Authors: Maggie McConnell
He pulled himself from his comfort 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
“W
elcome,” 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.
“But he has insurance, right?” Daisy asked.
“Sure. And a $5,000 deductible. With one less pilot and one less plane, he’s gonna have to contract with charters
if
they aren’t already booked solid with their own clients. I don’t even know what that will cost, but it ain’t gonna be cheap.”
Plus, until Max’s knee was fully functioning,
Molly-Anne
needed a captain.
Daisy dropped like a rock onto Rita’s sofa. Roughly adding everything, she figured Max’s knee had toppled $85,000 in dominoes. By comparison, the $25,000 Max wanted from her was chump change. Maybe...
Wait. What had Max inadvertently told her?
I banged it up pretty good a few years back and it’s been an accident waiting to happen
.
Chump
was right.
“You almost had me,” Daisy said. “But Max’s knee was already banged up. He told me it was an accident waiting to happen.”
“Can you honestly say you don’t feel even the tiniest bit responsible for what happened to Max? That you had absolutely
nothing
to do with it?”
“I’m not responsible for Max’s problems. I don’t blame
him
for the china I broke.”
“Max wasn’t there when you did that.”
Her brow pinched. “If he’d left the restaurant when I wanted . . .”
“So this is Max’s fault?”
“Not completely. I mean, it’s no one’s fault . . . except for maybe Jason. And Tina.”
“Sounds like it’s everyone’s fault but yours. Of you four, Max was the innocent bystander.”
“Not completely innocent. He knows Tina.”
“Is that why you’re punishing him?”
From a pinch to a scowl. “I’m not punishing Max! And you’ve heard only one side of the story.”
“I haven’t heard
any
side. Max isn’t much of a talker.”
“Then how do you know about the lawsuit?”
“I get the mail. I answer phones. And I snoop in his desk. I’ve seen the letters from his lawyer. And I took a call from Tina once.”
If the mention of Tina hadn’t knotted her stomach, Daisy might’ve taken a moment to admire Rita’s sleuthing.
“Max wouldn’t sue if he had any other choice. He’s a stand-up guy.”
“Unless the situation calls for him to be lying down.”
“Not that I think Max needs defending,” Rita began. “But he hasn’t been with anyone else since you’ve been here. And he’s had opportunity. Including Tina.”
“And I should applaud his restraint?”
“No. You should open your eyes and see what’s in front of you. But if you can’t do that . . . you should leave.”
Rita’s suggestion stopped Daisy’s heart—or so it felt. Which was crazy, since leaving is exactly what Daisy had wanted to do—what she now
could
do—thanks to Geoffrey Blanchard.
“Max has an awful lot of stuff going wrong,” Rita added. “He might have to cancel reservations for this season. If he loses income, on top of the extra expenses, he’ll have to put his plans on hold.”
“What plans?” That fast, she cursed herself for asking.
“Max was going to add on this winter. Guest cabins for next season. But that takes money.”
Why her rum and Midori cocktail popped into her mind, Daisy wasn’t sure, but a niggling sense of guilt followed. Still, this lodge
reeked
of money. “Max doesn’t seem to be hurting.”
“You don’t know what goes on behind the curtain.”
“He sure as hell isn’t running a charity, I know that.”
“Then you know diddly,” Rita said. “You’re not the only one who has dreams. Some people are just quieter about theirs.”
Daisy didn’t want to appear to be fleeing, but she couldn’t get out of Rita’s cabin fast enough. Stammering something about being late for dinner prep, she dashed out the door and kept right on walking.
All the way to the lodge, she tried to shake Rita’s words. Rita was Max’s friend; of course she was on his side. But there wasn’t malice in what she had said. Bluntness, yes, but Rita was going only for a wake-up call, not the jugular.