Chapter Fifteen
IT WAS HAPPENING AGAIN.
That insistent chirping outside her apartment window.
A month ago, when the nest first appeared on the flaxleaf tree, Daisy thought it was charming, front-row seats to a tiny bird family.
The noise blended into the city’s buzz and she was almost delighted by the flurry of beaks and wings and the small, fierce devotion of the mother.
She even named them. The babies were Kevin, Poppy, Mitchell, and Ally.
She had no idea of their actual sexes; the names just fit. And the mother was simply—Mama.
Every morning with the sun, the birds rose, and more often than not, so did Daisy. She smiled when the babies jostled each other, fascinated when Mama tucked chewed food into their open beaks. A happy family in a cup of twigs. Daisy thought she’d never tire of watching them grow.
Until two weeks ago.
That morning, the chirping was different, thin and pained. Daisy kicked off the covers and yanked back the linen curtains. She counted quickly: Mama, Poppy, Ally, Mitchell…
But no Kevin.
Her stomach dropped. She looked down. A small feathered form, with an identifying white mark, lay in the wet grass, wings fluttering weakly.
The fall had been far for a creature that light.
Daisy wanted to be reasonable and let nature be nature, but something inside her wouldn’t allow it.
She couldn’t bear to think of Mama watching her chick die.
So she rescued him.
Daisy slipped Kevin carefully into the pouch of her T-shirt and flew up the single flight of stairs, pounding on her neighbor’s door. Ronald, a retired veterinarian and resident grouch, opened with sleep-crumpled eyes and crossed arms.
“You do know what time it is?” he gruffed.
“Yes,” she said, breathless. “But Kevin fell. I couldn’t just leave him. Please, Ron?” She widened her eyes shamelessly.
“Kevin?” he asked, confused.
She uncovered the bird cradled in her shirt.
Ronald held her stare for a long beat, let out an annoyed sigh, then stepped aside.
Kevin would be okay. Ronald splinted the small fractured wing and promised a full recovery with a couple weeks of rest. Kevin stayed with him as Daisy had no business caring for an injured wild bird.
It was just too bad she couldn’t communicate that to Kevin’s family.
Their nest erupted into earlier, louder, more accusatory shrieks by the day.
Daisy assumed they were cursing her name for kidnapping their brother.
If they only knew.
Today, finally, Ronald would return Kevin to his ever-irritated family. Daisy was more than ready for decent sleep again and for her morning routine to reset. For her boyfriend’s sweet whispers to be the first thing she heard instead of a piercing chorus.
Speaking of…
Trying to tune out the racket, she rolled toward the empty side of the bed. The shower was running in the en-suite; steam curled through the open door. A low hum echoed off the tile. When the water cut off, she propped herself on an elbow and watched a glistening man emerge.
Her boyfriend, Matthew, padded into the bedroom with a towel slung low around his waist. Broad shoulders, cut lines, water tracking from dark hair to collarbone.
“Good morning,” Daisy said, smiling.
He kissed her cheek. “Morning. Up with those birds again?”
She groaned, flopping back. “Yes, but Kevin comes home today. Maybe they’ll stop yelling at me once they realize I saved their brother’s life.”
Matt sat on the mattress, palm warm on her hip. “You know you’re a little crazy, right?”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“You barely tolerate dogs, but you’re out here running avian urgent care.”
“My mistake,” she said lightly. “I didn’t realize empathy equals insanity. You should really look into having me committed.”
He laughed.
She hugged a pillow closer, sitting up. “When’s your flight?”
“At ten.”
She glanced at the clock. “You need to leave in under an hour. I’ll make breakfast.”
He nodded, kissed the top of her head, and disappeared to finish getting ready.
They ate in a comfortable quiet, Matt thumbing through work emails and Daisy skimming the latest issue of Architectural Digest.
“Did you call Amelia?” she asked.
“Not yet. I’ll call on the way to the airport.”
“Okay. Make sure you do. You know how sensitive—”
“Daisy,” he cut in gently, “I will. Promise.”
She nodded and bit her toast.
“What’s on your agenda for today?” he asked.
“I’m meeting Nicole at eleven. Then headed over to the studio.”
“Who’s Nicole?”
She paused mid-bite, arching a brow. “Nicole. My event planner. For the studio’s show next Friday.”
His eyes didn’t quite meet hers. The expression on his face said oh no. “Right.” He tapped at his phone, then grimaced. “I’ll still be in New York. Dinner meeting that night.”
Daisy rose with her empty plate. “Of course you will.”
“Come on—”
“No, you come on. I told you months ago, and you said you’d be there and—” She stopped, biting the inside of her cheek. “You know what? It’s fine.”
