Barefoot Season (27 page)

“Thanks for helping me. You need to get to your cranes. Without you around to supervise, who knows what kind of trouble they could get up to?”

“I could stay.”

She shook her head. “No. I’m okay.” Or she would be. If nothing else, life had taught her how to survive tough times. This wasn’t close to the worst she’d been through.

Leonard left. Carly wheeled the trash can back in place, then went inside and showered.

She spent the morning in the gift shop, helping customers and checking inventory. New merchandise would have to be ordered to replace that which had sold. It was a great time to shift focus.

She’d brought her laptop along and used the downtime to type up her thoughts, then emailed them to Michelle. After lunch, she went upstairs to check the cleaned rooms before new guests were checked in. As she entered the first one, she saw something outside in the yard. She crossed to the window and looked out.

Michelle knelt on the lawn, surrounded by flats of daisies. There were dozens of plants, maybe hundreds. Not the different types Carly had discovered over the years, but still bright and colorful. Michelle had a small shovel in one hand and was carefully setting each one in the ground.

Carly leaned against the window frame, watching. Her headache faded a little, as did the tension in her body. She’d been wondering if Michelle would apologize, but in some ways, this was better. Actions rather than words.

She didn’t know why Michelle had ripped out the daisies in the first place and maybe she didn’t have to. Maybe replacing them was enough.

* * *

Michelle counted the receipts after breakfast and didn’t like the result. Despite the fact that she’d told Isabella to log in server tickets, assigning them in sequential numbers, it hadn’t happened. The numbers were randomly assigned, tickets were missing and there were fewer receipts than she thought there should be. Something was going on.

She remembered her work at the inn being easier than this, she thought as she walked through the now-empty dining room and headed for the kitchen. As a teenager, she hadn’t had to deal with a gift shop and the restaurant had been tiny. It wasn’t that there had been less to do; it’s that everything had been more straightforward. Now there were complications. Personalities. Drama.

She walked into the kitchen. Damaris looked up from the garlic she was chopping and held up her hands.

“What?” the cook demanded, grinning as she spoke. “You’re here to toss my pots and pans in the trash?”

“Very funny.”

“I’m still impressed with what you did with the daisies. Too bad you put them back.”

She hadn’t exactly put them back. The ones she’d ripped out had been beyond saving. Instead, she’d bought new and had planted them. That had set her hip back a few days. Mango had yelled at her, telling her gardening wasn’t helping her healing. She hadn’t bothered explaining it had been a onetime event.

“Don’t be impressed,” Michelle told her. “I snapped. That’s nothing to be proud of.” She still wasn’t sure why she’d done it.

If only she could sleep, she thought, wondering how long it would take for the dreams to fade. Or get drunk enough to forget. Or stop jumping at loud noises or looking up from what she was doing and not being sure of where she was.

“Have a cinnamon roll,” Damaris told her.

Despite everything, Michelle grinned. “Food doesn’t solve all problems.”

“It should.”

She picked up a small plate and slid a blackberry cinnamon roll onto it. The icing was thick and gooey cinnamon-flavored glaze coated her fingers. She took a bite.

“They’re amazing,” she said.

“Secret recipe. Admit it. You’d be lost without me.”

Her words echoed Michelle’s joke with Carly. Carly, whom she’d hurt for no reason she could define and whose greatest sin was taking care of the inn.

“Receipts are missing from the restaurant,” Michelle said. “I asked Isabella to keep the tickets in order and she didn’t. She also didn’t log them all in, so I have no way of knowing which server had what tickets.”

Damaris went to work on a half-dozen onions. “So?”

“So, there’s money missing.”

Damaris kept her eyes on the cutting board. “Are you sure? Isabella’s a good girl. I trust her. Maybe it’s one of the servers. Or Carly. She’s in and out of here.”

“When? I never see her in the restaurant unless she’s filling in for Isabella.”

“She could do it.” Damaris looked up. “You worry too much. We’re making money, the customers are happy. Go run the inn and leave the restaurant to me. I’m on your side, Michelle.”

“I know.”

Michelle trusted Damaris, and Damaris trusted Isabella. Wasn’t that some math thing? If A equals B, and B equals C, then A equals C. Which meant she should trust Isabella. Only she didn’t.

