Barefoot Season (29 page)

“I know. I should have stopped taking so much. I didn’t think you’d notice. That was my mistake.”

Carly stepped closer. “No, Damaris, that wasn’t your mistake. Your mistake was stealing from your employer. Both Brenda and Michelle trusted you. I’ll accept you not giving a damn about Brenda, but you claim to care about Michelle. You always said you were the one looking out for her interests. This is a funny way to show that.”

“This has nothing to do with you,” Damaris told her, fury blazing in her eyes. “I don’t work for you.”

“Well, that makes this easier, doesn’t it?” Carly’s voice was calm, as if she were in complete control.

Michelle was glad one of them was. She could barely keep breathing. She didn’t want to be here, didn’t want this happening.

“You’ll go quietly,” Carly said. “You’ll tell people you decided you needed a change. You won’t file for unemployment. You won’t say anything bad about the inn or the restaurant and neither will Isabella. If you don’t agree to these conditions, Michelle will go to the police and have you arrested.”

Color stained Damaris’s cheeks. “Don’t you threaten me. Michelle would never do that.” She swung her attention back to Michelle. “Tell her. Tell her I’m important to you. All right—I shouldn’t have taken the money. I won’t again. But I can’t leave you. You need me.”

If Michelle had made a list of people she could trust, she would have put Damaris near the top. Sam would probably be first, but Damaris would be second, maybe third. She couldn’t say where she would put Carly. Until now.

The sudden shift, the change in reality, made her unsteady. She needed to hold on to something. To take a second and figure out what was happening.

“She doesn’t need you,” Carly said, still sounding reasonable. “She needs people she can depend on. Now it’s time for you to leave.”

Damaris put her hands on her hips. “Well?” she demanded.

Michelle shook her head, both hurt and unbelievably sad. No, worse. “You can’t stay. You did this and I don’t want you around.”

Damaris ripped off her apron and tossed it on the floor. “You’ll never make it without me. The restaurant will fail.”

“I’ll have a letter drawn up by the morning,” Carly said. “You’ll be here at nine with Isabella to sign it. If you don’t, I’ll call the police.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I can. Look into my eyes, Damaris. Do you have any doubts about my willingness to put your ass in jail?”

Damaris stepped toward Michelle. “You’re going to let her do that? To me?”

Michelle’s moment of bravado had faded, leaving her shaking. Her hip ached as it hadn’t in weeks and her thighs trembled. She wasn’t sure if she was going to faint or throw up.

“Get out.”

Damaris swore again, then turned and stomped into the kitchen.

“I’m going to make sure she doesn’t destroy anything,” Carly said, moving after her. “Are you going to be all right?”

“Sure,” Michelle managed.

She waited until Carly walked through the swinging door, then turned the other way and walked away as fast as she could. She went through the lobby, down the hall and into her office. Once she was inside, she closed the door, then crossed to her desk.

Her hands were shaking so hard, she could barely pull open the bottom desk drawer, but at last she managed it. A nearly full bottle of vodka lay on top of several folders. She reached for it and unscrewed the top, then drank until the shaking stopped.

Twenty-Six

C
arly stood in the center of the kitchen and told herself she could do this. She could manage lunch at the restaurant, even if they were missing a cook. And a hostess. At least there would be servers.

The dry-erase board on the wall listed the specials. Today there was quiche and chicken tortilla soup. A quick trip to the refrigerator told her the quiches were made and ready to go in the oven. The broth simmered on the stove, with most of the ingredients in various stages of prep. While Damaris never used a recipe, she had them on her computer. Carly was sure of it because she remembered Brenda badgering the cook to have a backup after she’d had to call in sick.

Carly walked to the ancient computer in the storeroom and found the recipes. She printed out the ones she would need and double-checked the time the quiche required in the oven.

“Hi.”

She spun toward the voice and found Cammie standing in the doorway. The petite redhead was dressed for her lunch shift.

