Barefoot Season Part 11

The rhythm of the familiar work relaxed her. There were too many evenings when she'd grabbed food from the kitchen and brought it back to have a quick dinner with her daughter before starting the evening ritual. Whatever else might be going on with her day, Carly was there at night.

The amount of love she felt for her child continued to surprise her. She hadn't been pleased to find herself pregnant-things with Allen had been difficult even before the wedding. She'd thought about breaking things off. But getting pregnant had made that impossible. She'd been terrified of being alone and had made what she thought was a deal with the devil to keep that from happening.

She would marry a man she knew wasn't good for her but in return she wouldn't be a single mother. Apparently she should have been clearer about the bargain.

Not that she would change anything now, she thought, rinsing plates and stacking them in the dish rack. The first couple of years had been harder than she'd believed possible. She'd been terrified all the time, overwhelmed with responsibility, barely able to afford diapers on the tiny paycheck she'd earned at the inn. Brenda had been there for her, both a blessing and a curse.

Brenda had seen them as similar. Abandoned by their husbands, single mothers. But Brenda had never had to worry about getting enough to eat or having to decide between gas for the car and getting her daughter vaccinated.

Over time the situation had improved. Carly had learned how to do nearly every job at the inn and slowly she'd made more money. Just when she'd decided she needed more financial stability, Brenda had started hinting she would allow Carly to earn her way into an owners.h.i.+p position.

"She lied to me," she said, staring down at the soap bubbles. "She stood there, looked me in the eye and lied to me."

"Mich.e.l.le?"

Carly glanced at Robert and shook her head. "Brenda. All those years she told me I was part owner. I worked for practically nothing and I believed her."

He stood and crossed the two steps to the sink, then rested his large hand on her shoulder. "You couldn't have known."

"I should have. I should have asked for something in writing. I should have gone to see a lawyer."

"You trusted her."

"I was stupid."

The weight of his hand seemed to anchor her in place. She wanted to shrug out of the contact, but couldn't make her muscles move. Tension built between them. Not the good kind.

They'd been doing this too long, she told herself. Playing at being in a relations.h.i.+p. One without benefits. Maybe because they were too lazy to get into something meaningful with other people or because they were afraid to. Either way, they'd grown comfortable in a sort of half life.

"Things will be different now," he told her.

"I can't decide if that's good or bad."

"You don't have to worry about moving."

"That's something. I don't want to have to uproot Gabby more than necessary. She loves it here."

She ducked around him to wipe down the table. The tiny kitchen she'd always loved suddenly felt confining. She eyed the living room and wondered how to get him to go sit on the sofa. Or maybe leave.

"Give it time," he told her. "You and Mich.e.l.le used to be friends. You'll get to know each other again."

"Friends? It's been years. We weren't exactly speaking when she left town."

"I'm sure her time in the army has changed her."

Carly rinsed out the dishcloth and hung it over the sink. "How do you know that? You barely knew her before."

"How could war not change someone?"

She wanted to point out that he had no clue what he was talking about. Watching Band of Brothers didn't make him an expert on the military. But she kept quiet because Robert had always been kind to her and there had been so many times when she'd needed that.

She studied his dark hair, his rugged face.

He'd gone to work in the family auto shop right out of high school. He'd dated the same girl for five years and would have married her if she hadn't been killed in a car accident two months before the wedding. He'd taken care of things when his father had died eight years ago and had gotten his mother settled in a nice condo in South Carolina.

He paid his bills on time, he liked to watch sports and he'd never deliberately hurt another person even once in his life.

Robert was the type of man who made a good husband and a better father. He could fix a faucet, explain fractions and sit through a foreign film with only minor grumbling.

She should have wanted to be with him. But she didn't. And it wasn't as if he was pus.h.i.+ng her to settle down. Yet here they were, acting like husband and wife, talking about what was going on in their lives over dinner and kitchen cleanup.

No matter how she tried to talk herself into caring about him as something other than her former brother-in-law, she couldn't.

"Don't you want more than this?" she asked, blurting out the question. "Than what we have? Don't you want to fall in love, or at least find someone you're desperate to sleep with? We're both hiding, Robert. From the world or love or something. Don't you think we need more?"

"I like what we have."