Twenty-Four

M
ichelle watched Pauline and Seth shake hands with the last of the departing couples. The man and woman who had barely spoken a few days ago were smiling and laughing. They touched constantly. As Michelle watched, the man’s free hand slipped over his wife’s butt in one of those intimate, long-together-couple moves. There was intimacy in the moment, a connection, and watching them made her ache in ways that had nothing to do with her healing wounds and everything to do with a yearning much deeper than flesh and bone.

The couple got in their sports car and started down the drive. Seth said something to Pauline, then pulled out his cell phone and glanced at the screen. Although Michelle was too far away to hear what he was saying, she read his expression. The one that said he had to take the call.

Acting on impulse, Michelle stepped out of the inn and walked toward Pauline. The therapist saw her coming, smiled and waved, then met her on the porch.

“Another successful retreat?” Michelle asked.

“Yes. Very. Most couples who come to us really want their relationship to work. Unfortunately, they’re stuck in unproductive ruts and don’t know how to get out. We have a few simple techniques that show them love is still there.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“Then they have to make some difficult choices.” Pauline motioned to the chairs on the porch. “Seth will be a few minutes. If you have time to join me.”

“I do.”

They settled on the padded chairs. Michelle stretched out her legs and felt a comfortable pulling in her hip. One that spoke of healing rather than pain.

“You’re walking more easily,” Pauline observed.

“I’m getting better. At least physically.”

“What about the rest of it?”

“I’m not looking for therapy.”

“Of course not.”

“I’m being social. Polite. Nothing more.”

“I can see that.”

Michelle studied the other woman, trying to figure out if she was being honest or slightly mocking. Pauline’s gaze was steady, her blue eyes bright with interest but nothing else. Damned professional headshrinkers, Michelle thought glumly. A regular person didn’t stand a chance.

“I dug out the daisies,” she said, not expecting the words to pop out. “It was me.”

“I’d wondered who’d massacred the garden.”

“I was pissed and I hate the daisies.”

“They can be annoying.”

Michelle sighed. “This is where you tell me I’m crazy.”

“You’re not. Is that disappointing to hear?”

Michelle considered the question. “I can’t decide.”

Pauline smiled. “At least you’re honest. Did your mother like the daisies?”

“She loved them. Not like Carly, but…” She paused, then swore. “How did you know about my mother?”

“I was fairly sure you weren’t hatched.” Pauline shrugged. “I sneak into the kitchen at off hours to steal Damaris’s coffee cake. She likes to talk and I’m a good listener.”

“What else did she tell you?”

“She thinks Isabella’s baby isn’t up to toilet training.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do.”

Michelle waited, but Pauline didn’t say any more. She drew in a breath. “I wanted to hurt Carly, so I dug up the daisies. I guess I wanted to hurt my mother, too. Get back at her for all the shit she did to me.”

She briefly outlined the financial disaster she’d come home to.

“There’s no one left to blame,” Michelle said, winding down from the story. “Carly did her best.”

“Which you resent. It leaves you without an enemy you can defeat. That’s frustrating. You have all this energy and nowhere to put it. Then one night, there are the daisies, mocking you.”

Michelle grinned. “You’ve seen your share of mocking flowers, then?”

“I have, figuratively speaking.” Pauline looked at her. “It’s not wrong to have feelings. We all do. Where we start to cross the line is when we act inappropriately. You know that. You can feel it’s not healthy or good for you. You’re humiliated by the public display of what you see as the weakness of losing control. But look at it this way. You needed a wake-up call and you got it. So you’ll figure out how to handle your emotions better. You replaced the daisies and you apologized. It’s okay to screw up. It’s what we do afterward that defines us.”

For the first time since arriving back on Blackberry Island, Michelle felt her eyes fill with tears. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Pauline reached out and squeezed her arm. “Please, Michelle, get some help. You’re right on the edge. You can go either way. I think the world would be a better place if you found your way back. Don’t become one of the lost souls. We already have too many.”

* * *

Michelle paced the length of the backyard of the inn, eyeing the daisies but knowing that digging them up a second time would move her from the “quirky” category to something closer to “mentally deranged.” She appreciated Pauline’s advice and had even planned to take it. Until now.

She had proof. Not the kind she could take to the police, but enough for her to know who was stealing the money and how.