“I heard what happened and wondered if I could help.”

“Word is traveling that fast?” Carly told herself not to be surprised.

“Isabella and I have a mutual friend. She called me to see if I knew anything. I came right here. I thought you’d need help.”

“Thank you.” Carly motioned to the kitchen. “We need to get lunch pulled together. I don’t suppose you’re secretly a master chef?”

“Sorry, no, but I can make a sandwich.”

“Then we’ll go with that.”

They set to work together. Thankfully, the menu was fairly simple. A lot of sandwiches and salads, the specials and a few hot dishes. Carly knew there was no way she could deal with anything complicated, so made a note of what they wouldn’t be serving. Cammie knew how to work the fryer, so that would help. With a little prayer and a lot of luck, they could manage the meal. But what about tomorrow and the next day?

Carly picked up the phone and called Michelle’s office.

“What?”

“We’ll need a temporary cook to—”

“Handle it,” Michelle said, then hung up.

“Okay, then.”

Carly put down the phone.

They were on an island. It wasn’t as if she could call a local employment agency and get three candidates out by two. It was the height of tourist season. Mostly everyone who wanted to work already was and there was the added element of, hey, knowing how to cook. Even having Damaris go on vacation had been a nightmare. Except for last year.

Carly typed on the computer again. When she found what she was looking for, she picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

The voice was as brusque and strong as she remembered. “Helen?”

“Yes?”

“This is Carly Williams from the Blackberry Island Inn. You worked for us last fall when our cook was on vacation.”

“I remember. I might be over the age of retirement, young lady, but I’m not senile. Is your cook going on vacation again?”

“Not exactly.”

Carly explained that Damaris had left suddenly and they needed someone to fill in.

Helen was a retired schoolteacher who loved to cook. Brenda had found her through a mutual acquaintance.

“How long would you want me?” Helen asked.

Carly had no idea. “Um, a month?” That should give them plenty of time to find someone permanent.

There was a moment of silence. “I’d want a room at the inn. One with a nice view. And I’d have to bring my cat. I couldn’t leave Mr. Whiskers with a sitter for that long.”

Oh, God. They were fully booked on weekends, which meant disappointing someone by moving them to another hotel. And a cat in residence? How would that work? Logistics filed through her head as she calculated the greater loss— annoyed guests who would never come back versus the revenue generated by the restaurant. Math might not be her best subject, but even she knew the answer to that question.

“We can provide a room,” she said. “For you and Mr. Whiskers.”

Later, when Michelle threatened to kill her, she would remind her about the “handle it” conversation.

Carly and Helen settled on a salary and hours. Helen promised to arrive before lunch tomorrow, which was far better than they had the right to ask. Carly agreed to pick up a litter box and litter for Mr. Whiskers and hung up, hoping she’d made the right decision.

The next hour flew by. Carly watched the clock anxiously as the oven preheated for the quiche. By eleven-fifteen, they were as ready as they were going to get.

Michelle walked in then. She was pale and unsteady, her limp more noticeable than it had been in weeks.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “Why are you here?”

“We have to get ready for lunch.”

“Just close the place.” Defeat passed through her eyes. “What does it matter?”

“We have food that will spoil and people willing to pay for a meal,” Carly told her. “That’s what matters. Right now we can’t afford to shut down.”

She grabbed Michelle by the arm and dragged her into the storeroom. After closing the door, she faced her boss.

“I’m not shutting down the restaurant. We need the revenue and it adds value to the inn.”

“But without Damaris…”

“She’s not the only cook on the planet. I can handle lunch. Cammie’s going to help me.”

Michelle leaned against the built-in shelves and blinked, as if she wasn’t understanding what was being said.

“You’re going to cook lunch?”

“Yes. I just said that.” Carly peered at her. “Are you drunk?”

“No. Maybe. Does it matter?”

Carly kind of thought it mattered a lot, but why have that conversation now?

