Barefoot Season Part 32

"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."

Mich.e.l.le 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.

"Mich.e.l.le?"

Mich.e.l.le 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 G.o.d, she would rather be shot in the other hip than this.

"Mich.e.l.le?"

She found an unopened bottle of vodka and quickly undid the screw-top. Not bothering with a gla.s.s, 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.

He released her arm. "Tell me."

The words were gentle, more a plea than a command. She shook her head, knowing she couldn't relive the moment. Not and stay in control.

"Something at the inn?"

She'd meant to walk away. To go to her room until he left her alone. Instead, her lips moved and then she couldn't stop.

"It's Damaris," she said, speaking quickly. "Our cook. I've known her since I was sixteen. I hired her and I trusted her. She wrote to me while I was gone. She sent me packages and told me what was going on. She worried about me and prayed for me. Not my mother. No one else bothered. Just Damaris."

Jared blurred and it took her a second to realize she was crying. Not delicately, not like a girl, but with deep, body-shaking sobs that ripped through her and stole her breath.

"I believed her," she said with a gasp. "I trusted her. All this time, I've depended on her. Every morning she makes me breakfast. I thought of her as the mother I always wanted. But it was a lie. All of it. She stole from me. She stole and she lied and then she walked out as if she doesn't care. As if I don't matter."

She bent over, trying to catch her breath, still sobbing and shaking. She knew she was going to collapse onto the kitchen floor and have to lie there like some wounded animal, broken.

Strong arms surrounded her, supporting her. Jared pulled her against him, then held her tight. She lashed out, fighting against the contact, the restraint. It was like kicking a wall. Nothing happened. Then she gave in and sagged against him.

She wasn't sure how long she cried. Even after the sobbing stopped, the tears continued. He rubbed her back and murmured soothingly, not really saying anything, just making sound. The tears slowed, as did her breathing. When she felt she was a little more under control, she pulled away.

"Sorry about that," she said, wiping her face on her sleeve. "I don't usually give in like that."

"Sure you do. You hide with this." He picked up the bottle of vodka. "But you're still losing it. You think getting drunk is easier, that it means you're winning. You're wrong. You're lost and everyone can see it but you."

She waited for the anger, for the righteous indignation, that would give her strength. Instead, there was only emptiness inside of her. A gaping hole that threatened to consume her soul and leave her nothing but a sh.e.l.l.

"I can't," she whispered, not sure if she meant she couldn't find herself or she couldn't stop her self-destructive behavior.

"Sure you can." His gaze was as hard as his voice, as unsympathetic. "Quit feeling sorry for yourself and do something."

Then he was gone. She was alone with her only friend. She grabbed the bottle and retreated to her room. With time, and a drink, she would be able to forget. At least for the night.

Twenty-Seven.

Carly was in the restaurant at five-thirty in the morning. Despite the fact that it was so early even G.o.d shouldn't be up, the sun had already made an appearance. She told herself that the unusually cloudless sky was a sign that she was going to get through having to make breakfast for the hundred or so people who would show up hungry. She hoped she wasn't fooling herself.

The previous night she'd called Gabby's favorite sitter. Brittany had promised to be by a little before seven to get her ready for camp. Gabby had accepted the explanation that Damaris had left without asking a lot of questions. The two of them had never been especially close.

For a long time Carly had been unable to figure out why Damaris resented her so much. She'd a.s.sumed it had something to do with being loyal to Mich.e.l.le. Now she wondered how much of the other woman's resentment had been because she was afraid Carly would figure out what she was doing.

A problem for another time, she told herself. Her more pressing problem was whether or not she could figure out how to make an omelet that both tasted good and looked halfway decent on a plate.

She entered the kitchen to find all the lights on and Cammie already at work.

"Bad news," she said. "Two of Damaris's a.s.sistants aren't coming in. They left voice mails saying they quit."

Carly glanced at the blinking light on the phone-the one indicating there were messages.

"Okay," she said, then licked her lips. "I guess this is up to us."

Cammie patted her on the shoulder. "We can do it. We've both been cooking for kids for years and they're pickier than any of our guests."

Carly nodded because she was afraid if she spoke, she would shriek. Panic and fear twisted through her chest, making it difficult to breathe.

"I'll get the recipes," Cammie told her. "We won't do a special this morning, which will help keep things simple. We're talking eggs, pancakes and cinnamon French toast. The cinnamon bread is made. Damaris did it in batches and defrosted it as she needed it. We have a couple more days' worth in the freezer."

Carly cleared her throat. "Good idea. I'll look over the menu to see if there's anything we shouldn't try without professional supervision."

The door to the kitchen swung open and Robert walked in.

Carly stared at him. "What are you doing here?"

"I heard what happened," he told her. "I can do something. Not cook," he added hastily, eyeing the stove. "Seat people. Pour coffee."

"I don't understand. How did you know what had happened?"

