weathered life’s storms. For twenty-three years, Elizabeth had been one of the few constants in Daisy’s life. She had clipped her nails, given vitamin drops, oiled her shell, taken her for “walks” in the park, let her swim in the bathtub. Whatever else happened in her life, she would take care of Elizabeth. There was comfort in having responsibility for another. And her dad had been right about the advantage of a long life. No niggling dread—until today—of an impending funeral. If the Universe allowed, Elizabeth would be with her for another twenty-three years. Yes, Elizabeth had many merits. Certainly more than—
No. She absolutely would not go there. She snuggled into her robe and lay against the cushions. The day weighted her like lead. Would it be so bad if she just gave up? Threw in the towel and got out of the ring? How wonderful it would be to stop taking punches . . .
That was the last thought Daisy had before the day knocked her out.
Max popped a pill to dull the throbbing in his knee. The scotch chaser was for the quiver in his hands—a reminder of how bad he was at that at which he was very good.
He put his glass on the bathroom sink and leaned into the mirror to check the cut on his cheek. Like so many events in his life lately, he wasn’t even sure how it had happened. Just one uncontrollable fiasco after another. And like a family tree, each could trace its roots back to Daisy Moon.
During the last few weeks, he’d managed to block Daisy from his thoughts. Well, most of the time. Going to her cabin on the morning after had been a mistake, he realized too late. Not his first one—that had been meeting Daisy at Mama Mia’s. Or his worst one—he wasn’t going to think about that. But how could he have predicted his feelings when he didn’t know he was capable of them?
But when she told him she didn’t want to marry him . . . he blanked.
He’d had a plan and suddenly he was improvising. Words came out that he didn’t know were there. He wasn’t Max Kendall, he was some other guy . . . who, maybe, just a little, didn’t think marrying Daisy Moon was such a bad idea.
But Daisy was playing him just to watch him squirm. Payback for scaring her in the woods. Not that he didn’t deserve it. Still, he couldn’t quite believe there wasn’t something else . . .
So he asked her. Move in with me. But Daisy dismissed that without taking a breath. Dismissed him, too, or so it felt.
They’d barely seen each other, and spoken even less, and when they had it was always about work. Sometimes late at night, he’d hear her in the kitchen as he worked in his office. Too often, he had headed to his door, only to stop before turning the knob. There was just no purpose, not when what Daisy really wanted was to escape from Otter Bite.
Max turned from his reflection and cinched his robe. Taking his scotch, he re-entered his bedroom. Glass on the nightstand, pillows stacked against the headboard, he eased his way onto the bed and stretched his legs, then reached for his scotch, the quiver finally gone.
Escaping from Otter Bite, from Wild Man Lodge, from me is probably all Daisy thinks about, Max conjectured, taking up from where his last thought left off. Especially after today . . .
Maybe it was time to help things along.
Rita had told him about the restaurant critic from Anchorage. He could have spit nails! It was hard enough trying to keep Wild Man under the radar—Daisy had no right putting his lodge on the map! Last weekend, the guy showed. Friday, Saturday and Sunday for dinner. He and his wife. They had stayed at the Mad Fish B & B and taken a halibut charter. She shopped at the mercantile and they rented bicycles. They had drinks at the Lighthouse—he an Alaskan Amber, she a rum and Coke. There were few secrets in Otter Bite.
Daisy, however, didn’t even try to keep secrets. Her contempt for pretty much everything about Max was right out there in the open. And she had no problem thinking the worst of him.
“I don’t need this.” Max shot back the remainder of his scotch. He rolled the cut crystal between his palms and watched the light play. The sooner Daisy left, the sooner he’d get his life back. The sooner he’d be Max Kendall again and not that other guy. He just wished it wasn’t going to cost him so damn much.
He pulled himself from his comfor
t like so much lead and headed into the den. He might as well be heading to the gallows for all his enthusiasm. He sat in his desk chair and pulled out his address book from his side drawer, found the listing, and punched in the ten numbers on his cordless.
The ringing of her phone roused Daisy from her nap. It took a groggy moment to figure it out, and then she left the couch and reached the phone, expecting no surprises. “Hello?”
She could count on one hand the people who called her with regularity, Charity being at the top of the list. Daisy hadn’t yet phoned her with the news of all that had happened today.
“Is this Daisy Moon?” asked the husky male voice on the other end of the line.
