Spooning Daisy (38 page)

Which didn’t mean Daisy had to buy any of it. Everything was more complicated than Rita had made it seem. Upside-down and backwards.

Open your eyes . . .

As if her eyes weren’t open. They saw everything, real or imagined. What Daisy needed to do was
close
her eyes.

Because love
, Daisy thought, reaching the lodge,
is blind.

Chapter Thirty-Six

D
inner had been busy. There were lodge guests, of course, but also locals and summer residents with visiting friends and family. Ian and Emily had come; true to her word, Daisy had given them three jars of “leftover” chowder to take home. Every seating was full; Daisy had even extended the kitchen hours to accommodate a group of eight who arrived at nine thirty.

Finally, it was over. The dishes washed. The pots and pans hung. The tables set for breakfast. The last of the weary staff headed home, pockets flush with tips. At one thirty in the morning the lights dimmed, wild men slumbered beneath Egyptian cotton sheets, and today vanished into yesterday and tomorrow had arrived.

Daisy made it through, although Fitz had certainly been a topic of conversation. But work had overpowered gossip, and the day’s excitement gave way to routine. Drink requests. Dinner orders. Food out. Dishes in. The kitchen danced in a well-timed choreography.

If only my life ran like my kitchen
, Daisy thought, surveying her stainless domain. Then her sights drifted to the office door.

Max had been in the kitchen when Daisy arrived for the dinner shift, pitching in beside Tim just like one of the tip-reliant staff. After Daisy’s assurance that she was okay, he retreated into his office. Not for the duration, of course. He had been in and out as duties demanded, but never interfered in her job.

Not that he ever had. Oh, sure, he rolled his eyes at the mango chutney and the cinnamon coffee and made an occasional sarcastic comment about the
bistro-dized
menu. But he let her run the kitchen and create the menus and never complained about the expenses—a rarity in the cost-conscious restaurant business. And every now and then, he’d leave a handwritten compliment magnetized to the refrigerator door for all her staff to share.

Rita had it right—Max wasn’t much of a talker. But Daisy talked enough for two. She’d said some horrible things to Max.
Ice-hearted bastard
came to mind. And, as usual, she’d presumed the worst. Not that Max didn’t deserve—

“Get over it,” Daisy grumbled to her self-righteous other half. How long was she going to keep Max nailed to that cross?

She walked to the office door, curled her fingers into a fist, but stopped before knuckles met wood.

What exactly was her plan?

Her right hand dropped.

Apologize . . .

And then what? Her brain churned.

Maybe it was enough just to apologize. Maybe, right at this moment, she didn’t need a
then what
. Maybe all she needed was a
now
.

Asleep on the couch, Max couldn’t quite figure out the source of the banging that threatened to wake him. His brow wrinkled. Was it hammering? Sure. That’s it. They were building his guest cabins.

When silence returned, his brow relaxed and he rolled away from the bright light of his desk lamp. He’d check on the builders later. Right now he just wanted to sleep.

That damn hammering
, Max thought, slowly gaining awareness. He opened his eyes to dark leather and took a moment to get his bearings. Rolling over on his back, he eased himself up, stretching away the stiffness he felt. Papers littered the floor by his feet where they’d spilled from his hands.

He checked his watch, surprised at the time, trying to remember when he’d moved from his desk to the couch. He reached down to collect the construction contract he’d been reviewing before exhaustion won out.

Looking at the top page, he paused. All of his expansion plans—everything he’d been working and saving for during the last three years—had in one day slipped through his fingers like sand. The guest cabins would have to wait, that’s all. He tried not to think about the people he was disappointing—the locals who were counting on winter construction work, his staff who were expecting year-round employment. And the men who came here for support, away from wives and girlfriends who tried—
Lord, how they tried
—but couldn’t possibly understand. He tossed the contract on his desk and pulled open the top drawer. The check from Sotheby’s stared back at him. Who would’ve thought a few old Superman comics could bring such a windfall? He took the check—already endorsed—folded and tucked it inside the pocket of his flannel shirt.

Exiting the lodge, Daisy snuggled into her fleece jacket against the early morning chill. Penetrating the dusky veil, voices and laughter reached her before she met the source of the happiness on the deck steps.

“Daisy?”

