Authors: Maggie McConnell
“God, I hope not.”
Charity waved away her own concern. “Don’t know why I asked that. Of course, you don’t. By the time the turtles arrive at your kitchen, there’s probably nothing distinguishable about the meat at all. Kind of like looking at a rib eye and trying to visualize a cow.”
“True. But it’s better not to have a personal relationship with your food.”
“I’d feel the same way if someone served up a dog . . . or a horse.”
Daisy glanced at Charity.
“Some things are not meant to be eaten,” Charity concluded.
“I’m not sure anything with a heart is
meant
to be eaten,” Daisy said, knowing that philosophy didn’t mesh well with her profession. “But in spite of the turtle chowder, it’s a great offer.”
A red truck sped by them in the carpool lane.
“It’s not him,” Charity said; she steered into the carpool lane behind the red truck, which was rapidly escaping reach.
“What’s not him?”
“The red truck. It’s not Max.”
“
Max?
Of course, it’s not him. Why would you even say such a thing? Geez, Char.”
“Because every time there’s a red truck you stop breathing.”
“That’s ridi—”
“Don’t bother. I’m a psychologist and even if I weren’t, I know you too well. You’ve been here two days and not a single word about Max. You haven’t trashed him; you haven’t praised him. You didn’t even volunteer that he dropped his lawsuit; I had to
ask
about it. You’re acting like he doesn’t exist.”
“He doesn’t exist.”
Charity softened. “What in the world happened between you and Max?”
“Nothing.” Daisy turned her gaze to the passing landscape. “Because I wouldn’t let it. And now for my punishment, I have to make chowder out of Elizabeth’s family.” She shuddered.
Charity kept her equally repulsed reaction to herself. “You could always go back to Otter Bite.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Why not? I don’t want you to leave Seattle again, but hang out in Alaska until another offer comes along. You know it will.”
Daisy turned toward Charity. “Promise me you won’t meddle.”
“I never—”
“Promise!”
Charity surreptitiously crossed her fingers. “Fine.”
“Max asked me to leave. He sort of arranged my job at Blanchard’s and told me to take it. Then he gave me a check for $42,000—”
Charity gasped and shot her eyes to Daisy. “Forty-two thou—”
“Charity!” Daisy screamed at the glowing red lights on the stopped Jeep in front of them.
Charity slammed the brake pedal and the Jaguar skidded to a stop inches from the Jeep’s bumper. “Forty-two thousand?” Charity repeated, as the traffic started to creep along. “That’s quite a severance package.”
“It’s for my
Superman
comics. You probably don’t remember, but Max bought them at my garage sale. He sold them at auction.”
“And gave
you
the proceeds? That’s . . .
impressive
.”
“What’s impressive is how much he wanted me gone.”
Charity contained her smile. “That’s impressive, too.”
“So now can we stop talking about Max Kendall?”
“You love him, don’t you?”
They started across the bridge. Daisy gazed out onto the water at the single sailboat battling the whitecaps. “I’ll get over it. Pretty soon I’ll be too busy to even think about him.”
“So you’re taking the job at Blanchard’s?”
“I’d be crazy not to.” She looked at Charity with beseeching eyes. “Just don’t tell Elizabeth about . . . you know.”
Charity glimpsed Daisy long enough to catch the
I’m kidding, but not really
glimmer in her eyes. It was ridiculous, of course, worrying about Elizabeth’s feelings, but it was equally endearing and
sooo
Daisy. Was it any wonder Max loved her?
“Not a word to Elizabeth,” Charity promised.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
M
ax Kendall braked his mother’s black vintage Mercedes in front of the diner. He considered the odd-looking establishment that was tucked between a print shop and a dressmaker along a narrow side street dotted with parked cars.
THE
LOBSTER
SHACK
glowed in red neon above the mustard-colored double doors. Small windows on either side gave no clue as to what existed behind the brick front.
“Are you sure
this
is where you want to have lunch?” Max asked his mother in the passenger seat beside him.
“Yes, dear, absolutely,” Maeve Kendall insisted.
“Blanchard’s is only a few blocks away. Why don’t we eat there instead?”
For the third time, Maeve said, “I don’t want to eat at Blanchard’s. The Lobster Shack has the best cioppino I’ve ever tasted and the seafood chowder brings back memories of Ireland.”
