Authors: Maggie McConnell
“
My
world.
Yours
is a little fucked, I think.”
“Look, Knife—”
“You saved my daughter’s life,” Pete interrupted. “That gives me not only the right, but the
obligation
to meddle in yours.”
“Meddle all you want. It won’t change squat.”
“How’s the knee?”
“Had surgery some weeks back. Had to hire a pilot to help out. Could be worse.”
“How ’bout a loan until you’re back on both feet?”
“If I want debt, I’ll go to a bank.”
“You wouldn’t have to pay me back. I owe you.”
“I don’t see it that way.”
“Pride is a double-edged sword, Clutch.”
Max softened. “If I need your help, I’ll ask. This isn’t about pride. It’s simple economics.”
“Insurance is paying?”
“Sure.”
“I like what you’re doing here, Max. Let me help.”
“I’m good. The lodge is good. There’s just no need.”
“And your building plans?”
Max shrugged. “Bigger isn’t always better. I may hold off.”
“I’ve been looking for a good investment.”
Max looked him square in the eyes. “Then you should look somewhere else.”
Pete wasn’t convinced, but he let it go—for now. “About Daisy . . .”
Max huffed. “Surely there are other things two old friends can talk about.”
“She’s really gotten under your skin, hasn’t she?”
“Like the Ebola virus. Want me to book Jasmine? She asks about you.”
Pete smiled. “I could use a few sessions to blow out the pipes.”
“I’ll have Rita schedule it.”
“Do you ever use the ladies, Max?”
“I sign their paychecks; it would be awkward. Besides, I have Rita.”
“I’m sure Rita’s great, but she’s not a professional.”
“Hey, guys,” Rita called, coming into the lounge from the kitchen. “Sorry to interrupt, Max, but Clyde Standish is on the phone. Says it’s urgent.”
“Keep Knife company.”
Rita took the stool Max had vacated. “I’d love to be a fly on the wall for that conversation.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well,” she began in a confidential tone, “I’m not supposed to know this, but Clyde Standish is an attorney from Seattle. I’ve seen his name on some envelopes in Max’s office.”
“Why does Max need a Seattle lawyer?”
“I don’t know all the details,” she said in a hush. “But it has something to do with Daisy. Today I picked up a letter at the post office addressed to Daisy from a different Seattle attorney.”
“And you think the two are related?”
“A couple weeks back I saw some papers on Max’s desk.”
“
Saw?
”
“Saw, read . . .” She shrugged.
Pete checked a grin. For someone who wasn’t supposed to know anything, Rita knew a lot.
She glanced over her shoulder at the door, then leaned into Pete. “Max is suing Daisy.”
Pete jerked back. “Suing Daisy? Okay, Rita, start at the beginning.”
“Well . . . Daisy was having a garage sale . . .”
Max shot forward in his chair as he barked into the phone. “I told you weeks ago to drop this! How the hell did this happen?”
“Calm down, Max,” Clyde said. “I’ve been in court the last three weeks. My PA mailed out the wrong letter, that’s all. Nothing we can’t retract, if you really want to. But you should know that Ms. Moon’s attorney called me after he got the letter and I got the impression he might support a settlement. So this little mix-up could be to your benefit.”
“Believe me, this little mix-up is gonna cause me nothing but—” He stopped short; a lit stick of dynamite stared at him from the doorway. “I’ll get back to you,” he said, hanging up the phone.
“You bastard!” Daisy shook her lawyer’s letter at him. “You scheming, conniving, vindictive, lying sonofabitch. I can’t believe I let myself... that I actually thought—”
Max leaned forward. “Thought what?”
“That you might have some redeeming qualities—”
He settled back.
“—but you keep proving me wrong.”
“Look, Daisy, if that letter is what I think it is, it’s a mistake.”
“You better believe it’s a mistake. And if you think I’m giving you one penny . . . well, you’re just stupider than I thought.”
“If you shut up, I’ll explain.”
“I don’t need your explanations. It’s all very clear what’s going on. This is payback for my
rejecting
you.”
