Spooning Daisy (6 page)

A raindrop pinged her nose. Another splattered her cheek. Snuggling into her jacket, she frowned at the skies, which seemed to be one more force against her.

Turning into the rolling tide, the
Columbia
shimmied and lurched as it collided with whitecaps and a crosswind. A landlubber down to her floral panties, Daisy grabbed the polished teak rail with both hands.

“First time at sea?”

Turning her head, Daisy met a distinguished-looking man in a starched white uniform. Maybe ten years older than she, he had the commanding presence of an ancient mariner. She released one hand from the rail only long enough to chase hair away from her eyes.

“Shouldn’t you be driving the boat?” she asked, only half kidding.

The man chuckled and joined her at the rail. “Actually, the
Columbia
qualifies as a ship and I’m not the captain, but thank you. I’m the medical officer, Dr. Adam Bricker—”

Adam Bricker?
Why did that name sound familiar?

“—And it would please me immensely to be of service to you, Miss . . .”

“Daisy,” she answered, attempting a smile at his officer-and-a-gentleman demeanor.

“Miss Daisy? It sounds like I should be driving
you
.”

“It’s not
Miss Daisy
. I mean, Daisy is my
first
name.” She sighed. “Daisy Moon. Landlubber.”

His smile was disarming. “So why would a landlubber be on a slow ferry to Alaska when a jet can get you there in three hours?”

“First of all,
landlubber
extends to the air as well.” She paused, thinking she ought to save some of her problems for the next poor schmuck who stumbled across her path. But Dr. Bricker’s expression was so warm and inviting, his concern genuine, his demeanor commanding, his shoulders broad, his uniform so very white and starched . . .

“The thing is, I’m sort of moving to Alaska and I have my SUV packed with stuff, and”—Daisy rolled her eyes as if she couldn’t believe what she was spilling—“there are no roads to where I’m going. Only ferry and planes. So here I am. On a slow boat—sorry,
ship
—to Otter Bite.”

“Sounds like you’re in for some pretty vicious otters—”

Daisy laughed. As if she hadn’t a care in the world.

“—and judging from that shiner, it looks like you’ve already encountered one.”

Daisy’s right hand flew to her cheek, then just as quickly returned to the rail. “Actually, this happened because of something I
otter
not have done.”

Adam chuckled. But he had been right about the otters in Otter Bite—or at least one of them.

Upon first hearing the name, she had expected Bite to be
Bight
, but fifty-some years ago the residents of the tiny bay community chose a play on words after a sea otter bit an inebriated Vincent Ostrovski during a fight over a fish. What started as a joke, the Otter Bite website explained, ended with an official name change.

Dr. Bricker pulled back and appraised Daisy. “So what brings a charming young lady to a bend in the coast where the otters most certainly outnumber the people?”

“That, Doctor, is a long and not very interesting story.”

“I doubt it’s not interesting and as for being long, we have five days before we make Skagway.”

There it was again, that disarming smile. “Actually, four days. I’m getting off at Haines.”

“Then we
otter
not waste a minute. You can start your very fascinating tale at dinner tonight.”

Daisy inched back.

“I’m an officer
and
a gentleman,” Adam said.

“I’m sure, but—”

“You’re married. Of course. Please forgive—”

“No,” Daisy said in a rush. “I mean, I was involved, but I’m not now. It’s just been a little difficult getting back into, y’ know,
life
.”

“It’s only dinner.”

“Yeah, well, the last man I went to dinner with is suing me.” Did she really confess that?

“Now I’m hooked.”

Still hesitant, Daisy silently sped through the worst-case scenario. It was a large ferry with space for 134 cars and 931 passengers—the largest of the Alaskan fleet, in fact. Daisy had made sure of that when she booked passage; she wanted a lot of buffer between her and the deep blue sea. Surely, if dinner was a fiasco, she could avoid Adam for the duration of the trip, even remain in her cabin if need be—it was the best cabin available, with a queen bed and a sitting area
and
an outside window. Not bad accommodations for hiding out—if it came to that.

