Authors: Maggie McConnell
“Don’t bother. I mean, I’ll tell her myself—”
Not.
His escape from the booth blocked, Max drummed his fingers on the table.
“Anything else?” the waitress asked.
“The check.”
The waitress looked perplexed. “Should I bring the bananas Napoleon at the same time?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Maeve scowled at her son. “Yes!”
“Be right back,” the waitress said.
“Max, you’re acting foolish. A half hour ago, you were practically begging to go to Blanchard’s, as if I don’t know why. Now here’s your opportunity to do what y’ wanted to do all along and you’re like Haemish Hamlish.”
“
Who?
”
“Your cousin, twice removed. Youngest boy of your Aunt Eileen’s oldest daughter, Anna.”
Clueless, Max craned his neck for the waitress with his check. “I give. How am I like Haemish?”
“You’re being foolish.”
“Yeah, Mom, I got that. Look, I don’t know how you know about Blanchard’s or what you
think
you know about Daisy and me—”
“Rita told me everything. How grumpy you’ve been ever since Daisy left, your twenty-hour work days, you refusin’ to hire another cook.”
“I’m grumpy
because
I’m working twenty-hour days and I’m working twenty-hour days because I’m understaffed and I haven’t hired another
chef
because there haven’t been any good applicants and putting Daisy and me on a collision course will not change any of that. Can we go?”
“I differ with that opinion. And so does Dr. Wagstaff.”
“Who’s Dr. Wagstaff?”
“Don’t y’ remember? We met her at Daisy’s garage sale. She introduced herself as Charity.”
The honey-blonde at the counter
. He spun around to find Charity and was stunned by the sight of Daisy in these cheap surroundings, wrapped in a stained Lobster Shack apron, a ridiculous fifties hair net unnaturally helmeting her cherry-colored spirals.
Max always seemed to be there at her worst moments.
Then, unexpectedly, Daisy’s gaze left Charity; she casually scanned the crowd and stopped—along with his heart. Her eyes lost their smile and widened into horror—or so it seemed to Max. She gawked at him, then exploded into motion, dashing from the counter like a sprinter at the gun, crashing through the kitchen doors and disappearing from sight.
Max turned to Maeve. “You still think this was a good idea?”
Sadness tugged at her mouth. “I don’t understand. Charity said—”
“Apparently you and Charity don’t know everything.” He tossed a pair of hundred-dollar bills onto the table. “Let’s go.”
Reluctantly, Maeve obeyed, leaving plates of untouched food behind. They passed a speechless Charity, who looked as chagrined as Maeve. Max herded his mother out the door and into the drizzle of a typical Seattle afternoon.
Beneath the dim light of a bare bulb, Daisy stared at her reflection in the small cracked mirror of the employees’ bathroom. She looked absolutely hideous in her hair net and tacky apron, and imagined how much worse she appeared surrounded by fake palms and plastic lobsters.
In her fantasies, when she and Max met again, she was gorgeous and successful, in a starched white chef’s jacket, surrounded by expensive linen and gleaming china, and commanding a kitchen army. Not in a cheap diner like a whore on a street corner.
Why was Max always seeing her at her worst?
Three knocks on the bathroom door, and then Charity called her name. Daisy opened the door and Charity crowded inside.
“Are you okay?”
“No. I look like crap. Why did he have to see me like this,
here
, a complete and utter failure.”
“That’s why you ran? You’re ashamed?”
Tears welled. “Max is probably gloating up a storm right now. A short-order cook surrounded by fake palms and plastic lobsters, paper napkins and bent forks. And not even the head cook. The
lunch
cook.”
Charity cupped Daisy’s cheeks. “Listen to me. You’re not a failure. You’re the bravest person I know. You have principles and you’re willing to stand up for them. I’m proud of you for leaving Blanchard’s. Every night you made that stupid turtle soup, you died just a little. And you’d hate it if this diner had real lobsters. And I don’t believe Max thinks any less of you for working here. But if he does, then he’s a bigger moron than Haemish Hamlish—”
“Who?”
Charity waved away the question. “Some nut case. Tried to marry a goat. But that’s a different story.”