Max stared at her. “Talk about stupid—”
Daisy stomped toward his desk. “I happen to know that you dropped this lawsuit—”
“I did?”
“Weeks ago. I found the letter from Clyde Standish in your duffel bag—”
“What letter?”
“The letter that said he was withdrawing the complaint. And don’t try to deny it,” she added when his face pinched.
Max swiveled from their conversation and opened a side drawer. He thrust papers toward her. “Is this the letter?”
Hesitantly, Daisy took the sheet and started reading.
Dear Mr. Kendall:
Based upon our recent discussion, I am withdrawing the complaints filed with the court on 3 May against Ms. Daisy Moon.
“Yes!”
“Read
all
of it.”
She returned to the page.
Yadda, yadda, yadda . . .
I will submit an amended complaint deleting the assault and fraud charges, but retaining all other charges . . .
Daisy looked up. “That’s awfully big of you.”
“The point is,” Max began, snatching the letter back from Daisy, “I never—” His mouth clamped, his brow furrowed. “Wait a minute—” Max rose from his chair. “What do you mean, you
found
the letter in my duffel bag?”
Realizing her accidental confession, Daisy punted. “You brought another woman into my bed!”
“Nice try.” Max leaned across the desk. “You were snooping in my things. I
knew
you were up to something!”
“You brought another woman into my bed!”
He circled the desk. “You little hypocrite.”
Daisy backed toward the door. “The two are not even remotely the same.”
“You invaded my privacy, went through my stuff, and you’re not even the tiniest bit sorry.”
“I was just trying to find out who I was sharing my cabin with.”
“You always have an excuse. Nothing is
ever
your fault. You manage to justify everything you do, no matter how crazy, vindictive, or selfish.”
Daisy’s jaw all but dropped to the floor. “That’s . . . not true.”
Max pressed into her space. “Let’s recap, shall we? You sold off Jason’s things at a garage sale because he cheated on you. You broke thousands of dollars’ worth of innocent china because you lost the restaurant which, by the way, was never actually yours to lose—”
“Fireflies was mine in every way but legal!”
“Yeah, right. And the mess at Mama Mia’s was somehow my fault because I dared question the waste of a perfectly good drink. I bet you have all kinds of excuses for not getting a job in Seattle, but not one is about your impossible personality. You have used me, left me, and treated me like a leper even though I give you a place to live and work. And I have yet to hear one little squeak of thanks.”
Outrage lunged her forward. “I work my fingers to the bone around here!” she thumped one index finger on the Wild Man logo on his T-shirt. “From sunup to sundown, making the most exquisite dishes this pathetic excuse for a town has ever tasted. I get compliments from all your guests. We have a full house practically every night from locals and tourists. I’ve put Wild Man Lodge on the map and all I’ve heard from you is
real men don’t eat mango chutney, real men don’t put nutmeg in coffee, real men don’t like bananas Foster
and apparently
real men don’t say thanks
either. So ex-cuuuse me,” she said, with two more final thumps of her finger, “if I’m not genuflecting at the mere sight of you, but I’m just too damn busy adding stars and making you money!”
Max wouldn’t have been surprised to hear a clap of thunder, so thick was the electricity between them. Now would be a good time to capitalize on that energy—a good time to screw both pride and caution. . . and screw Daisy instead. Atop his desk, on his sofa, against the wall . . . until they were just too tired to fight any more.
Kiss me
, Daisy thought, feeling his pull.
Kiss me until I stop thinking about all the ways this can’t possibly work. Kiss me now and I’ll forget everything, forgive everything . . .
A shrill jangle cut the moment like a razor. Like prizefighters, Max and Daisy separated to imaginary corners.
Max snatched the phone before its third ring. He held his hand over the receiver and looked at Daisy. “Anything else?”
Daisy wanted to say
everything else
, but how could she compete with the urgency of the telephone? She shook her head and awkwardly turned toward the door. Feeling very
un
.
Un
satisfied.
Un
certain.
Un
wanted.
Un
happy.
She would escape into her kitchen and all of those
uns
would disappear. Outside his door, she heard Max snap, “Hello.” Seconds later, expletives exploded from him. Then he shot past her like a bullet. . . clutching a rifle.