“Yes . . .”
“My name is Geoffrey Blanchard, Miss Moon. I don’t expect you’d remember me, but I was a guest at the lodge a few weeks back. I visited you in the kitchen one evening. Gray hair, short beard and moustache. I had your fabulous cioppino . . . ?”
Vaguely, Daisy thought. “Yes, of course, I remember.”
“Just to be clear, Miss Moon, Max gave me your number and said it was fine to call. I wouldn’t be doing this otherwise.”
“Sure, I understand. Do you want the recipe for the cioppino, Mr. Blanchard?”
“In a way, yes . . .”
Ten minutes later, Daisy hung up the phone, completely baffled by her own ambivalence. But the knocking on her door gave her no time to think about it.
“Grand central station,” she mumbled, reaching the door and turning the knob.
“Just checking to see if you’re okay,” Rita said, inviting herself in.
“I’d be lying if I said I was.”
Rita took a side chair. “Stuff like that happens out here. Y’ just gotta shake it off and go on. After all, no one died.”
Daisy shut the door and sat on the couch.. “No, but poor Fitz is going to jail. That’s hardly a happy ending.”
“Jail? Says who?”
“Max.”
“Max told you Fitz was going to jail?”
“Well . . .” Daisy mentally backtracked. “He said Fitz would be locked up. If that doesn’t mean jail, then what?”
“Rehab. He’s booked a flight into Anchorage tomorrow. Putting him in the hospital to dry him out. Gonna force him to face his demons.” Rita smirked. “Fitz’ll probably wish he was in jail. Or dead.”
Daisy dropped her eyes to the floor, looking at nothing in particular. Remembering similar words from Max.
“Of course, there are a few locals who think Fitz ought to be in jail. He could’ve killed people, himself included. We could be having a whole different conversation right now.” She paused. “Rumor has it, you got Fitz to land. Kinda makes you a hero.”
Daisy looked up. “Hardly a hero. Not by a long shot. All I did was talk. That’s all, just talk.”
“That’s worth more than you think—”
“Max is the real hero,” Daisy blurted, vacating the couch and missing the beginnings of Rita’s smile. “Max . . . got the gun from Fitz. And if he had to, he would’ve . . .” Standing at the kitchen counter, Daisy breathed deeply. “All I did was talk.”
“Sometimes, when you say the right words, talking is all it takes.”
Daisy looked at Rita, at the wisdom shining in her dark eyes.
“Guess I’d better check on my patient,” she said, pulling herself from the chair.
“Your patient?”
“Someone’s gotta take care of the flyboy,” Rita answered. “And I’ve got a weakness.”
“But you don’t like Fitz.”
“I like Fitz just fine. It’s the booze I don’t like.”
“But—”
“You gotta separate the yolk from the white before you can make crème brûlée. Think about it,” she added when Daisy just stared. “Come see him, if you want. On your way to dinner.”
“Actually”—Daisy stopped, changed direction—“I’ll do that. On my way to dinner.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
“Welcome,” Rita said, stepping aside.
Daisy glanced around the familiar surroundings, having visited a half dozen times before. The layout was identical to her cabin, but the environment was cozy. Daisy lived in her cabin; Rita had made hers a home.
“Fitz is in the bedroom with Jasmine. I just fed him.”
“Smells good.” Daisy recognized the aroma of chicken soup.
“There’s more.”
“Thanks. I’ll grab something at the lodge.”
Rita gestured toward the bedroom. “Go on in.”
Daisy softly called Fitz’s name, then pushed the slightly ajar door further open.
“Come in, Daisy.” Jasmine rose from her seat on the bed. “I’m just leaving.”
The bedside lamp glowed golden through an amber shade. Propped up with pillows, Fitz sat in bed with a bowl of soup in one hand, spoon in the other. Rita’s cat, Samantha, curled near the lumps under the covers that were Fitz’s feet.
“Please, don’t leave on my account,” Daisy said.
“Fitz and I are done.” Reaching Daisy, Jasmine hugged her; Daisy awkwardly hugged her back. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get there in time to help, but I heard you saved the day. Thank you.”
Get there in time to help? What had Jasmine intended to do? Telekinetically massage Fitz into landing the plane?
“I’m here if you want to talk,” Jasmine added with one of the warmest, sincerest smiles Daisy had ever seen.
