Barefoot Season (12 page)

Although makeup was beyond her, she had an appointment to get her hair cut that afternoon at a local salon. She had to admit, looking better made her feel a little better. More here rather than in some kind of emotional limbo.

Carly wasn’t at the front desk. The young woman there said she thought Carly had gone to check on her daughter.

“I’ll catch her later,” Michelle said, starting to return to her office, then thinking she would go to the kitchen and get more coffee before tackling her next task.

She paused by the display of brochures and advertisements for local businesses. A couple of maps showed where to eat and shop in town, while another offered a walking tour of historic Blackberry Island. The Mansion on the Hill, known as the Moth to locals, housed the island’s only organic restaurant, along with a flower shop, yoga studio and Michelle wasn’t sure what else. She only knew that much because of a flyer she’d seen. She straightened a few of the papers, then turned to head to the dining room, only to discover she wasn’t alone.

A small child stood in front of her. A little girl of maybe three or four, with dark hair. She held a ratty stuffed cat in her arms. Most of the acrylic fur had been rubbed away, as if the poor creature had a skin condition. She would guess the toy had once been red. Now it was faded, and dirty in places.

But what got her attention were the girl’s eyes. They were round and dark and frighteningly familiar.

She told herself this moment wasn’t the same, wasn’t real. That there was no danger. But the information didn’t seem to make any sense, nor did it slow her thudding heart. She could feel herself starting to tremble.

“I’m learning to read,” the kid said. “I already know my letters and I can read some words. The little ones.”

The girl continued talking, but Michelle couldn’t hear her anymore. Even as she told her body to move, to turn, to head for safety, she felt the coldness seeping through her. That’s what came first for her. The cold.

It wasn’t the result of a change in temperature. Instead, it came from within. It spiraled up and out, immobilizing her. First her legs wouldn’t move and then her arms. The trembling stopped. Her breathing became shallow. As the edges of the world blurred and darkened, everything disappeared but a pinpoint of light.

From that pinpoint, disaster grew. The sounds were first. In the distance a deadly
clat-clat-clat
of gunfire was punctuated by explosions. The screams came next. The calls of the dying, the injured. Her sense of smell reacted last but it was the most powerful, dragging her back to that place. The smell of death. The distinct odor of spent ammunition, of blood, fire and smoke, burning oil. And then she was there. Back where she didn’t want to be, weapon in her hands.

She was the last one left standing, the last one able to defend them all. Kill or be killed.

She heard the bullet that hit her a nanosecond before it screamed into her, sending her spinning back and causing the ground to race up and slam into her. Felt the bones shattering, the blood pumping down her leg.

She forced herself to keep moving, to roll onto her good side, to take aim.

She saw him then—the shooter. A lone man half-concealed by a burned-out Humvee. He raised his rifle and took aim.

She couldn’t move fast enough. She knew that, knew this was the end. His hand moved and he pulled the trigger.

There was nothing. She didn’t know if the gun jammed or if he was out of ammunition. Either way, she’d been given a second chance. She lined up the shot and then she saw it. Saw her.

The child holding on to his leg. The small girl with big eyes and long hair. The child who screamed when her father was killed with a single shot to the chest.

Michelle gasped, the pinpoint widened and she was released. She turned blindly, stumbled out of the room and down the hall, needing to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. She escaped to the bathroom and locked the door behind her. She barely made it to the toilet, before she had to bend over and vomit.

Minutes later, still shaking, still terrified of being pulled back into that other world, she unlocked the door. It immediately flung open.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Carly demanded, standing in the restroom, glaring at her. “You just terrified one of our guests’ children. She’s screaming in her mother’s arms about the scary lady who yelled at her. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I didn’t—”

“I don’t want to hear excuses,” Carly told her, anger brightening her eyes. “If you expect this inn to be a success, you need to get your act together and start behaving responsibly.”

“I couldn’t stop.”

“Stop what? What are you talking about?”

“I killed a man. The one who shot me. I remembered. His daughter was with him. That’s why—”

Carly went white.

Michelle swore. She hadn’t meant to say any of it. She’d meant to shout back, to distract or accuse. Instead, there was the truth—a bare ugliness that caused her stomach to rise again.

She hurried back into the stall and threw up a second time. She straightened, gasping, then turned only to find that she was alone in the bathroom.

Barely able to drag her injured leg, she hobbled to the sink and splashed water on her face. A sergeant had once told her that dying was the easy part—it was living that was the real bitch. She knew now that he’d been telling the truth.