She rinsed her plate and headed for the bedroom.
“Daisy, don’t be like that.”
“Go to New York,” she said, not turning. “I’ll see you when you’re back.”
“Daisy…” she heard him say, but didn’t respond. She was quick to shut her door and turn on the shower spout. It was only seconds later when she heard the front door close and her phone chime simultaneously.
It read, I am sorry, I’ll see what I can do.
Nicole was already tucked into a corner booth at Betty’s Brews, a tiny coffee shop just south of Daisy’s studio. February air nipped at her as she slipped inside, unwrapping her scarf. A steaming cup waited at her seat.
“Thanks for the coffee. You’re too good to me,” Daisy said, lifting it.
“Not me.” Nicole pointed toward the counter.
Arlene, Betty’s owner, winked over her espresso machine. “Mornin’, honey.”
“Good morning, Arlene. Thanks for the latte.” Daisy winked back, taking a sip of her hot coffee.
Arlene bustled over moments later with two chocolate croissants. “On the house, ladies.”
“Thank you,” they chimed.
“You’re welcome. We used a different chocolate. Curious what you think?”
Daisy took a bite and the croissant melted in her mouth. “It’s fantastic.”
“Like actually fantastic, or you’re just saying that because I’m standing in front of you, fantastic?”
“Fantastic like, I will be taking one to go, fantastic.”
Nicole, who had already scarfed hers down, mumbled in agreement.
“I’ll get that right out. And I’ll throw in another for that boyfriend of yours. What was his name again?”
“Matt.”
“Matt,” she said his name and blushed. “When are you bringing him back in because my goodness, what a fine sight.”
They laughed. Daisy pictured Matt awkwardly tall at the counter, Arlene openly smitten.
“Careful, Arlene,” Daisy teased. “Wouldn’t want Bobby getting jealous.”
Arlene’s husband of thirty-five years had taken to “retirement” by supervising his willful wife from a corner stool. “Our motto is: you can look as long as you don’t touch.” She pointed her finger toward him, then settled back on Daisy. “Is he traveling again?”
“Yeah. Bicoastal life,” Daisy said.
Arlene pressed her lips together, swallowed whatever opinion tried to leap out, and patted Daisy’s hand. “Y’all holler if you need anything.”
When Arlene moved on, Daisy turned to Nicole. “Okay. What’ve you got for me?”
Nicole scrunched her nose. “A small problem.”
Two words Daisy did not want to hear a week before her event. “How small?”
“The DJ double-booked and bailed. I’m already replacing him. Other than that, everything is going according to plan.”
Daisy let out a slow breath. A DJ was the least of her concerns.
Left to her own devices, she would have piped in Brahms or Mozart and called it a night, but Nicole had argued for something more current, a trendier ambience.
Daisy hadn’t argued too hard. This was her first show in the new space. She wanted perfection.
They reviewed the rest of the list, then the final guest roster. The names were strong, filled with returning collectors curious about new work, and a few notable locals.
Since graduating from Parsons five years ago, Daisy had spent a long time trying to carve a path that wasn’t simply Devya’s niece. Sales trickled, then stalled, then trickled again.
That was until Laura Damoyer.
The famously prickly critic wandered into Devya’s Tribeca studio and fell in love with a painting Daisy thought she’d never show: The Band Boy.
It was a demon from a past she had painted to cast out. Laura bought it on the spot, then wrote a surprisingly warm review of “a San Francisco-based artist with a clear, aching eye.”
Requests poured in.
People wanted to see everything; some even asked for replicas of The Band Boy.
Daisy was elated because frankly she needed the money.
At that point, she was the definition of a struggling artist. She’d moved home after graduation, stacked commissions, saved for a small but light-soaked apartment in the city, then for a studio big enough to breathe.
Which meant the upcoming show needed to go seamlessly. Her livelihood depended on it.
After she and Nicole wrapped up, Daisy grabbed her croissants and drove to the studio. Parking in the back lot, Daisy balanced her coffee, messenger bag, and paperwork as she went to open the back door.
It was locked.
“Jessica,” she annoyingly muttered, trudging around to the front.
Her receptionist was slouched one second and upright the next, scrambling to let her in. “Thanks, Jess.”
“No problem,” Jessica said, relieving her of the papers. “But why not use the back door? Would’ve saved you a lap.”
“Maybe if my assistant unlocked it first thing like I’ve asked her to a dozen times, I wouldn’t be doing victory tours around the block.”
Jessica wagged a finger. “Is that passive aggression I’m detecting? That doesn’t become you, boss. You are a direct-hit kind of gal.”
Daisy laughed. “Unlock the door, Jess. Or else.”
“Or else what?”