Alone with Fitz, Daisy asked how he was feeling.
“Like I’ve been stomped by a bull.” Fitz set his soup bowl on the nightstand. “And he’s still inside my head.”
That was probably an understatement. Fitz sported a purple eye and a swollen nose, where Max’s fist had most likely landed. She suspected a few bruises and bumps were out of sight beneath his T-shirt.
“I guess I owe you an apology . . . and a thank-you.”
Daisy shrugged as she eased into a vacant spot the other side of the lumps from Samantha. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“I’m sorry I took your turtle. I just wanted to show her to the guys.” Fitz looked down at his lap where one shaky hand brushed the scraped knuckles of the other.
“It’s all right, Fitz, really. We’ve all done stupid things.”
Fitz looked up as if he doubted Daisy’s confession.
“Not too long ago, I broke the china in my fiancé’s restaurant. Smashed it to smithereens. Thousands of dollars. And I was stone-cold sober.”
“He musta deserved it.”
“Maybe.” Another shrug. “But probably not.” She diverted her eyes to the intimate bedroom, stopping at the framed photographs atop the dresser. Her eyes locked on an 8 x 10 photo of Rita with a toddler in her arms, standing beside a man, everyone smiling.
“The point is,” she continued, dragging her eyes off the photo and ignoring the questions it inspired, “we all do stupid things. If we’re lucky, we live to confess them.”
Eyes back on his hands, he tugged on fingers. “Thing is . . . me and July Fourth . . . we don’t get along very good.”
When Fitz looked up, tears flooded his eyes.
“You were in there a while,” Rita said when Daisy finally emerged from the bedroom.
“Fitz feels really bad about today.”
“He should. He coulda killed people.”
“You don’t take prisoners, do you?”
Standing in the kitchen, Rita tilted her head at Daisy, at the curtness in her voice. “He could have killed people, Daisy. What would you say to the families and friends?” Her voice went dumb. “Duh. Fitz feels really bad?”
“I’m just saying . . . sometimes people do things for reasons that . . . aren’t always their fault.”
Rita looked incredulous. “Really?”
“Stuff happens.”
“Yeah, stuff happens. And if you wanna take yourself out of the picture, that’s one thing. But you don’t have the right to take someone else with you. You
just don’t.”
Interesting choice of words, Daisy thought, remembering the dresser photograph. “Well, it all turned out okay.”
“It turned out dandy for everyone but Max. His plane is busted; his pilot is busted. He’s busted. And he’s got the rest of the season to get through. But, like you say, it all turned out okay.”
“What do you mean, Max is busted?”
Rita brushed by Daisy for the sofa. “Nothing.”
“No way.” Daisy followed the few steps after her. “I know you want to tell me so I can feel really, really bad.”
“Are you capable of feeling bad for Max?”
“For your information, Rita, the man is suing me. It’s hard to feel bad for someone who’s extorting money.”
“He’s only suing you because he has to.”
“Yeah, right.” Daisy headed for the door.
“It’s true.”
She stopped.
“Do you have any idea how much money his injured knee is costing him?”
“He has medical insurance, Rita. Everyone has insurance now.”
“Yeah, Daisy, Max has insurance. And he also has a deductible and a co-pay. Add those together and Max paid almost $6,000 out-of-pocket toward his surgery.”
Daisy, who rarely had an insurance claim other than for her annual checkup and birth control—oh yeah, and her emergency room visit after Mama Mia’s—never gave her deductible or co-pay much thought. But $6,000? Wow. “Okay, but that’s $19,000 less than the $25,000 he’s suing me for.”
“Six thousand is only the beginning. It’s like dominoes. Max may be the boss, but he’s a working boss. When he’s out of commission, someone has to replace him. And what he does is expensive.”
Rita wasn’t whistling Dixie, her explanation proved. A good, experienced pilot—and why would anyone hire a bad, inexperienced pilot?—commanded $50,000 to $100,000 a season, depending on the type of aircraft and flying required. Fitz was making $65,000 for a short season; Max had another month of recuperation before he would be certified to fly again.
And now, with Fitz going into rehab, Max needed another good, experienced pilot. But one would be hard to come by mid-season. Ironically, even if he found a pilot, he was also down one plane. Aviation repair shops weren’t as plentiful as automotive shops; getting the Cessna fixed could take months.
Spooning Daisy Page 28