As she waited beneath the overhang, Daisy glanced at the front page of her damp newspaper. “Downtown Park Renovated and Reopened.” “Carjacking Leaves Driver Wounded.” “Cat Returns Home After Cross-Country Adventure.”
Drops of rain from her wet hair splattered the newsprint. Daisy folded the paper as a woman raced by, her heels splashing the rivulets. Across the street, a man and woman waited as she did, beneath the awning of a contractor’s office, their features obscured by the sheets of gray rain and encroaching dusk.
This is ridiculous, Daisy thought, as if a little—or a lot—of rain could make her look or feel worse than she already did. It had been a miserable, dismal day and all she wanted was to go home to her tiny apartment and curl up on the couch with her laptop and Restaurant. com, searching for an available, affordable eatery she could make her own. Adding the money from the sale of the comics with her previous savings, she had $221,000 to spend on her dream.
A car stopped in the street and the woman from the contractor’s office dashed for the passenger side. Daisy decided to make the same dash for her car. She pressed the door unlock button hanging from her key chain; her car beeped and its lights blinked. She made her move as the man across the street made his.
She leapt over the gutter and threw open her door, tossing her purse into the passenger seat, then dove in after, slamming the door behind as the rain drummed her roof. She settled inside the fogged interior, then wiped the water from her face with the sleeve of her wet jacket. Someone pounded on her window. By the time she shot her finger to the lock button, her door was opening. But she wouldn’t give up her car without a fight. She grabbed for her purse and the small canister of pepper spray in the outside pocket, then spritzed the face leaning into her car.
“Daisy—” Max jerked back.
“Max?” Daisy froze, realizing what she’d done . . . again. Then she bolted from her car, intending to save the blinded man from the dangers of the street. Max stood by the red Pathfinder, blinking away the rain and sniffing the air, but otherwise unaffected.
“I’m so sorry, Max. Are you okay?”
“What the hell did you spray me with?”
Daisy looked at the Marc Jacobs purse-size perfume spray in her palm and laughed. “Daisy.”
“Nice,” he said.
“Jesus, Max, I thought you were a carjacker. What’re you doing here?”
Max looked at Daisy. Mascara smudged her eyes and her wet hair was plastered to her head, making her look like one of the Kewpie dolls his mom collected. He cleared the auburn strands from her face. Daisy closed her eyes for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he finally answered. “I mean, I know, but I’m thinking maybe I’m just another Haemish Hamlish.”
“The guy with the goat?”
“My cousin . . .” His expression pinched. “What goat?”
Daisy stared at Max; he stared back.
“Can we get out of this rain?” he asked.
She hesitated at what she wanted. Her tiny apartment? The bed in her tiny—
“Is there a decent bar nearby?”
“Up the street,” she said.
Daisy grabbed her keys and her purse. Max grabbed her hand.
“Bailey’s and coffee,” Daisy ordered from the waitress. “With extra whipped cream.”
Max ordered the same, but without the topping. He scanned the subdued bar, ran fingers through his damp hair, and looked at Daisy as if he wanted to say something.
Daisy abruptly scooted her chair back. “I’m going to dry off.” Max stood as she rose, although Daisy didn’t feel enough like a lady to deserve it.
She escaped into the bathroom, almost falling to her knees in gratitude at the electric hand dryer on the wall, then balked at her reflection in the mirror—she still wore her ridiculous apron. When she left the bathroom, spirals had returned to her hair, her eyes were more doe-like than raccoon, and her apron was in the trash.
Max said nothing, but his expression spoke surprise at the transformation. Daisy sat down and reached for her coffee, the mountain of whipped cream reminiscent of Mount St. Helens. Licking away the creamy top peak, she sipped from her cup.
He laid a postcard on the table. “This came for you a few days ago.”
Daisy contemplated the photograph. Nighttime fireworks exploded over the Magic Kingdom. The flipside held a child’s writing.
Dear Chef Daisy,
The doctor says Dad is doing good so we’re celebrating in Disneyland. Dad says it was your chowder that cured him! We lit a candle at the church and prayed for a second chance for Dad, and you too, since you didn’t say what to ask for.
Dad says everyone needs a second chance sometime so now you have one if you want it.
Sincerely yours,
Emily MacIntyre
Fighting unexpected tears, she took a deep breath. And another, her eyes still on Emily’s message. When she felt in control, she looked at Max, who was watching her.
“I guess I was right,” he said.
“About?”
“The postcard being important.”
“You read it?” Then Daisy shook her head and shot her eyes to the heavens, knowing her question was stupid.
“It’s hard not to read a postcard.” Smiling. “So . . . what happened to Blanchard’s?”
She sighed. “La chaudrée de tortue.”
He tried to keep a straight face. “Elizabeth wouldn’t like that.”
“Me neither.” Sipping her coffee, she licked whipped cream from her lip. “I guess I’m not the chef I thought I was.”
“The person is more important than the chef.”
“Yeah, well, Blanchard’s wanted a chef.”
“Daisy . . .”
“How’s Fitz doing?” As if she didn’t know. She’d talked to him two days ago as he was leaving rehab.
“One day at a time.”