“I’m sorry about Damaris, but we have to get through this. I know we can. I’ve hired a temporary cook. She’s filled in for Damaris before. She’s coming for a month.” Carly swallowed, hating what she was going to say next. “She wants a room. A nice one with a view and she’s bringing her cat.”

She braced herself for the explosion, but Michelle only nodded. “Sure. Whatever.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

Instead of answering, Michelle walked into the kitchen. “Put me to work,” she said when Carly followed.

“You can make sandwiches,” Carly told her, thinking she would make sure everything was already cut. No way Michelle should be using a knife right now. Jeez. Talk about a mess.

She knew her friend was devastated, that Damaris’s betrayal had rocked her, but she didn’t understand the reaction. Michelle was more a “throw a chair through a window” kind of person. Like what had happened with the daisies. But then drunks were unpredictable. She’d had plenty of experience with her father to know that for sure.

A problem for another time, she thought, leading Michelle to the sink to wash her hands before putting on gloves, then handing her an apron.

Helen would arrive tomorrow. In less than twenty-four hours the crisis would be over. She would have her own personal breakdown then. One that included chocolate and wine.

* * *

Michelle was aware of the passage of time, of orders coming into the kitchen and food going out. She worked methodically, assembling sandwiches from the row of ingredients in front of her. The instructions were simple and she guessed on the amounts. As far as she knew, there weren’t any complaints.

The vodka hadn’t helped enough. She needed more because right now she could feel every exposed nerve and all the cuts to her heart. She couldn’t seem to do anything but keep moving; she knew that she looked like an automaton, but on the inside she was screaming.

“This is the last order,” one of the servers said, hurrying into the kitchen. “Quiche and soup. You did great. No one even noticed Damaris was gone. I kind of eavesdropped on a few conversations and no one said anything so I guess the news hasn’t spread yet.”

She might have said more—Michelle stopped listening. She’d heard enough to know that she could leave now.

After stripping off her gloves and tossing them on the counter, she unfastened the apron and let it fall to the floor. Then she started for the door.

Carly raced after her.

“Wait. What are you doing?”

“Leaving.”

“But we have to talk about what happened. What we’re going to do.”

“Just handle it.”

“I have to pick a room for Helen and cancel one of our guests, and Helen won’t be here until after breakfast tomorrow. Which means we have to do this again.”

Michelle stopped and looked at her. The pain was everywhere, which made it hard to think, let alone speak. She wanted to scream to the heavens, to demand an explanation. How could she have been so wrong? How could she have so misplaced her trust? If Damaris wasn’t in her life, who did she have?

She’d been doing well, or so she thought. Healing. But Pauline had been right. She’d been on the edge, able to tip in either direction. Guess she’d just found out on which side she was going to fall.

“Michelle?”

Michelle turned away and kept walking. She got to her office and found her keys, then left. She drove slowly, carefully, parking in front of Jared’s house before walking around back and stepping into the kitchen.

It was midafternoon. She expected to have the house to herself. Instead, she found him standing in front of the empty refrigerator.

“I have got to learn how to cook,” he said, closing the door and grinning at her. “Or get married.”

He was making a joke, she thought as she pushed past him and went to the cupboard. She should probably laugh. Show some kind of emotion. But it was too hard. All she wanted was relief from the ache and a promise that nothing would ever hurt this much again. Honest to God, she would rather be shot in the other hip than this.

“Michelle?”

She found an unopened bottle of vodka and quickly undid the screw-top. Not bothering with a glass, she took a swallow, then a second. The alcohol burned down her throat. When she went to raise her arm a third time, something warm and strong stopped her. She saw he’d taken hold of her arm, just above the elbow.

“Let go,” she demanded.

“What happened?”

She put the bottle on the countertop and wondered if she could take him. Sam had taught her to fight dirty. She’d rarely had to use the lessons, but she remembered most of them.