Eleven

S
aturday mornings were often busy at the inn. Weekend guests needed direction to various points of interest, housekeeping waited impatiently for the late sleepers to vacate their rooms and plenty of locals came in for breakfast.

“This is the best area for antiquing,” Carly said, circling stores on a street map. “If you take in the model-train museum, you’ll be right by the Mansion on the Hill for lunch. I recommend the chowder and fresh corn bread. Seriously, it’s delicious. Then you can walk north about two miles to the farthest winery and taste your way back to the inn.”

She numbered the winery tasting rooms, then used a green highlighter to show a return route. “That will get you here about three-thirty. Just in time for a nap before dinner.”

Mrs. Bernard laughed. “What a wonderful way to spend the day. Thank you.”

Her husband took the map. “I think the museum is perfect payback for antiquing.”

Mrs. Bernard linked arms with her husband. “You’re right.”

They thanked Carly again and strolled off together.

She watched them go. The Bernards had to be in their early sixties. They were a fit couple, with an ease about them. Their love was familiar. She wondered how long they’d been married and how many children they had together. If they had grandchildren.

She’d wanted that for herself, once. When she’d been younger and a lot more foolish. She wouldn’t say innocent. The innocent part had died long ago. But finding the right guy, building a life—she’d wanted that.

“Along with a nice chunky lotto win,” she murmured, putting away brochures and scanning the lobby for anyone else who needed her help.

Saturday mornings were all about making her guests happy. Usually people who made their way to Blackberry Island on Friday stayed through Sunday. Especially on a rare sunny spring weekend. All the rooms were booked—a happy occurrence.

With no one in sight, Carly found herself without a distraction. Which gave her time to think. Something she didn’t want to do. Thinking was bad. Thinking meant remembering what Michelle had told her.

The starkness of the words had haunted her dreams. She’d slept fitfully the past couple of nights, troubled by Michelle’s breakdown.

She’d known in her head that Michelle had traveled to a place of war, had seen terrible things. But killing someone was far beyond what she had ever imagined, let alone experienced. She’d never held a gun in her life, had only seen them in movies and on TV. In her life, guns weren’t real and people died of things like car accidents or cancer or old age.

Michelle had been raised in the same sheltered place. How had she been able to adjust to the rigors of an overseas deployment? Carly didn’t even truly understand what deployment meant. Sure, soldiers went to Afghanistan, and before that they went to Iraq. But how did they get there? Was there a collection point somewhere in the U.S., followed by a flight to Germany or something? What did the planes look like? Were they served meals?

Too many questions, Carly thought. And no answers.

She’d spent the past ten years resenting Michelle, hating her for sleeping with Allen and, ironically, missing her. They had been best friends until their senior year of high school. Then the actions of the adults in their lives had split them apart. Nearly a year later, they’d just barely started to come together again as friends when Allen had stepped between them.

For the first time since Michelle came back, Carly truly understood that everything about her former friend was different.

This morning Michelle had freaked out over a four-year-old little girl. A couple of days ago the same person had helped Gabby overcome her irrational fear of cranes. Gabby had told Carly all about it, had even proved her acceptance by walking onto the lawn and letting the cranes step as close as they wanted.

“As soon as they know I don’t have any food with me, they’ll go away,” her daughter had said with a confidence that was both heartening and startling.

So which Michelle was real? Or did they both exist inside of her? Didn’t everyone have sides?

Work, she told herself. Better to think about work.

She’d barely clicked on the reservation program when she saw Ellen Snow walk into the lobby.

Ellen, Carly and Michelle had been in school together from kindergarten through graduating high school. They’d never been more than casual friends, until Carly’s senior year when everything had gone to hell. Carly knew she was to blame, accepted that, but honestly, she was tired of feeling guilty every time she saw the other woman. It had been over a decade. At what point did she get a pass?

“Good morning, Carly,” Ellen said as she approached the reception desk.

“Ellen.”

The other woman was dressed in cream-colored trousers and a pale blue silk blouse. Carly recognized the sheen on the fabric, knew the tailoring was expensive. Ellen had always had money.

She wore her blond hair back in a headband—an evil Alice in Wonderland, Carly thought. If only she would fall down some rabbit hole and never be seen again. Unfortunately, Carly’s luck had never been that good.

“Did she tell you?” Ellen asked, looking smug.