Chapter Thirty-Three
T
he Jeep careened around the corner, its tires skidding on mud from two weeks of rain.
“Max is gonna be pissed,” Rita warned for the third time.
“Fitz is my friend,” Daisy said yet again as they chased flashes of Max’s red truck. “If he’s in trouble, I want to help.”
Rita grabbed the armrest as the Jeep fishtailed on a curve. “The kind of trouble Fitz is in I doubt you can help, and Max is gonna be pissed that you’re butting in and that I gave you the keys to do it.”
“The keys were in the Jeep.”
“I’m still an accomplice.”
“You could’ve stayed at the lodge.”
“And miss the excitement?”
Daisy brushed away the frizz dancing around her face, then raised the window. Muddy water splattered the windshield when the Jeep hit a puddle. Daisy flicked on the wipers as her adrenaline spiked. “You don’t know for sure this will be exciting.”
“The way Max is driving, I do know.”
The road ahead was a landmine of flooded potholes. Daisy backed off the accelerator to give the wipers a break. “I wish people would just get over Max Kendall.”
Myself included
, she thought. “He’s not God, for Chrissakes.”
“More like the marshal of Dodge City,” Rita said. “And Fitz, for all his charm and talent, is still an outsider.”
“Like me.”
“Like you,” Rita agreed. “And to be blunt about it, for all your brilliance in the kitchen, you can be pretty dim-witted everywhere else.”
Daisy slammed on the brakes to avoid a squirrel dashing across the road. Their seat belts locked. Stones and mud pelted the Jeep’s belly. “Don’t sugarcoat it, Rita.”
“See your glass as half full instead of half empty and cut Max a little slack.”
Daisy pressed the gas. “Me? My blade is dull from all the slack I’ve been cutting!”
“Oh, please!” But before Rita could elaborate, the drone of an engine caught her ear. Seconds later, the roar of that same engine had Daisy hitting the brakes. They ducked in their seats as a blue and white Cessna buzzed the Jeep.
“What the hell—” Daisy watched the plane sail off, wings bobbing.
“More like,
who
the hell,” Rita corrected.
They shared a look.
“You don’t think—”
“Wheels up!” Rita ordered.
The Jeep came to a screeching halt at the landing strip, where a small crowd of locals and tourists had gathered to watch the Cessna 185—
WILD
MAN
LODGE
emblazoned across its fuselage—terrorize Otter Bite.
Leaving the Jeep, Daisy and Rita joined the group and confirmed that Fitz was the pilot. Spectators oohed and aahed as the plane swooped into treeless clearings, then rocketed toward the blue, barely missing towering spruce on the hill. The plane circled, pointing one wing at the ground while aiming the other skyward, making Daisy queasy just thinking about what it would be like inside the cockpit during that maneuver.
Aimed at Sedna Bay, the plane buzzed low over the dock, scattering seagulls and fishermen, then repeated the attack over Main Street, causing tourists to run for cover.
The plane disappeared behind the hills, the drone of its engine resonating across Kachemak Bay. Daisy took advantage of the interlude to search for Max, spotting him by the trio of hangars with a small group of locals, his red truck parked nearby. Leaving Rita behind, she hurriedly wended her way through the crowd, passing an unshaven, flannel-clad, beer-swigging quintet of locals making bets on the outcome of the impromptu air show.
“Fifty bucks says he hits Dall Mountain,” one of the grizzled men offered.
“One hundred bucks says Max takes him out with his Remington next time he passes.”
Daisy stopped.
Max wouldn’t actually shoot Fitz . . . would he?
“Max ain’t that good a shot,” the first man countered, before wrapping his lips around a bottle of beer.
“Fifty bucks says he
is
that good,” the third interjected.
“Fifty says Fitz’ll ditch in the bay,” the fourth offered, upending his own beer.
“Not enough spectators,” the fifth disagreed. “I say he lands her.”
“Max’ll kill him the minute he falls outta the plane.”
“Maybe he’ll land in Nanwalek,” the fourth suggested. “Let things cool down.”