Max scrutinized the diner again. “Really?”
“Y’ can’t judge a book by its cover.”
“Let’s hope not.”
A foursome of suits came up the sidewalk and one by one entered the diner through the mustard doors.
“It gets quite busy at lunchtime,” Maeve said. “I should go in and nab a booth while you park the car.”
“If you’re sure.” Max shifted into Park.
Maeve stopped his exit; she grabbed her black patent leather purse and swung open the door herself. “Try to park next to a nice car,” she said before gently closing the door.
Max waited until his mother was safely inside the diner, then he checked over his shoulder for traffic. A taxi passed and then a Mazda before the way was clear.
A parking space was available a few cars down, in front of an Indian boutique named Nirvana, but Max would be putting his mother’s beloved Mercedes between a work truck with a dented front fender and a rusted van with a hand-painted peace symbol on its rear.
The next space in front of an architect’s office looked promising. Behind was a silver Jaguar and in front was a shiny red Pathfinder with a Greenpeace bumper sticker on the left and a
SAVE
THE
TURTLES
proclamation on the right. He parked the Mercedes and an unexpected image of Elizabeth appeared in his mind before he banished that and every related thought.
Seven weeks had passed since he loaded up Daisy’s remaining boxes into the Homer Air 206 for the first leg of a long trip back to Seattle. Seven weeks and two days, to be precise, as if precision changed anything.
It had all blended together, one day into the next as he tried to keep it together with a lodge full of guests and one less plane, one less pilot, and one less chef. But the Tilt-A-Whirl was finally winding down. Fitz had returned two days ago, Max’s plane was due back next week, and Rita had a line on a chef after weeks of trying to duplicate Daisy’s recipes with mixed results. Now, after repeated calls from his doctor, he’d finally found the time for a post-surgical checkup and a visit with his parents—a quick two-day trip to Seattle.
Max locked the Mercedes and stepped onto the sidewalk. For the first time in years, he had no pain, no hitch, no limp. He walked briskly toward the diner, past the businesses lining the sidewalk while thinking that, one of these days, he’d have to thank Daisy for forcing the cure.
If
he ever saw her again. But what would he say if he did?
Remember me? I’m the guy who sent you packing . . .
What had he been thinking, suggesting Blanchard’s for lunch? Was he hoping for a glimpse of Daisy? Intending to spy on her? Or did he think seeing her happy would make him forget her?
Whatever he’d been thinking, he hadn’t been
thinking
, or he never would’ve entertained such a sentimental urge. Relief washed over him that he wasn’t at Blanchard’s now, making a fool of himself.
He arrived at the mustard doors in front of a trio of casually dressed women, but entered behind them after holding the door open. Their penetrating gazes and inviting smiles spoke volumes, but Max dismissed them with a smile, like background noise. A quick scan around the diner, rapidly filling to its small capacity, and Max found his mother hailing him from a corner booth. He passed the counter with its many occupied stools, doing a double take at a familiar blonde whom he couldn’t quite place, before shrugging it off and joining his mother.
The waitress had already delivered water and menus.
“How in the world did you find this joint?” he asked, perusing the laminated selections.
“A friend.”
“A friend?” Max looked up from the soup choices. “Which one of
your
friends would come to a place like this?” He checked out the rustic decor, reminiscent of a surfer’s shack If you stretched your imagination. Otherwise, it looked like a run-down café with fake palms crowding every corner. An untalented attempt at a mural of blue skies, ocean waves, and sandy beaches spread across one wall. But the real scene-stealer was a bubbling glass tank behind the counter filled with—no kidding—
plastic
lobsters.
“The food is excellent,” Maeve said. “And when did you become a snob?”
Max looked at his unmatched flatware, one tine on his fork slightly askew. “I have no idea.” He returned to the menu. Too bad the prices weren’t as cheap as the decor.
“Are you ready to order?” the waitress asked, appearing from the crowd. She wore a white T-shirt with the words
THE
LOBSTER
SHACK
emblazoned in red across her modest bosom.
“Yes,” Maeve answered brightly. “I’ll have the half plate of coconut shrimp to start, along with the salmon nuggets and a cup of chowder.”