Daisy sat on the lidded commode. “Why did he have to come
here
? Of all the diners in all the cities in all the world, why’d he have to walk into this one?”
Charity innocently shrugged. “Who knows? But maybe this is a good thing. Maybe, now that he knows where you are . . .”
“He’ll what? Beg me to come back? Yeah, that’s going to happen. And I couldn’t, even if he did. It would seem like I was returning to get out of this dump instead of—”
“Going back because you want to?”
Sadness flooded her eyes. “It’s my
Brigadoon
.”
“Funny story.” Charity digressed. “I gave the DVD to my mom for Christmas. One of her favorite old movies. But she just stared at the case and then I realized she didn’t have a DVD player.” Charity chuckled but stopped when Daisy looked wretched. “Right. Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse. He gave up his world to live in hers.” Charity sighed. “You love Max that much?”
“I don’t know. But I think I’d like to find out.”
A pounding on the door startled them both. “Need some help out here, Daisy,” her assistant said.
Daisy wiped away an escaping tear. “I’ve got to get back to work.” She checked herself in the mirror, then turned away in resignation.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea. Let’s go out tonight. We’ll have a few drinks at Mama’s and forget all your problems.”
“I wish it were that easy.”
The pounding repeated. “Daisy!”
“Coming!” Daisy looked at Charity. “I’ll call you tonight.”
“Chin up, Daisy Mae. I promise, it’ll all work out.”
Daisy nodded without believing and then said, “I only caught a glimpse, but the woman with Max looked like his mother. Was that Maeve?”
“I think so.” As if Charity didn’t
know
so.
Daisy moaned. “I can imagine what
she
thinks.”
Chapter Forty
D
aisy whipped off her hair net, shook out her curls, and grabbed her purse, jacket, and the evening newspaper. She dashed out the front doors, passing a couple collapsing an umbrella before entering the diner. Hugging the buildings, she hiked up the sidewalk past the closed print shop toward her parked car, hurriedly stuffing her arms into her jacket as she went, then snuggled into the fleece against the cold drizzle.
She passed Nirvana as a woman in a sari locked the front door while her two daughters in blue jeans waited under the awning. Slowly the street emptied of its parked cars, headlights shining, wipers sweeping windshields, as businesses closed and people left for brighter, warmer locales. A jovial group of four men in similar tan trench coats spilled from the architect’s office into the fading daylight, then dispersed as the sky rumbled. Daisy stepped beneath the overhang and searched her purse for her car keys as the drizzle became a shower that turned into a downpour.
As she waited beneath the overhang, Daisy glanced at the front page of her damp newspaper. “Downtown Park Renovated and Reopened.” “Carjacking Leaves Driver Wounded.” “Cat Returns Home After Cross-Country Adventure
.
”
Drops of rain from her wet hair splattered the newsprint. Daisy folded the paper as a woman raced by, her heels splashing the rivulets. Across the street, a man and woman waited as she did, beneath the awning of a contractor’s office, their features obscured by the sheets of gray rain and encroaching dusk.
This is ridiculous
, Daisy thought, as if a little—or a lot—of rain could make her look or feel worse than she already did. It had been a miserable, dismal day and all she wanted was to go home to her tiny apartment and curl up on the couch with her laptop and Restaurant. com, searching for an available,
affordable
eatery she could make her own. Adding the money from the sale of the comics with her previous savings, she had $221,000 to spend on her dream.
A car stopped in the street and the woman from the contractor’s office dashed for the passenger side. Daisy decided to make the same dash for her car. She pressed the door unlock button hanging from her key chain; her car beeped and its lights blinked. She made her move as the man across the street made his.
She leapt over the gutter and threw open her door, tossing her purse into the passenger seat, then dove in after, slamming the door behind as the rain drummed her roof. She settled inside the fogged interior, then wiped the water from her face with the sleeve of her wet jacket. Someone pounded on her window. By the time she shot her finger to the lock button, her door was opening. But she wouldn’t give up her car without a fight. She grabbed for her purse and the small canister of pepper spray in the outside pocket, then spritzed the face leaning into her car.
