Authors: Maggie McConnell
Max blinked and Daisy was out of the truck. She shut the door on his astonishment and disappeared into her cabin.
Max wasn’t sure how long he stayed in front of Daisy’s cabin with the engine idling. But finally he pulled himself out of the shock of Daisy’s . . .
apology?
. . . long enough to shift into gear and drive away.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
D
aisy was climbing into bed when the knocking on her front door stopped her. She threw her pink terry cloth robe over her extra-large T-shirt, and shoved her feet into her slippers. Louder this time, the knocking repeated.
She flicked on the kitchen light. “Who is it?”
“Fitz.”
Her heart sank; she realized how much she had wanted it to be Max. She flipped the deadbolt and opened the door, spilling light into the dusk.
Frozen at the sight of her visitor, she drew a blank before the obvious sputtered from her lips. “You’re not Fitz.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d open the door if you knew it was me.”
Her heart was back where it
otter
be, thumping madly. “That’s just plain silly.”
“I’m still standing on your porch.”
“It’s two thirty in the morning.”
“I have a question.”
“At two thirty in the morning?”
“Back in my truck . . . was that an apology?”
“You couldn’t tell?”
“Well, you kind of blamed me for letting you assume some things and you included something about my questionable behavior, which sort of muddies the water.”
“You could’ve told me that Fitz wasn’t going to jail.”
“It wasn’t your business.”
“You
wanted
me to think the worst.”
“No, I just figured, given the choice, you would.”
“You set me up.”
“You set yourself up. You look for the bad and you find it.”
Daisy snuggled into her robe. “I find it because it’s usually there.”
“You want it to be there so you can have moral superiority.”
“Before you can speak intelligently about morals, you should at least have some. Or have you forgotten about the blonde?”
“Dwelling on past mistakes
that I can’t change
doesn’t do me any good. Obviously, you feel differently. And just out of curiosity, do you suppose there’ll ever be a time when you won’t hold that—and everything else—against me?”
Daisy parted her lips to say . . . what? That, without the blonde, she had no defense against him? That, without the blonde, she might let herself love him? That, without
everything else
, she might have to rethink her life and all that she thought she wanted . . . ?
“That’s that, then.” Max reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the folded check. “Here.”
Daisy unfolded it. “Jiminy Christmas! What’s this for?”
“Your comics. From the garage sale. Remember that?”
“Yeah, but—”
“I said you might have some valuable issues.”
“Y’ think? But I can’t take this.” Handing it back. “You bought the comics. The money’s yours.”
“Why don’t you let me have moral superiority just this once. Use the money for your restaurant. It’s the only thing you really care about.”
“It’s not the
only
thing—”
“Geoff Blanchard made you a good offer. You should take it.”
Daisy didn’t have to ask how Max knew about the offer. “I wouldn’t feel right leaving you in the lurch.”
“I’ve been in the lurch before and it’s heaven to where I am right now. Besides,” he added, taking the edge off, “I’ve already hired someone.”
Her heart dropped. “You’ve hired someone?”
“Yes.”
She swallowed her protest, mustered her pride. “Then . . . this is my two-week notice.”
“Two weeks or two hours. We’ll manage.”
“The least I can do is stay until your chef arrives.”
“Not necessary.”
“But—”
“Look—the sooner you’re gone, the sooner you can stop blaming me for your unhappiness. And the sooner we can all get on with our lives.”
Daisy had no words. No snappy comeback. No stinging retort.
He started to turn, then turned back. “What things are
questionable
?”
“What?”
“In the truck, you said there are things that are questionable.
What
things?”
“C’mon, Max. I’m not a complete idiot. The fake photos on your website, no wives.
Massages
in the guest rooms at two in the morning,
without
a table. It’s as obvious as a red neon vacancy sign on a midnight highway.”
“You think I’m a pimp.”
“I think you run a legitimate business with a few
extras
thrown in. Which is why you want to fly under the radar.”
Max wanted to say something else, Daisy could tell, but he let it go with his breath, as if he’d run out of steam. Seconds later, he was gone, the gray-blue dusk rushing to fill the emptiness as if he’d never been there.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“W
ell, Daisy, you’ve had the grand tour, what do you think?”