His gaze slid to Cammie, then away. "I heard from a friend. This is your busy time. I can open the shop a little later for a couple of days."

Carly desperately wanted to sit down and hang her head between her legs. Maybe that would stop the world from spinning. At least Robert was here, possibly because he'd heard about what had happened from Cammie. But she didn't think he knew Cammie except in pa.s.sing. Unless that had changed.

"Breathe," Cammie said. "You gotta breathe."

Personal issues later, she told herself. Breakfast first.

"Okay," she began. "Let's get organized."

Twenty minutes later she had the illusion of control if not the reality. Cammie had started cooking the first round of breakfast meats while Carly got everything they would need out onto the counters. They'd eliminated the four most complex items from the menu, leaving basics. Cammie had agreed to take on the omelets and Carly would cook everything else. They had enough servers, and with Robert handling seating and the cash register, they were okay in the front of the house, but they needed one more pair of hands in the back.

Just when Carly was about to call Brittany and ask if she felt up to the challenge, Mich.e.l.le walked into the kitchen.

She looked worse than usual. Her clothes were fine, but her face was a Halloween color of gray. Dark, sunken circles hollowed the area under her eyes, and her lips were nearly as pale as her skin.

"Did you sleep at all?" Carly asked.

Mich.e.l.le gave a quick shake of her head. "I don't want to talk about it. Just tell me what to do."

Carly decided to take her at her word and put her to work plating orders. A quick glance at the clock told her it was seven and time to get started. Just then one of the servers walked in with the first order of the morning.

The two hours of breakfast service pa.s.sed in a blur. When it was over, Carly felt as if she'd run a marathon and didn't know how she was going to survive the rest of her day. Coffee, she thought, putting away the last of the b.u.t.ter and milk. Lots of coffee.

She walked into the dining room. Robert handed her the key to the cash register.

"Let me know if there are any problems when you reconcile the money," he told her.

"Are you expecting any?"

He smiled. "I can still do simple math, but I want to be sure."

"Thanks for coming in this morning. I appreciate your help."

"You're welcome." The smile faded. "You need someone to take care of you, Carly. You can't do everything on your own."

"Why not? Others do."

"You're special. I'll always believe that."

She didn't feel all that special right now, but she would accept the sentiment she knew was behind the statement.

"How long have you been seeing Cammie?" she asked.

He s.h.i.+fted his feet. "We've gone out a couple of times. She's nice. Her kids are great."

He paused, as if he were trying to decide what to say next. She broke in quickly.

"I hope you know how great she is. Cammie deserves a good guy in her life. You need someone, too, Robert. Someone who wants what you want."

Not exactly subtle, she told herself, but it was important to get the message across. She'd meant what she said-she wasn't going to depend on him anymore.

"I could still-" he began.

"No. You couldn't and I can't, either. Let's be friends, Robert."

"I worry about you."

"Don't do that, either."

He didn't look convinced, but he nodded. "You can be stubborn."

"Part of my charm."

Mich.e.l.le wasn't in the mood to work the front desk. Bad enough she'd had to get up and help with breakfast. Now she had to smile and be pleasant to a bunch of people she didn't know and probably wouldn't like.

She needed to get out of here, she told herself. Go somewhere else. Only she loved the inn-or she had. Besides, where was there to go?

A white Toyota Corolla pulled up in front of the inn. It was barely ten in the morning and Mich.e.l.le wasn't in the mood to check in anyone early. She would tell them to come back at three, like they were supposed to. Idiots.

A tall, thin woman with perfect posture and short iron-gray hair got out. She walked around and collected a pet carrier from the pa.s.senger's side.

Memories stirred. Carly had said something about hiring an interim cook. This must be her.

The woman walked inside, accompanied by feline cries of distress.

"h.e.l.lo," she said as she approached the desk. "I'm Helen Swift." She set the carrier on the counter. "This is Mr. Whiskers. He doesn't travel well."

"Mich.e.l.le Sanderson."

They shook hands.

Helen picked up the carrier. "I'll get Mr. Whiskers settled, then you can show me the kitchen. If I'm to take on lunch today, there isn't much time."

So much for pleasantries, Mich.e.l.le thought, liking the older woman.

"You're retired?" Mich.e.l.le asked. She handed Helen the key to her room and pointed to the stairs.

"Yes. I taught school for thirty-five years. Middle school." Her eyebrows rose as her brown eyes danced with humor. "Math, mostly. They gave me the difficult students. I preferred them to the smart ones, but then I've always enjoyed a challenge."

"Can I carry anything?" Mich.e.l.le asked.

"I'm still capable," Helen said. "Lead on."

They went upstairs. Carly had reserved a west-facing room that overlooked the Sound. There was a small sitting room with a window seat, the bedroom and a large bath. A narrow desk had been pushed against a wall in the sitting room. A filled litter box sat under it, with a night-light next to it. In the bedroom, next to the closet, was a place mat with two empty dishes.