“And Rita?” As if she didn’t know. She’d talked to her last week.
“She’s fine, too.” He took a breath. “Daisy . . .”
“And Napoleon?”
“He’s fine. Buster is fine. Everyone is fine. As if you don’t know.”
She settled her eyes on her coffee, wrapping both hands around the warm cup.
“Look, Daisy, the reason I came . . .”
She swiped a forefinger through the whipped cream, sucking it off her skin.
“I’m not a pimp—”
Her brow pinched as if to ask, That’s why you’re here?
“—But you’re right, there’s more going on than massages.”
Her hope for a second chance vanished. Like she wanted to. How stupid was she to think... “Look, Max, I’m not ratting you out, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Good to know.” He definitely smiled. “But the women you’ve seen, without massage tables, are therapists, not hookers.”
“Sex therapists?”
One spontaneous burst of laughter. “No. The regular garden variety. There’s Jasmine, of course, who has a PhD, by the way. And I employ five therapists for the summer who rotate out of Anchorage, where they have their own practices.”
“I’m not following.”
“It was Jasmine’s idea . . .” Researching her thesis, Jasmine had worked as an escort; she discovered that many of her clients wanted someone safe to talk to, but feared the stigma of being “in therapy.” The secrets they shared with her—she could write a book! Max had found a similar mentality among his military buddies, who couldn’t confide in their families but desperately needed to unload. Unlike most women, who were willing to confront their demons, men often avoided therapy, feeling it meant they were weak and not in control. And there was an unspoken rule in the military—if you want to advance, you don’t see a shrink.
“The five stars? They’re for friends I served with in Afghanistan. Each one a suicide.”
Daisy felt like the breath had been knocked from her. Suicide was as much a casualty as an enemy bullet, but no one liked to talk a
bout it. She couldn’t fathom the horrors of war—to kill or be killed. She couldn’t imagine the burden soldiers carried; the guilt of living when others had not.
“I’m sorry, Max.” It was lame, but Daisy didn’t know what else to say. She wasn’t alone; she suspected most nonmilitary women simply couldn’t relate to their military men—husbands, boyfriends, fathers and brothers—let alone help.
“The stars remind me, but they no longer haunt me.” Max blamed his unhappy marriage on that same combat stress, which sometimes made him moody, explosive, and critical. He finished his explanation—“I had to lose my wife before I finally faced my demons.”
“Oh, Max, that’s awful. How did Molly-Anne die?”
He looked perplexed. “She died in her sleep. Why?”
Her face pinched. “Had she been sick?”
“Just the usual aches and pains that come with old age.”
“Old age?” She envisioned a May-December romance. “How old was she?”
“Fifteen, I think. Why?”
“Your wife was fifteen?”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Molly-Anne. The love of your life. The one who died? You named your boat after her.”
Laughing, he shook his head, looked at Daisy’s confused expression, and laughed more. “My ex-wife is Kimberly. As far as I know, she’s very much alive. Molly-Anne was my Irish setter when I was a kid.”
Daisy couldn’t believe how silly she felt—and how relieved. A beloved Irish setter she could compete with; a beloved dead wife, not so much. “You’ve always liked redheads, then.”
He grinned. “I guess so.”
She drank her coffee—licking the whipped cream from her lip—and considered everything Max had told her. “So, the website, the brochures, even the postcards. The reason you fly under the radar. One big ruse to keep women out?”
“Not to keep women out, to keep them from wanting to come,” Max said. “Women are welcome. But over the years, we’ve only had a handful. Some were military; others came to support their husbands. Wild Man gives men a safe environment to try therapy without anyone knowing.”
Of course, many of the guests knew exactly what was going on, but they were in it together. After they returned home, some found the courage to talk to their families, others continued therapy, and a few, like Pete, only needed to “blow out the pipes” for two weeks to be perfectly happy the other fifty.
But Wild Man wasn’t cheap. Depending on the circumstances, Max discounted the all-inclusive $8,000-a-week price for those who couldn’t pay, which is why he pinched pennies, and why he had sued Daisy.
“The domino effect,” Daisy said. “Rita told me. I just wish you had.”
“Rita didn’t tell you everything.” Max hesitated; his confession was going to be as painful as his knee once was. “The truth is, I saw your house and the neighborhood and then you told me you were a chef at Fireflies. Considering all that, I didn’t think the money would be that big a deal. And . . .” He paused. “I liked you.”
“You liked me?”
“From pretty much the moment we met.”
“So you sued me?”
“It was the best way to make sure nothing happened between us.”
“Seriously?”
“I know I’ve changed since my divorce. I just wasn’t sure I’d changed enough to make a relationship work.”
Daisy could scarcely believe her ears.
“That leap surprised me, too,” Max said, reading Daisy’s face. “But at the same time, I was afraid my past would repeat. And then, dammit, you showed up on the ferry. And at my lodge. And then in my shower. It seems I was doomed to have you in my life.”
She swiped the last of the whipped cream.
This time, Max did something about it.
“Took you long enough.” She smiled from his kiss. “I’m down to my last lick.”
He leaned back in his chair. “When you left Otter Bite, I thought you hated me. And then today at lunch, when you ran, I was sure of it.”