“Tell you what, Daisy,” Adam said when Daisy hadn’t answered. “If you decide to grace me with your presence at dinner, I’ll be waiting in the lounge at”—Adam slid back his jacket sleeve for a consult with a watch that looked like a Rolex—“eighteen hundred. In the meantime, why don’t I escort you safely back to your cabin. Unless you prefer standing in the rain.”

Soot-colored clouds were assembling like an invading army. On her cheeks, Daisy felt the beginning pricks of their cold, wet assault. She started to shiver. “I guess it would be stupid to stay here.”

Adam offered his cocked elbow. “You have to let go of the rail.”

Daisy glanced at her frigid hands, still throttling the teak. “You never know when the next wave will hit.”

“I guarantee smooth sailing.”

She looked skeptical.

“If not, I know where the lifeboats are. I’m a veritable cornucopia of information, and someone you
otter
know.”

Daisy smiled. If only Charity could see her now—cold and shivering but moving on, taking risks, letting go . . . as soon as she could unclench her frozen fingers. Maybe Charity had been right. Maybe Max Kendall—however much she never wanted to think about him again—had actually done her a favor. No date could ever be as disastrous as that encounter.

“Go ahead, ask me anything,” Adam said.

“There is something I’m curious about. The initials in front of the ship’s name,
Columbia
. What does the M/V stand for?”

“And here I thought you’d be asking about the lost gold.”

“The lost gold?” Her eyes opened into saucers before she realized the joke. “Okay, I’m gullible.”

“Better gullible than jaded,” Adam said. “And the M/V stands for maritime vessel.
Now
may I escort you inside?”

Chapter Seven

D
aisy woke in the dark, disoriented; she had to think where she was. When she started to rise, the cabin swirled and she fell back into bed. Was she seasick?

The Inside Passage had been unusually rough last night; she felt every subtle vibration, every infinitesimal thrust and retreat of the ship as it fought the waves. But the bottle of wine she and Adam shared at dinner had been tranquilizing; her head barely hit the pillow before she was out like a light.

She dismissed the possibility of a hangover. Three glasses of wine spread over four hours would hardly put her under the table. No. It must be the sea; her inner ear simply wasn’t accustomed to constant rocking.

She took deep breaths and the dizziness subsided. She slowly rolled her head toward the bedside clock; the illuminated numbers glowed red:
4: 28.

The last she remembered knowing the time was about ten o’clock last night. She and Adam had finished their crème brûlées. Daisy went to the ladies’ room and while there, looked at her watch. She’d been surprised by how late it was.
Time flies . . .
When she returned to the table, they finished the wine. After that, her recollection was spotty.

She switched on the bedside lamp; soft light washed the soothing seafoam-green walls. Feeling steady, she eased out of the sheets and into her slippers. Without a single wobble—perhaps she had finally found her sea legs—she walked the short distance to her window and parted the damask curtains.

Towering lights illuminated the dock, banishing the night as workers moved into and out of her sight, readying the ferry for its Alaskan journey. No wonder she was steady—they weren’t moving. A slight shudder and Daisy felt the engines come alive. Barely in her view, a line of cars started to advance. This must be
Columbia
’s first port, Prince Rupert in British Columbia.

Releasing the curtains, she turned toward her cabin. The best available, it was still small. On the lower deck were passengers without a cabin. She seemed to remember them from last night, rolling out their sleeping bags in the ship’s solarium—mostly the young and adventurous who didn’t mind sleeping among strangers or sharing communal bathrooms. Daisy shuddered at the thought. Besides, she had Elizabeth to think about. She couldn’t exactly cart her around and she wasn’t about to leave her unattended in the open where anybody could snatch her. And Daisy wasn’t good at roughing it. This cabin was about as rough as she cared to get. As it was, she had brought her own sheets and pillow for the bed, thanks to a television exposé about hotel sheets and body fluids that didn’t come out in the laundry.

Yet, here she was on a slow boat—“Boat, ship, whatever!” Daisy grumbled—heading to Otter Bite and the Wild Man Lodge. The idea of being executive chef at Wild Man hadn’t sounded so bad when it was just something she was going to do. But now that she was actually
doing
it . . .

Trying to bolster hope, Daisy retrieved the manila envelope from her suitcase, spread open on the compact couch. Inside the envelope was everything she knew about Wild Man Lodge: the PR brochure, a copy of the menu, photos off the website, and correspondence from Rita Jakolof, including the letter offering Daisy the job and the agreed-upon salary.