“And I’ll have—” Max began before being silenced by a glare from Maeve. “Sorry. Thought you were done.”
“And I’d like a bowl of cioppino—”
“No cioppino today. Cook didn’t like the mussels.” The waitress sighed as if disapproval was a common, albeit annoying, occurrence in the kitchen.
“Then I’ll try the curried halibut with a side of chipotle salmon penne pasta and . . . let me see . . .
Max stared at his mother. “Are you kidding?”
“. . . the garden salad with blueberry vinaigrette,” Maeve continued. “For dessert, save me a bananas Napoleon. And I’ll have a Killian’s.”
The waitress finished writing on her pad, then turned to Max. “And for you?”
“Just bring me a Killian’s and a plate.”
The waitress nodded, took back the menus, and went to the next booth.
“You’re not eating?” Maeve asked.
“I’ll be eating plenty. Everything you don’t.” He trained his eyes on Maeve. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know what y’ mean.”
“You drag me down to some obscure diner that I
know
you would never go to, and then you order for a group of dockworkers.” The seconds ticked. “I’m waiting, Mother.”
“Fine. You’re so stubborn, y’ never would’ve come otherwise.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve found you a cook—”
Max jerked back. “What?”
“—for the lodge.”
“Mother—”
“Don’t
mother
me, Maxim Avery Kendall. Y’ve got poor Rita running ragged without a spare second for a personal life. Just because you aspire to be Uncle Arvis—”
“Enough with the pigeons.”
“—doesn’t mean y’ have to force that on your employees.”
Max sighed. “This summer has been tough on
everyone
.”
“So I’m helping out. I’ve found y’ a cook. And for your information, Jeanne brought me here and I’ve come back three times since, once with your da. And each and every time the food was the best.”
Max glanced around. “Uh-huh.”
“You’ll see.”
“Even so, Mom, you’re presuming a lot to think this cook would want to move to Otter Bite. The guy’s probably married . . . with a dozen kids . . . and has his own double-wide. He’s undoubtedly happy right where he is.”
“Well, now, depends on your offer, don’t y’ think?”
“Why don’t we try the food before we even go there.”
As if on cue, the waitress arrived with two beers, the coconut shrimp, the salmon nuggets, a cup of chowder, and the salad with blueberry vinaigrette. She placed an empty plate in front of Max.
“Y’ forgot the dipping sauce, dear, for the salmon nuggets.”
She surveyed the table. “Be right back.”
“Y’ve got to try this,” Maeve told Max as the waitress delivered a small bowl of pale orange sauce with bits of something vaguely familiar.
Max eyed the concoction, forked a salmon nugget, and dipped.
Maeve followed suit, blowing delicate puffs of air onto the hot salmon before popping it into her mouth. “Have y’ ever tasted anything so delicious?”
Stabbing salmon, Max repeated the process. “As a matter of fact, I have.”
“Order!” the waitress called, ripping a sheet off her pad and stuffing it in the turnstile.
“What is it?” Daisy whisked curry sauce in a small saucepan as halibut chunks cooked on the grill.
“Two salmon burgers and a spinach salad. And a woman at the counter wants
consommé tort-
something. Do we have that?”
Daisy softly laughed as she turned off the flame beneath the curry. “I’ll take care of it.” She flipped halibut chunks with a spatula. Then she grabbed a plate, scooped rice onto it, nested the halibut, and poured the curry over the mound. She set the steaming dish in the garnish line for her assistant to finish.
From the fridge, she grabbed two fresh salmon patties and placed them on the grill. Before they started sizzling, she was dishing out baby spinach from a large bowl onto a small oval platter. She set it in the garnish line for almonds and sweet mustard dressing. Then she ladled out a hearty helping of chowder and cut a slab of sourdough bread. “I’m taking a quick break,” she told her kitchen staff. “Watch the grill.”
“Daisy doesn’t know I’m here, does she?” Max asked his mother.
“Mmmm. Not exactly.”
“Then we can leave without her ever knowing.”
“But you haven’t tried the curry or the pasta.”
“I’m sure they’re delicious. Daisy’s an excellent chef.”
“I’ll tell her you said so,” the waitress said, delivering the two entrées.