Geoff Blanchard offered a padded leather chair.
Daisy smoothed her suit skirt and took the seat as Geoff sat in the adjacent one. “Your kitchen is state-of-the-art, as you know. And the dining room . . .” She practically shivered at the elegance. At eight in the morning, Blanchard’s was a sleeping beauty. Celadon china, cut crystal goblets, celery-colored linens, satin wallpaper atop bamboo wainscoting, and glittering chandeliers. The black baby-grand in the center, surrounded by snowy pillars and lush bamboo plants, inspired a forties retro ambience. All to magically awaken with the gentle kiss of the setting sun. She could hear the ivory keys and the clinking of goblets, smell the melting butter and the exotic spices, and imagined her reflection in the mirrored silver of the serving dishes. In short, Blanchard’s was everything Daisy had ever wanted... “I can’t think of a single thing I would change.”
“Quite a difference from Wild Man.”
Daisy smiled. “Worlds apart.”
“A chef with your talent shouldn’t be cloistered in Otter Bite, no offense to Max, of course. I love the lodge. But Seattle is the adrenaline in my veins, and I think you feel the same.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“I can imagine how Max reacted to mango chutney,” Geoff continued, amused. “
Real men don’t eat mangoes
,” he added in a deep, mimicking voice before chuckling. “I bet you had your hands full dragging Max from his cave.”
Daisy smiled, but shifted uneasily in her chair. “Actually, Max loved my mango chutney. And my blueberry sauce. I left two dozen jars.”
“The wild man himself eating steak with blueberry sauce? Now that’s something I have to see!”
“It’s not that big a deal.”
His smile eased. “It’s funny how people surprise you sometimes.”
“Speaking of surprises . . .” Daisy shifted from one cheek to the other. “There’s something you should know . . . before you hear it from someone else.”
“I’m intrigued.”
“Well . . . there was this
little
incident at Fireflies—”
“If this is about the china, I already know.”
Her shoulders sagged. “I assumed Max might’ve mentioned it—”
“Actually, Daisy, I talked with Jason.” A wry smile. “No love lost there.” Geoff leaned forward in his chair. “Admittedly, it gave me second thoughts. I mean, fifty thousand in damages—”
“It was only
thirty
thousand, and I paid for it,” she countered, before realizing that didn’t sound much better. “There were extenuating circumstances.”
Geoff chuckled. “So Max told me.”
“
Max?
”
“He didn’t volunteer it, if that’s what you’re worried about. No, I spoke with Jason first, when I was thinking about making you this offer. And then I asked Max what he thought, knowing he wouldn’t mince words.” Geoff relaxed into the chair. “Quite honestly, if someone screwed me out of my restaurant, I might act the same. Besides, you spent ten years at Fireflies. C’mon.”
So Max had pleaded her case. Probably gave her a glowing review just to get rid of her all the faster.
“You should know that Max wasn’t in a hurry to let you go. I mean, it took a few weeks for the obvious to become apparent.”
“The obvious?”
“What’s in Otter Bite? A chef with your talent and ambition needs an audience who appreciates a brilliant performance. It’s like Meryl Streep playing Walla Walla. Max flies under the radar, almost like he doesn’t want people to know about the lodge. And you should be in the spotlight, Daisy, not working in obscurity.”
Not too long ago, she had thought the same.
“But I admire his pragmatism. It was only a matter of time before someone came along and stole you away. Why prolong the inevitable? Face it, Daisy, you and Wild Man were just a fling. But you and Blanchard’s”—he leaned forward—“we’re talking marriage.” After a moment to let things settle, Geoff once again relaxed. “So, Daisy, what do you think?”
“Well, you sure put things into perspective.”
“I knew you and I would think alike.” Geoff lifted the forest-green, leather-bound menu off his desk. He handed it to Daisy as if it were the Bible.
Daisy checked out the cover—
Blanchard’s
in gold script diagonally across the front. then opened it. A quick perusal and she looked at Geoff. “It’s in French.”
“
Très élégant, oui?