Through the grainy ambience, it took a moment to recognize the two men in their fluffy white lodge robes, each with a generous towel slung over their shoulders and each with a bottle of Alaskan Amber.

“Hi, guys,” Daisy responded to Pete Newton and his son-in-law, Dylan. “Out for a swim?”

“Yeah, in the hot tub,” Dylan answered. “Don’t tell me you’re just getting off work?”

“Holidays are always busy.”

“Speaking of that, I had your salmon for dinner, with the mango on top. Absolutely fantastic.”

“Thanks.”

“I’d love to get that sauce recipe . . . for Ellen,” he quickly added.

“I’ll go one better. Stop by the kitchen before you leave for home and I’ll give you ajar of it.”

“Y’ know, Daisy, you ought to sell your sauces. They’d make good gifts.”

“You’re not the first person who’s suggested that. Maybe next year.”

“We heard about the excitement in town today,” Pete said. “Sort of wish we’d been there.”

“If only we’d arrived a little later, we would’ve seen it all,” Dylan said.

“Not that exciting. Just another day in Otter Bite.”

“Everything turned out okay then.” Sort of a question.

“Sure.” She thought about Fitz in rehab, Max’s busted plane, her big mouth, and now, her failed apology. Her knocks hadn’t been answered. Sometime during the evening Max must have left his office without her noticing. Now she wondered if Fate was telling her to forget the whole thing.

“You probably want to hit the sack,” Pete said, moving toward the lodge. “And I have a massage scheduled.”

“Good night, Daisy,” Dylan said. “Can’t wait for breakfast.”

“Pete, do you have a minute?”

Pete motioned for Dylan to go on.

“I . . . have a question. Kind of personal—”

He cocked his head.

“—about Max—”

“Yeah?”

“—and your daughter. I sort of heard something and I just kind of wondered if it was true. It has to do with Acapulco and a parrot.”

Pete chuckled. “I’ll cut to the chase. Max saved Ellen’s life and all he got for it was a parrot, a busted knee, my eternal gratitude, and a couple of namesakes. Ellen has a son and a daughter, Max and Avery.”

She sort of smiled. “Thanks.”

“Y’ know, Daisy, pilots have a saying . . . well, pilots have lots of sayings. As a whole, we’re a philosophizing bunch. But one, in particular, might apply here—”

What pearls of wisdom were about to be cast?

“You can always make a one-eighty—up until you crash.”

One brow lifted. “I’ll think about it.”

“You do that. Good night, Daisy.”

Daisy was no sooner down the deck steps when she remembered and made a one-eighty back to the lodge. Going through the guest wing, she passed Scottie leaving a room, carrying a portable massage table
.
Three doors down, she saw Jasmine enter Pete’s room, without one.

Max scooped up the last bite of salmon and mango from his plate and put his dish and fork into the stainless steel sink where they joined the small frying pan. No food since breakfast, but it still surprised him how hungry he’d been.

He screwed the lid on the jar of mango chutney, ignoring the dollop that had landed on the counter, and returned it to the refrigerator shelf next to the jar of blueberry sauce used as a garnish for rib eyes. It was a toss-up which he liked better—not that he’d ever admit liking either. But his guests certainly did. Without fail, feedback forms mentioned the great food; some suggested a cookbook; some wanted jars of Daisy’s sauces.

Max shut the refrigerator, shaking his head. Maybe, as Daisy had said, he was in a
culinary time warp
. Turning, he stepped back, his heart thumping.

Daisy quizzically stared at him from the doorway.

Regaining composure, he asked, “What’re you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“I own the joint.”

Her heart pounding, Daisy approached Max, who stood between her and the refrigerator. “I was heading for my cabin when I remembered I needed lettuce for Elizabeth. In the fridge.” She gave Max a pointed look until he stepped aside. “I didn’t know anyone was here. I thought you’d gone.” Retrieving a single lettuce leaf from a bag, she closed the refrigerator. “I knocked on your office door before I left.”

“That was you?” He ran fingers through his uncombed hair. “I was zonked out on the couch. Thought I was dreaming.”

A dollop of something on her previously spotless counter caught her attention. Her eyes wandered to the sink and the dirty plate and pan. She sniffed the air and caught the lingering aroma. “You were eating salmon with my mango chutney, weren’t you?”

