Spooning Daisy (32 page)

“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

A
lone 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
J
ULY
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 Otter 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.”

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.”