"I do, too." She sighed. "It's easy. But easy isn't always right. I think maybe we should take a step back. Look for other options."

For a second he looked stricken, then he nodded once, grabbed his jacket and headed for the front door.

Carly groaned, hurrying after him. "Robert, wait. Don't be mad. Don't go."

He stopped, his hand on the k.n.o.b. "You don't get to have it both ways," he said. And then he was gone.

Mich.e.l.le could feel the daisies mocking her. They were everywhere. She could accept them in the garden-they were plants, after all, and it was easy enough not to look out the window. But they were other places, too. On the walls, both as paper and in a mural someone had painted. In vases and on pillows. There were books on daisies in the lobby, note cards with them in the gift shop. They were printed on fabric, woven into wreaths and worn as enameled pins, their colors brighter than nature intended. Blackberries were fine. At least you could eat them, but the d.a.m.ned daisies served no purpose.

When she'd served in the desert, she'd quickly learned what to watch out for. Camel spiders were poisonous and aggressive, moving toward anyone who approached rather than running away. Mich.e.l.le knew if she turned her back, the daisies would act the same way, taking over more territory, eventually suffocating them all with petals and leaves.

An image of the inn buried in giant flowers was both humorous and slightly disturbing. Probably not something she should discuss with anyone.

A light rain fell. Despite the weather, the inn was busy. They'd been full the previous night and would be tonight. The blessing of weekends, she thought, moving through the lobby. A few families were in residence, along with several couples. The restaurant had been busy that morning, as well. She'd walked through on her way to the kitchen and her morning cup of coffee with Damaris.

Money flowing in would help, but it would take more than that to restore the business's financial footing. Mich.e.l.le pulled the daisies from the small gla.s.s vase on her desk and dumped them in the trash, then returned her attention to her computer screen.

People were going to have to be let go. She'd been dancing around that reality for nearly a week, but couldn't escape the truth of it. The payroll was ridiculously large for an inn this size. Nearly every position was overstaffed.

Mich.e.l.le had dealt with personnel issues before, but in the army, you got transferred rather than fired. Now she would be messing with people's lives in a way that didn't make her comfortable.

She'd been back nearly two weeks. She'd had a chance to review the books, the tax returns, the financial statements. Her mother had a lot to answer for. She wasn't going to have to explain herself to anyone in this world, but Mich.e.l.le hoped there would be an accounting in the afterlife. Her mother's actions had been criminal at worst, and beyond selfish at best.

Nearly as distressing was the realization that Carly had been a voice of sanity, speaking out against the worst of Brenda's craziness. Mich.e.l.le had heard it from several vendors and more than a few of the staff. Carly cared about the inn, did the right thing and made the guests love her.

Mich.e.l.le stood and left her office. The ache in her hip was her constant companion. Sleep would probably help her heal faster, but she'd been unable to relax enough to let it happen. There were too many threats in the dark. Nightmares were sneaky, attacking where she least expected. Better to lie awake in the dark, safe.

She'd been in her rented room for several nights, enjoying the quiet and privacy. But liking the surroundings didn't make the past go away. She spent the hours of darkness waiting for an unknown, unnamed enemy to attack, and even though he never came, every morning she was as exhausted as if she'd fought him off by herself.

She limped toward the reception area, using the wall for support every few steps. She was going to have to talk to Carly about who should be let go. As much as Mich.e.l.le didn't want to rely on her, she didn't have a choice. Carly knew the staff and she understood the inn. Just as helpful, she was willing to say things Mich.e.l.le didn't want to hear. Like her crack about Mich.e.l.le's clothes.

A quick trip to Wal-Mart had given her a selection of black trousers and different s.h.i.+rts. Black athletic shoes replaced the lace-up boots she'd been wearing.

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," Mich.e.l.le 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 advertis.e.m.e.nts 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 Mich.e.l.le 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 Mich.e.l.le 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.

Mich.e.l.le 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 h.e.l.l 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.

Mich.e.l.le 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 b.i.t.c.h. She knew now that he'd been telling the truth.

Eleven.

Sat.u.r.day 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.

Sat.u.r.day 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 Mich.e.l.le had told her.

The starkness of the words had haunted her dreams. She'd slept fitfully the past couple of nights, troubled by Mich.e.l.le's breakdown.