Spooning Daisy (21 page)

Daisy had purchased a mini version of the mountain in Artique, a fine arts gallery on G Street in downtown Anchorage. Entitled
Aurora
, the Byron Birdsall print was already framed but, at 12 x 22 inches, still small enough to fit inside her luggage. Since Myron Porter had stolen her art along with her Lexus, this Denali would be hanging solo in her Otter Bite home.

Studying the maps in her travel guide, Daisy had read about Otter Bite’s nearest neighbors to the south, the coastal villages of Seldovia, Nanwalek, and Port Graham. Had she for some unfathomable reason traveled farther, she would’ve reached the Barren Islands and then Afognak and Kodiak home to the world’s largest grizzly bear, the Kodiak brown. By then she would’ve been into the turbulent waters of the Gulf of Alaska, but still a Dr. Jekyll in comparison to the Mr. Hyde of the Bering Sea. Neither for the faint of heart nor faint of craft, the brutal and defiant ocean regularly claimed the lives of crabbers, making the profession the deadliest in the world and the star of a television show.

But today in Otter Bite, Poseidon required no sacrifice. With the midday sun shining and a cool breeze blowing, Alaska seemed as docile as a newborn seal pup. Whatever Daisy might’ve felt about her epicurean exile, she could hardly lament its breathtaking beauty.

The Cessna rumbled past a dozen small planes, parked and tied off the strip. A sign over a little lean-to welcomed visitors to
OTTER
BITE
,
WHERE
YOU
OTTER
BE
.
Next to that, an Alaskan flag—eight stars of gold, configured into the big dipper and the North Star, on a field of dark blue—fluttered and relaxed with the variable wind. Parked nearby was a late model Land Rover—that should’ve been Daisy’s first clue—with the words
Wild Man Lodge
stretching across its doors, the
n
and the
L
obscured by Rita Jakolof, who leisurely leaned against the vehicle.

The Cessna braked to a stop and the propeller abruptly quit. The pilot opened the door and Daisy struggled out of the plane with Elizabeth in her carrier, following two other passengers who had the grace of experience.

“Miracle of miracles, you made it!” Rita threw her arms around Daisy in a welcoming hug that squeezed the breath from her. Nonetheless, Daisy smiled. It felt good to be wanted . . . if only for her mango chutney.

“Amazingly,” Daisy agreed when she’d found her breath. Then she found it again, luxuriating in air as Mother Nature intended, without all the byproducts of a modern world.

Her thick braid of black hair falling forward, Rita bent over and peered into the small carrier. “This must be Elizabeth . . . somewhere.”

“She’s hiding under the moss.”

“We’ll meet later.” Rita returned to eye level with Daisy. “Let’s grab our stuff and get outta here. We’ll have lunch at the lodge.”

Daisy had only her suitcase and two boxes. Eight additional boxes with household items were still in Homer, coming over on later flights. But there were a number of boxes and packages for Wild Man Lodge in the cargo hold.

“Stocking up,” Rita explained. Then, with the expediency of a longshoreman, she hefted each piece into the back of the Land Rover while Daisy climbed into the front seat with Elizabeth.

“I would’ve helped,” Daisy said, when Rita slid behind the wheel.

Rita flicked off the comment with her hand. “I do this all the time.” She closed the door, but before she started the SUV, the pilot hailed her.

“Hey, Doug,” Rita called back through the open window.

Obviously happy with his life, Pilot Doug had a confident and continuous smile that partnered well with his dark glasses, blond ponytail, and barrel chest.
Just one of the guys
, Daisy thought, who probably wanted no more out of life than flying passengers and freight up and down the bay with a cold beer after.

“Got time for me tonight, RJ?” Doug cupped his hand over the window frame.

“Sorry, sweetie. This is Daisy’s first night and I want to get her settled. Check with me later this week.”

Never relaxing his grin, Doug peered around Rita at Daisy.

Even through his dark glasses, Daisy felt Doug’s unchivalrous scrutiny.

“Down, boy.” Rita started the engine; the expensive import purred. “She’s off-limits to pudknockers. She’s our new cook.”

“Is that what you’re calling ’em?” Still grinning, Doug rapped the vehicle with his knuckles. “Catch y’ later, pretty Rita.”