Total receipts were down on the days Isabella worked. Michelle had waited another week before coming to that conclusion. She’d checked the number of occupied tables every single day during breakfast. She knew how many got turned over and how many receipts there should be. Servers changed, the days of the weeks changed—the single constant was Isabella.

Firing her was the only option that made sense, but Michelle couldn’t imagine doing that to Damaris. Isabella was a member of her family. Of course Damaris would believe in her. There was going to be a huge fight and accusations, and honestly, she would rather go out on patrol than deal with all that.

“You’re looking fierce,” Sam said, coming around the corner of the inn. “I like it.”

“Don’t be charming. I’m not in the mood.”

“There’s always room for charm. It’s like Jell-O.” He tugged on the end of a strand of hair. “Come on, Michelle. Tell Uncle Sam all about it.”

“Ick,” she said. “Don’t say you’re my uncle. It’s creepy.”

“Fair enough. Then tell an old friend who cares about you.”

She drew in a breath. “Personnel issues. I don’t want to talk about it.” She looked at him. Sam was a good-looking guy. Too bad she didn’t want to sleep with him. He would be happy to satisfy her for an afternoon or two and then be on his way. No promises, no questions. Only she couldn’t seem to summon any interest.

“I’ve been ignoring you, haven’t I?” she asked, wondering if the list of ways she was screwing up would ever get smaller. “You’ve been here for what? Two weeks? Longer? We haven’t done anything together. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’ve managed to keep myself entertained.”

“Do I want to know her name?”

Sam grinned. “It wasn’t all about a woman. I got the job.”

“What?” She flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “That’s great. Did you take it? Is it official? Can we celebrate?”

“I did take it, and yes, a celebration sounds like fun. I start next week, I’ve rented an apartment and my stuff is on its way from Texas.”

He led her over to the chairs on the patio and motioned for her to sit. He settled across from her, then stretched out his long legs in front of him.

Sam had spent the past year at Fort Hood. Texas was a long way from the Pacific Northwest.

“You think you’re going to be able to adjust to the rain?” she asked, her voice teasing.

“I can adjust to a lot of things. I’m ready to be a civilian again.”

“It’s been twenty years. How do you know you’re going to like it?”

“I liked it before. Besides, I get to sleep in if I want.”

“Do you?”

His gaze moved lazily to her face. “Sleep? Sure. Aren’t you?”

“Not yet.”

“Nightmares?”

She nodded. “I still jump at loud noises.”

“I do, too, but I’ve gotten better at hiding the fact. It’s not easy, going through what you did and then coming back here. You spent most of the past ten years in either Iraq or Afghanistan. Even doing a sissy job like you did, there were dangers.”

She glared at him. “I didn’t have a sissy job.”

“You did and you know it.”

“I wasn’t in direct combat,” she admitted. “Neither were you.”

“I had my share of encounters.”

She’d had the one, but he was talking about more than just the ambush. He was reminding her that there were ongoing rocket attacks, that it was never quiet.

She’d grown up here, on Blackberry Island, where life was regulated by the change of the seasons and tourists migrated like birds. She’d never expected to have to qualify on weapons every three months, deal with summers that were 128 degrees in the shade or watch out for camel spiders in her gear.

While her job had been more about keeping supplies flowing smoothly, she’d never been able to pretend she was anywhere else. The army had turned her into a soldier, but her heart and soul had stayed civilian. She’d thought that would make it easier for her to transition back to her regular world, but she’d been wrong.

“You did the right thing,” Sam told her. “Killing him. You didn’t have a choice.”

“His daughter was with him. Holding on to him. She’s going to grow up with that image, with that death, and it’s my fault.”

“Would you rather be dead?”

“No, but…”

“There’s no but. Those are your two choices. You kill him or he kills you. That’s why he was there that day. He wasn’t going to the market or visiting his best friend. He was out to attack and destroy enemy soldiers. He’s the one who chose to take his kid with him. What kind of father does that? Why didn’t he leave her at home where she belonged? It wasn’t about you, Michelle. Making it about you will only make it harder to move on.”

She knew he was right about all of it, but hearing the words didn’t seem to make a difference.

“You have to talk to someone,” he told her.

“You’re not the first one with that advice. I’ve been getting it a lot.”

“You’ve always been stubborn. Most of the time that trait helps. This time it screws you up.” For once he looked serious and determined. “You know I care about you, right?”