Carly raised her eyebrows and pretended ignorance. Ellen had come to gloat, but Carly was going to make her work for it.

“Did who tell me what?”

“Did Michelle explain how close the inn is to foreclosure? How near you are to losing your job and being out on the street? Because when the bank takes over, that’s what’s going to happen. In case you were wondering.”

Carly forced herself to keep on smiling, even as her body went numb. A consequence of a foreclosure she hadn’t thought about, she admitted to herself. Because the passage of time didn’t matter in Ellen’s world. She still wanted revenge.

“I wasn’t,” Carly told her. “I’m not worried. Michelle and I have a lot of plans for the inn.”

“Because the two of you work so well together.”

Carly’s smile faded. She was sure her eyes showed her shock, but she did her best to keep her mouth from falling open.

So that was it. Ellen’s plan. That’s why she’d insisted Carly be kept on. It had nothing to do with Carly’s experience at running the inn. The other woman knew their past—everyone on the island did. She’d put them together deliberately and was waiting for them to implode.

“I want to see the reservations for the next two weeks.” Ellen’s tone was sharp.

“This is in an official capacity?” Carly asked.

“Yes. It is. I’m an officer of the bank, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Carly hadn’t.

She tapped the keys, then turned the screen toward Ellen.

“We’re fully booked on weekends and nearly so midweek. Don’t worry. We’ll keep our numbers up.”

“Or so you hope,” Ellen said, her gaze drifting from the screen. “I wonder what your happy guests would say if they knew the truth about you.”

Despite the fact that it wasn’t even noon, Carly felt weary. “At some point, most people move on. Maybe the reason you’re still single is that you can’t let go of the past.”

Ellen’s pleasant expression slipped, revealing a venomous stare. “You bitch. We all know. You can pretend all you want, play the good mother, but you’re still the same slut you were back in high school. You’ll sleep with the first guy who asks. You’ve always been that way. We know that’s why your husband left. He found out what you are.”

Carly took a step back, her face stinging as if she’d been slapped.

In the past few years she’d barely had any contact with Ellen and they hadn’t spoken. She had no idea this much rage and resentment still burned inside of her. How many of Ellen’s rules for the inn were about business and how many were about revenge?

“Does your board know that for you this is personal?” Carly asked.

The smooth, polite facade slipped back in place. “Don’t threaten me. You don’t have the skill set. I’m doing everything by the book. But make no mistake—I’ll be thrilled when you’re done with this town. In fact, I’ll even give you a ride.”

* * *

Michelle stood in the kitchen, listening to the rain. She was still damp with sweat from her physical-therapy appointment. Mango’s name might be charming but he had a determination that left her gasping and weak—and not in a happy way.

According to Mango, she was getting better. The pain in her hips and trembling in her legs spoke otherwise, but she was willing to reserve judgment. If only she could sleep. But the nights remained long and the dreams ugly.

She reached for the bottle of vodka she’d bought on the way home. Her hands were slick and salty, her grip weak. The bottle slipped and she barely caught it. Heaven was just a sip away, she thought, bastardizing lyrics from an old country song she barely remembered her mother listening to years and years ago. If only she could get the damn bottle open.

“Need some help?” Jared walked into the kitchen and moved toward her.

She hadn’t seen much of him since she’d moved in the previous week. She considered that a positive aspect of their nonexistent relationship. Now she watched him warily as he took the bottle from her and easily opened the screw-top.

“Ice?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“Mind if I join you?”

She raised her eyebrows. “You drink? I would have figured you to be one of those AA types. Abstaining from alcohol.”

He collected two glasses, then got ice from the freezer door and poured them each about an inch of the clear liquid. He handed her a glass, then touched his to the side and took a swallow.

“Drinking was never one of my problems.”

She took a sip, then another. The familiar icy burn slipped down her throat nice and easy.

“You have other problems?” she asked.

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“God knows I do.”

He eyed her over his glass, then took another drink. “You’re not eating much.”

“Are you my mother?”

She’d thought the question would piss him off, but Jared only smiled—a slow, easy grin that made her wonder why he lived alone in this big house. Why wasn’t there some busty brunette in the kitchen and a couple of kids?

“Let me rephrase my statement. You need to eat.”

She sighed. “I know.”

“Look at that. Concession. And here I thought you were going to tell me you weren’t hungry.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You look like a skinny, abandoned dog, all bones and sad eyes.”

His comment stung, but she kept her expression bland. “You sure know how to turn a girl’s head.”