“What did he mean,
what you’re calling them
?” Daisy asked after they turned onto the road.

Rita shrugged. “Who knows.”

Daisy suspected she did know, but didn’t want
her
to know. “If you want to go out, I’ll be fine. I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Please.” Another dismissing flick. “Doug isn’t going anywhere. And I should warn you,” she said, glancing at Daisy, “there’ll be a lot of
Dougs
sniffing you out—”

Daisy reflexively cringed at the crass description and the unwanted image it provoked.

“—I know you’re coming off a bad breakup and your hormones are kicking in. But it’s better to go easy until you get your bearings. There’s an old Alaskan saying about finding a man up here: The odds are good, but the goods are odd
.
”

Had Daisy not been rendered speechless by Rita’s inference that she was in heat and on the make, she might’ve informed her that she was no more interested in finding a man than she was a bear. But by the time she collected her thoughts to say so, Rita was pointing out the highlights of Main Street, with buildings on one side and a bay on the other.

“That’s the mercantile.” They slowly passed a brightly painted building sporting a colorful sign proclaiming
OTTER
BITE
MERCANTILE
.
“Jen and Bud Owens. She came here from Idaho a few years back and married local. He’s a charter fisherman. Both on marriage number three.”

Also belonging to the Owenses, the Kachemak Kaffé was next door, its odd spelling forced by the Kachemak Café in Homer and the Kachemak Kafé in Seldovia. Outside, two women sat together at a table drinking what looked like lattes.

“That’s the local bar—”

LIGHTHOUSE
INN
,
the crudely painted sign announced; it hung on a building which looked like a crazy quilt of construction leftovers.

“—And the post office. And the general store. They have the staples, but not much extra. We get most of our groceries in Anchorage and Homer. But fresh fish we get right out of Kachemak Bay.”

On the opposite side of the road, its back to the sheltered waters of relatively tiny Sedna Bay, home to Otter Bite’s marina, the last building—a house looking like it belonged on the historical register—had a mural across its front, protected by a wraparound porch. The colorful underwater ocean scene included otters, dolphins, orcas, seals, starfish, seahorses . . . a mermaid? . . . and a sea turtle. Daisy smiled, although she doubted turtles—or mermaids—were in these cold waters. The image reminded her of a Wyland. But the name of the shop baffled her. “What’s FLuke Eleven-Nine mean?”

“Don’t know. Felicity won’t tell.”

“Felicity?”

“The proprietor. She said something about Excalibur and the shop’s name being set in stone . . . But then, Felicity is kinda an odd fish.”

“You mean
duck
.”

“Sure. Go with that.”

They passed a small fleet of independent charter boats waiting for the start of the season, only days away. Floating on outstretched wings, seagulls screeched overhead demanding a handout from the men working on their boats. The breeze carried the aroma of the docks: a salty mixture of ozone and fish.

“That’s our girl there.” Stopping the Rover, she pointed to a sleek 75-footer, with a flying bridge sprouting whiplike antennas and the Alaska flag. “
Molly-Anne
.”

Molly-Anne
looked scrubbed and speedy . . . and nothing like the barge on life support pictured on the website. “She’s big.”

“And sexy,” Rita added. “Comfortably accommodates twenty. Men get hard just looking at her.”

For that comment, Daisy couldn’t think of a single response, but she winced at the scene she imagined. Middle-aged men, bellies over their belts, crotches bulging, gazing at this boat as if she were a centerfold. Then again, maybe she was. “Who’s Molly-Anne?”

“The one who got away.”

“Really?”

“Well, there’s no Molly-Anne now, soooo . . .”

As they drove off, Daisy quickly inventoried the other, smaller boats.
LuLu. Alaskan Star. Mystery. Heavenly Daze. Maggie C.
And the last one Daisy glimpsed—
Sea Mistress
.

On the next hill sat a closet of a church, but well cared for, painted white with robin’s-egg blue shutters, a gold, onion-shaped dome on top, and the triple-bar cross Daisy recognized as Russian Orthodox. A small crop of headstones and crosses sprouted from the manicured lawn beside it.

“Pretty little church,” Daisy commented, as the sun gleamed off the dome.