Rita had come to Seattle to interview Daisy, as well as three other applicants.
All men
, Rita had confided, intimating that Daisy’s gender gave her the advantage—although she heard Rita mumble something about catching hell. Apparently in Otter Bite women were at a premium, and Rita was starved for female friendship. Nor did it hurt that Rita couldn’t get enough of Daisy’s cooking, being particularly enamored of her mango chutney on salmon. One thing could be said about Rita, she was a robust eater. Four hors d’oeuvres, two salads, one soup, three entrées, and four desserts later, she had found her chef.

An Otter Bite native who could trace her fraternal roots back to the Russian settlers of the 1800s and her maternal roots back to the Alutiiq people a thousand years before that, Rita was the lodge manager and a Jill-of-all trades handling a plethora of duties including supervision of the kitchen and housecleaning staffs. With long raven-black hair, luminous brown eyes and latte skin, she might’ve been plucked from the pages of a Zane Grey novel, except of course for the designer jeans and tight sweater accentuating her voluptuous figure. Rita was as easygoing as Daisy was tightly wound, seemingly unconcerned that the lodge was fully booked for the season and had no chef. Nor did she care about Daisy’s impressive credentials—

“The royal what?” Rita had asked when Daisy rattled off her membership in the Royal Academy of Chefs. “And all they give you is a spoon? Doesn’t seem worth belonging.”

Nor did the reason behind Daisy’s job search faze her; Daisy hadn’t cared enough to gloss over it. In fact, her problems with Jason seemed to be a plus.

“Grandmother poisoned Grandfather once,” Rita had said. “She found him messin’ with Kitty Shelikov. Wasn’t lookin’ to kill him. Just wanted to give him something to think about.”

Rita Jakolof was immensely likeable.

Perusing the brochure, Daisy wished now that she’d asked more questions; for instance, who was this M. K. Endall listed as owner/pilot, and what was he like? Wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, the man was but a small part of the photo, which was consumed by an old floatplane looking glued together and bearing the faded words
Wil Man odge
on its fuselage. A website photo had him holding a fishing pole on the deck of a small barge that looked like it had been resurrected from the ocean bottom. But Daisy hadn’t asked that question or all the others now filling her head because she hadn’t actually expected to take the job. She’d sent in her résumé between Thanksgiving and Christmas, when she was at her most depressed and the prospect of getting out of Seattle seemed like a godsend. Two months passed. Two months of unreturned phone calls and no job offers. She had forgotten about Wild Man, and then Rita called. The day of her cooking interview, Daisy had received two rejections from restaurants in San Francisco. In a panic, she’d accepted the job at Wild Man, grateful for someplace to go and relieved to be wanted. The questions never materialized. At least the salary was generous—surprisingly generous, given the dilapidated look of the lodge—and it came with room and board, although she dreaded what that might entail, since that was another question she hadn’t asked.

Daisy could’ve stayed in Seattle,
if
she didn’t mind being the cook at Adam’s Ribs for $11.75 an hour. Yes, she had actually gone to the interview—something she’d told no one, not even Charity. That’s when she knew she was desperate. And desperation makes a person do crazy things. There was no way she could suck in her pride and work for Adam’s Ribs or the Lobster Shack—she had answered that ad, too—or any other establishment that offered bibs and takeout.

But Wild Man Lodge at least
sounded
intriguing, and her friends applauded her adventurous spirit; some even commented that they wished they had the courage for such a daring move.

If only they knew
, Daisy silently lamented, returning the envelope to her suitcase.

Her lawsuit against Jason had cut her savings in half. She made money on the sale of her house, but she had to pay for the china she’d broken or have her misdeed become a police record. Fortunately she hadn’t destroyed all the dishes or her restitution would’ve been four times what it was. Then there were the damages at Mama Mia’s. And now Max Kendall wanted $25,000.

If she had left her job at Fireflies without a fuss, she’d have all that money plus the $50,000 Jason had offered as severance—if she had signed a “non-comp” agreement. She might even have her own restaurant instead of working for someone else—again. But her pride wouldn’t let her be dumped like dishwater. Not after
ten years.