”
“Yes, I mean,
oui
, but not everyone speaks French.”
“They should, don’t you think?”
“
Bien sûr
,” she agreed. “But for those who don’t?”
Geoff waved away her concern. “We have a menu with subtitles. Although most of our patrons either ask for translation or just give it a go. Like opening a package on Christmas.”
Daisy dropped her gaze to the crisp linen paper and the black script. She started at the top with the hors d’oeuvres and then followed with the
salades
as Geoff continued talking.
“In time, you’ll have an opportunity to add your own selections and, of course, you’ll be responsible for the
du jour
menu, within the Blanchard parameters, of course. It’s where we try out the exotics.”
Daisy glanced up. “Exotics?”
“Pheasant, wild boar . . .
médaillons de cheval.
Et cetera, et cetera.”
Her brow lifted. “
Cheval?
”
“Is there a problem?”
“This isn’t Tokyo.” She remembered Buster’s kind eyes and soft muzzle. “I’m surprised Seattleites would eat
cheval
.”
“People want the nouveau and the avant-garde—”
Daisy dropped her eyes to the
soupes
.
“That’s what we give them—”
She blinked at the elegant words on the elegant parchment—
la chaudrée de tortue Blanchard.
She read the words again—
la chaudrée de tortue—
as Geoff continued gushing.
“—with a few traditional selections which are the cornerstone of Blanchard’s.”
“
Chaudrée de tortue
. . . ?”
“
Chaudrée de tortue
Blanchard
.
Very popular. Not another Seattle restaurant serves it.”
Of all the restaurants in all the cities in all the world, I had to walk into this one.
She closed the menu and forced a smile.
Ten minutes later, Daisy was on the curb by the
VALET
PARKING
sign, waiting for her ride. Overcast but pleasant, the day held the promise of a sunny afternoon. People in suits passed her on the sidewalk as they exited the corner Starbucks. Cars, taxis, buses, delivery trucks crisscrossed the street. She scanned the buildings around her, the high-rise offices and the luxury condos; she could smell, albeit faintly on the same breeze that ruffled her red spirals, the fish coming off the docks near Pike Place Market.
Everything had worked out perfectly. Looking back, Daisy marveled at the circuitous route she’d taken to get here, standing on the curb outside of Blanchard’s.
Like dominoes—Charity, Jason, Tina, Rita, Max—they’d pushed her back to the beginning, which is where she wanted to be. Blanchard’s wasn’t quite her own restaurant—but neither, as it turned out, was Fireflies. Still, the salary was great and the exposure, even better. Charity had been right. People forget.
Or, in Daisy’s case, whatever you can’t forget you stuff into a memory drawer and pretend.
Two taps from a car horn jolted Daisy from her thoughts. She quickly passed between the front and tail of two parked cars and slid into the passenger seat of Charity’s silver Jaguar.
“Well . . . ?” Charity asked, checking the side mirror before pulling into traffic.
“I finally know someone more pretentious than me.”
“How is that possible?” Charity maneuvered into the left turn lane behind a BMW.
“Believe me, it was a shock.”
“Oh, Daisy,” Charity said as they waited for the arrow, “there’s not a pretentious bone in your body. So how was it really?”
“Three words.
Chaudrée de tortue
.”
“Oooh.”
“
Oooh
is right.”
“No way around it?”
“A cornerstone and very popular,” Daisy said, paraphrasing Geoff’s words. “I don’t see how I can get around
that
.”
A horn blasted from behind. Both women shot eyes forward. The BMW was gone and the arrow had changed to yellow. Charity gunned the Jag and whipped around the corner as the opposing traffic converged into the intersection. A screech of tires, a second, heavy-handed horn blast—then a shiny red truck bore down upon their back bumper. His engine revved and he roared past, the driver’s middle finger shooting at them.
“Neanderthal jerk,” Charity grumbled.
“Ditto.”
They headed for the I-5 on-ramp and the Tacoma Narrows Bridge beyond, along with a herd of other vehicles.
“Y’know,” Charity finally said as they cruised into the center lane. “It’s not like you have to kill the turtles yourself.” She paused. “Do you?”