“Daisy—” Max jerked back.
“Max?” Daisy froze, realizing what she’d done . . .
again
. Then she bolted from her car, intending to save the blinded man from the dangers of the street. Max stood by the red Pathfinder, blinking away the rain and sniffing the air, but otherwise unaffected.
“I’m so sorry, Max. Are you okay?”
“What the hell did you spray me with?”
Daisy looked at the Marc Jacobs purse-size perfume spray in her palm and laughed. “
Daisy
.”
“Nice,” he said.
“Jesus, Max, I thought you were a carjacker. What’re you doing here?”
Max looked at Daisy. Mascara smudged her eyes and her wet hair was plastered to her head, making her look like one of the Kewpie dolls his mom collected. He cleared the auburn strands from her face. Daisy closed her eyes for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he finally answered. “I mean,
I know
, but I’m thinking maybe I’m just another Haemish Hamlish.”
“The guy with the goat?”
“My cousin . . .” His expression pinched. “What goat?”
Daisy stared at Max; he stared back.
“Can we get out of this rain?” he asked.
She hesitated at what she wanted. Her tiny apartment?
The bed
in her tiny—
“Is there a decent bar nearby?”
“Up the street,” she said.
Daisy grabbed her keys and her purse. Max grabbed her hand.
“Bailey’s and coffee,” Daisy ordered from the waitress. “With extra whipped cream.”
Max ordered the same, but without the topping. He scanned the subdued bar, ran fingers through his damp hair, and looked at Daisy as if he wanted to say something.
Daisy abruptly scooted her chair back. “I’m going to dry off.” Max stood as she rose, although Daisy didn’t feel enough like a lady to deserve it.
She escaped into the bathroom, almost falling to her knees in gratitude at the electric hand dryer on the wall, then balked at her reflection in the mirror—she still wore her ridiculous apron. When she left the bathroom, spirals had returned to her hair, her eyes were more doe-like than raccoon, and her apron was in the trash.
Max said nothing, but his expression spoke surprise at the transformation. Daisy sat down and reached for her coffee, the mountain of whipped cream reminiscent of Mount St. Helens. Licking away the creamy top peak, she sipped from her cup.
He laid a postcard on the table. “This came for you a few days ago.”
Daisy contemplated the photograph. Nighttime fireworks exploded over the Magic Kingdom. The flipside held a child’s writing.
Dear Chef Daisy,
The doctor says Dad is doing good so we’re celebrating in Disneyland. Dad says it was your chowder that cured him! We lit a candle at the church and prayed for a second chance for Dad, and you too, since you didn’t say what to ask for.
Dad says everyone needs a second chance sometime so now you have one if you want it.
Sincerely yours,
Emily MacIntyre
Fighting unexpected tears, she took a deep breath. And another, her eyes still on Emily’s message. When she felt in control, she looked at Max, who was watching her.
“I guess I was right,” he said.
“About?”
“The postcard being important.”
“You read it?” Then Daisy shook her head and shot her eyes to the heavens, knowing her question was stupid.
“It’s hard not to read a postcard.” Smiling. “So . . . what happened to Blanchard’s?”
She sighed. “
La chaudrée de tortue
.”
He tried to keep a straight face. “Elizabeth wouldn’t like that.”
“Me neither.” Sipping her coffee, she licked whipped cream from her lip. “I guess I’m not the chef I thought I was.”
“The
person
is more important than the chef.”
“Yeah, well, Blanchard’s wanted a chef.”
“Daisy . . .”
“How’s Fitz doing?” As if she didn’t know. She’d talked to him two days ago as he was leaving rehab.
“One day at a time.”
“And Rita?” As if she didn’t know. She’d talked to her last week.
“She’s fine, too.” He took a breath. “Daisy . . .”
“And Napoleon?”
“He’s fine. Buster is fine. Everyone is fine. As if you don’t know.”
She settled her eyes on her coffee, wrapping both hands around the warm cup.
“Look, Daisy, the reason I came . . .”
She swiped a forefinger through the whipped cream, sucking it off her skin.
“I’m not a pimp—”