“We like it. It’s on the National Register. Once in a blue moon, a priest comes for services. But usually it’s every sinner for himself. Two widowed sisters, Sylvie Atukaluk and Millie Charkoff, take care of it, but the door is always open and there’s a candle to light if you have the need. Just remember to leave a buck in the cookie jar.”

Daisy wasn’t Russian Orthodox or anything in the vicinity, and most of her prayers were the short,
Oh God!
variety, but maybe a lit candle now and again wouldn’t hurt.

Soon they were on a wooded, winding road with enough washboards and ruts to put a tank out of commission. When her curls tried to escape out the open window, Daisy raised the glass.

“Nice road,” she quipped as they bumped and skidded around a muddy corner.

“The state comes over BT and AT to grade it. They’re late this year.”

“BT and AT?”

“Before tourists and after tourists.”

Local lingo. Daisy filed it away.

Every now and again they passed a trail and Daisy glimpsed a house nestled in the trees, each rectangular box a clone of the one before.

Rita braked and swerved to miss a black bear who’d loped out of the woods then crossed the road into the woods on the other side.

Daisy gasped and twisted in her seat to follow the fellow’s getaway. “That’s a
bear
.”

“They come out of the woods spring and fall. They avoid people,” Rita added as if she sensed Daisy’s worry. “But they love our garbage.”

Daisy made a mental note not to hang out with the garbage. And to wear her bear bells, as recommended by her guide book.
And
to carry her giant-sized canister of cayenne pepper spray recommended by the hotel concierge who had chuckled at the lipstick-sized vial she carried in her purse to ward off muggers. Both bells and spray were purchased in Anchorage at a sporting goods store from a clerk who thought a rifle was a better bet, but nonetheless took her money.

“So, have the cops found your SUV yet?”

“Uh . . . no,” she answered, still lingering on the bear and the bells and the spray.

Reluctantly, Daisy had confided to Rita about her
Columbia
woes—not her Max Kendall woes, of course—but she hadn’t seen any way around her missing SUV and her cooking implements, since she was supposed to be arriving on this morning’s ferry with all of that.

“And I don’t think they ever will, but I’ve talked with my insurance company and they’re sending a check to cover the loss.”

“Well, you don’t really need a car since there’s no place to drive, and the lodge has a couple of Jeeps you can always borrow. Besides, it’s better to tear up someone else’s car on these roads than your own.”

They shimmied around a corner.

“So how far is the lodge?”

“It’s at the end of the road. About seven miles from town.”

Occasionally the trees cleared on the driver’s side and Daisy sighted Kachemak Bay, then the road curled inland and the forest took over. She hadn’t thought it possible, but the road actually worsened, narrowing into what could only be described as tire tracks. Yet Rita continued to drive as if they were on the interstate. One hole separated Daisy, who held Elizabeth on her lap, from the seat. “Jiminy Christmas!”

“It’s like pulling off a Band-Aid. Gotta do it fast.”

Daisy wasn’t convinced, but it didn’t seem worth arguing about. Besides, up ahead was a carved wood sign proclaiming
WILD
MAN
LODGE
.
Roped to towering, rough-hewn poles, three flags stretched and fell in the variable breeze; flying tallest, the American flag was flanked by the Alaskan flag on one side and—was that Ireland’s flag on the other? As they turned into the drive, dread of the unknown made her heart race.

Thinning forest gave way to thick, spring-green willows and budding salmonberry bushes, dappled with sun. At the end was Daisy’s new home.

Constructed with spruce logs gleaming like honey, the triple-decker lodge stretched on either side of a tiered grand entrance ablaze with scarlet and salmon geraniums and soothed by an understated rock waterfall. The drive circled beneath a two-story overhang supported by massive totem posts while the carved hardwood double doors of the entrance could easily dwarf any member of the LA Lakers.

Rustic elegance
, Daisy thought; it reminded her of the luxurious celebrity lodges found in Aspen. After a short pause for Daisy’s awe—eyes wide and mouth gaping—Rita eased the Land Rover past the entrance, to the north and around back.

Daisy turned to Rita. “When was the last time you updated your website?”

Rita smiled. “Not what you expected?”

“Not what
anyone
would expect. This isn’t even the same place.”

“The cook’s cabin is around back,” Rita said.

“
Chef
, actually.”

“Sorry. I thought we’d get you settled and then we’ll go to the kitchen for a little lunch and afterward a tour.”