Max eased back at the accusation. “What are you, the salmon police?”

“
Real
men don’t eat mango chutney.”

“They do if it’s the only thing they can find.”

Daisy faced him. “Are you telling me, out of this whole kitchen, salmon with
my
mango chutney is the only thing you could find?”

“It was the easiest.”

“The easiest?”

Max huffed. “Okay, fine. I ate your mango chutney.”

“Be careful, Max, or you might be tempted to try the blueberry sauce.”

Max remained conspicuously silent.

Daisy tilted her head. “You’ve had the blueberry sauce . . . and you
like
it.” She wagged her finger at him. “Admit it!”

“We were out of A-1.”

“Liar.”

“So, I tried your blueberry sauce. Big deal.”

“It
is
a big deal, considering all the crap you give me over my
bistro-dized
food. Why can’t you admit that you like my cooking?” She stepped toward him. “Would that be so hard?” Another step. “Would that be so tough? Would it totally and completely emasculate you to say,
Daisy, I like your mango—
”

His lips caught her next word. He snatched her at the curves of her shoulders and pulled her to him in one fluid move. When he released her, they both looked a little dazed.

“Sorry,” Max said. “I just wanted to shut you up.”

Not exactly the heartfelt sentiment she might’ve hoped for. But probably what she deserved.

“Want a ride home?” he asked, with something akin to resignation in his voice. “I’m going your way.” Max was almost out the door. “It’s not a hard question,” he said when her silence seemed forever.

“I can walk.”

“It’s just a ride in a truck. Not a marriage proposal.”

“I can definitely walk.”

“It was a joke. Why do you always make a big deal about everything?”

“You’re the one making it a big deal. I’m perfectly happy walking.”

“God, are you stubborn.”

“
Me
stubborn? What are
you
?”

“
Nice.
At least I’m trying. But you make it pretty damn hard.”

She started to disagree, had the words right on the tip of her tongue . . . then sighed them away. “Fine.”

Lettuce in hand, Daisy quickly passed him by. He flicked off the kitchen lights and followed her down the dimly lit hallway toward the back door.

“Just out of curiosity,” Max began, holding the door for Daisy. “How’d you know about Fitz’s brother? Marty. The one who died.”

“I’m a snoop, remember?”

“Yeah.” Down the steps. “But Fitz didn’t tell you that he was the one who shot him.”

“He told me his brother died in a hunting accident. I guess it was the way he looked. I made a short leap.”

“Good leap. You probably saved his life. And maybe a lot of others.”

It was weird thinking she might’ve saved Fitz’s life, especially since it had happened without risk to her own. Weird and uncomfortable.

“How did
you
know?” she asked as he unlatched the truck’s passenger door and pulled it open. “It doesn’t seem like something a guy would confess to his boss.”

“I recognized the symptoms and did a little digging. Do you want to talk about today?”

“No.”

“No?”

Daisy climbed into Max’s truck, understanding his surprise. She was an open book, after all, willing to talk about anything, and expecting the same from those around her, Max included. But this book she wanted closed. For the first time, she understood, just a little, why Max didn’t like her snooping in his library.

“No,” she repeated.

It was a short ride with some long thoughts, and Daisy was still waffling on an apology when the truck stopped at her cabin. “Thanks for the ride.”

“It was on my way.”

She looked at him, the dashboard lights warmly sprinkling his face, the scratchy stubble along his chin and cheeks, his eyes tired but nonetheless penetrating. Turning away, she started to pull the door latch, then, heart in her throat, she faced him. As if ripping off a Band-Aid, she blurted, “I’m sorry.”

Max had the expression of someone who’d just seen a pig fly. The words tumbled from her lips. “I said some horrible things to you this afternoon. I was upset and angry and none of it was your fault. I assumed the worst and I was wrong about that, too, although you let me assume the worst. And I think it’s awfully kind of you to put Fitz in rehab instead of jail, and I know you didn’t want to shoot Fitz, but you had to protect the rest of us and I’m really sorry about your plane getting banged up, even though I had nothing to do with that, but it’s still unfair considering how much you do for everyone around here and in spite of things that might be
questionable
, you really are, deep down, a decent guy.”