“There’s not a single recipe with only one ingredient . . . which isn’t to say I haven’t hated some things in a loving sort of way.”
Max slowly shook his head. “You, Daisy Moon, are beyond my comprehension. Which is why I must rely on my mother’s uncanny ability to know what’s best for me. Not to mention a few choice words from Rita . . . although . . . her story about Lorna and Sid didn’t make a lot of sense. But the upshot is, they came from two different worlds and made a go of it.” He paused, his thoughts in a debate. “Then this afternoon, Dr. Wagstaff called me.”
“Oh, God.” Had Charity divulged her Lobster Shack shame?
“She told me to grow a pair.”
Daisy breathed. Then made a mental note to thank her meddling friend.
Max pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket that he’d draped over the chair back when he sat down. He slid it toward Daisy. “My mother suggested I make you an offer.”
She stared at the envelope as if she’d never seen one before.
He stood, tossed a twenty on the table, and grabbed his jacket. When Daisy finally looked up, Max held a very small purple velvet box that had seen better days. He set it on top of the envelope. “But this is my idea.”
Max started to walk away, then turned back. “One more thing—” One heartbeat, two heartbeats. “I love you.”
Her pulse racing, she flipped open the box. It wasn’t just a ring; it was a spoon ring—antique gold with scrolls and millefleur and just a shadow of tarnish, but nothing a good cleaning couldn’t remove. A little polish and Daisy would have that ring blinding like the sun!
She slipped it on her ring finger where it twirled, so she traded fingers to her middle where it hugged her skin. She looked for Max, but he’d vanished. She reached for the envelope. Her expression changed a dozen times by the end of the three pages.
She barely found her breath. Words were cheap. But this—in black and white and notarized—was love. Clutching the papers, she bolted from her chair, grabbed her belongings, and flew out the door into the mist.
Streetlights punctuated the dusk, cars came and went, people passed. She searched one direction and then the other. “Max?” Two heartbeats. “Max!”
His voice came from the shadows. “Took you long enough.” He stepped into the light.
“It’s a lot to digest.” Daisy held up her hand. “The ring?”
“It doesn’t fit.” He sounded disappointed.
“It’s a perfect fit. But I’m not sure I understand.”
“It’s a promise ring. If we don’t kill each other, I promise I’ll get you a better one.”
“I . . . kind of like this one.”
“Then I promise I’ll get it sized.” Max stepped closer. “What about the rest of the offer?”
“Do you mean it?”
Max corralled her in his arms. “I love you, Daisy Moon. Most ardently.”
She took a fortifying breath. “I . . . love you, too. Dammit.”
“Was that so hard?”
She shrugged, kind of whimpered. “Just out of curiosity . . . why?”
“Truthfully?”
“If possible.”
“I’m down to my last jar of mango chutney.”
Daisy unconvincingly smacked him.
“And you’re beautiful with the most amazing green eyes, but mostly, it’s your humongous vocabulary. And you know Roman emperors. Now you.”
“You call Elizabeth by her name.”
“You’re kidding.”
“And you chose this ring.”
“And?”
“You’re the biggest stud in the world.”
He puffed up. “That’s what I’m talking about. So, my offer . . .”
“It’s very generous.”
“You think so?”
“You’re making me a partner.”
“A junior partner.”
“I get my own restaurant.”
“In Ot
ter Bite,” he reminded her. “No stars, no reviews.”
“Somehow, those stars don’t shine like they used to. And the best review of my life is written on a postcard. The truth is, I would’ve come back without any of this.”
“Now you tell me.”
“But I have a confession.”
“The past is the past,” Max said.
“Actually, it’s kind of the present, since it was one of your reasons for this offer. The thing is, I don’t know Roman emperors, other than Caligula. Well, I sort of know Tiberius, since Caligula probably poisoned him. And Julius Caesar, but then, who doesn’t? And Claudius from the PBS series. And Nero, since he ‘fiddled’ while Rome burned, which he couldn’t have because the fiddle didn’t exist until the eleventh century, so if he played anything, it was most likely a cithara, but the expression is just a clever way of saying that Nero was uncaring and ineffectual—”
“Oh my God, shut up!”
“I was just—”
“I’m sorry, Daisy, I can’t do this.” He snatched the contract from her hand and tore it into large confetti. The scraps littered the sidewalk; some drifted into the gutter and were carried away by the rain streaming into the sewer.
Eyes shimmering with tears, Daisy looked as if she’d lost her puppy.
“I deserve better,” Max said.
Daisy wanted to run, to escape this humiliation, but her feet were lead while her legs were rubber. She feared she might collapse. So much for candles and prayers . . .
“And so do you,” he added. “I don’t want a business partner. I don’t want clauses and conditions and everything in black and white.” He bent down on his rehabilitated knee to the wet sidewalk and took her right hand in his. “Marry me, Daisy. Marry me and be my life partner.”
Daisy brushed tears and rain from her cheeks and looked hard at Max. She opened her mouth to answer but the only word that squeaked out was, “Really?”
“You had me at cithara.” Whatever the hell that is.
Spooning Daisy Page 32