Barefoot Season Part 33

"Very nice," Helen said as she set the carrier on the bed and opened the door.

A sleek black-and-white cat stepped out, glaring as he went. Helen gave him a stroke on the back.

"There's a nice window seat for you, Mr. Whiskers," she said, her voice soft. "You situate yourself and I'll be back in a few hours."

She filled one of the bowls with water, then set it back in place.

"Show me the kitchen."

"Right this way."

They went downstairs and through the dining room. Helen paused to look around.

"I like how the windows allow in light," she said. "Very nice." Once in the kitchen, she made a quick tour. "Yes, I remember this. Well laid out."

She checked out the refrigerator, the pantry and the freezer. After studying the menu, she nodded once.

"Very well. I'll make you a list of immediate supplies. I can make do for lunch today, but I prefer to do better than simply making do on a regular basis. I'll also come up with ideas for specials after I go through what's been served in the past. I appreciate being asked to fill in. I prefer to think of myself as a useful sort of person. Retirement has been difficult."

She pressed her thin lips together. "It's been a year since I lost my husband. The days can be quite long without him."

"I'm sorry," Mich.e.l.le said, feeling uncomfortable.

"Thank you. This will be good for me. A nice change of scene."

"You're going to have an a.s.sistant. I think it's Cammie. She was a server. Carly can let you know."

"That's fine. I can work with most anyone, as long as they're willing to do what I ask."

Mich.e.l.le chuckled. "You remind me of several sergeants I've known."

Helen smiled, her whole face lighting up. "My husband was in the military. That's a very special compliment. Thank you."

Nothing about the middle ten days of June was noteworthy. Carly found herself both grateful for the reprieve and anxious about the next crisis. Because there would be one-of that she was sure.

Helen had settled in nicely. Her calm and organized personality meshed well with the servers. Damaris had signed the letter of resignation Carly had written for her, as had Isabella. A new hostess had been hired and Cammie had been moved permanently to the kitchen. So nearly everything was in order. Everything but Mich.e.l.le.

Carly worried about her but didn't know what to do. Mich.e.l.le mostly kept to her office and rarely spoke to anyone. Carly wasn't qualified to offer help, nor could she force Mich.e.l.le to seek it elsewhere. Complications, she thought, straightening the brochures in the stand by the front doors.

Gabby had finished school the week before and had started her camp, which she adored. She also had found true love with Mr. Whiskers and her affection seemed returned. The cat let Gabby dress him in doll clothes and then push him around in her old play baby stroller.

She glanced outside and saw the sun had broken through the clouds. The temperature was finally in the seventies. The warm afternoon beckoned and she slipped outside to sit on the porch for a few minutes.

She was perched on the steps when a car from the sheriff's department pulled up. Sam climbed out.

He looked good in his khaki uniform and aviator sungla.s.ses. He walked toward her, all confident male and powerful s.e.xuality. If she'd been standing, she would have worried about her knees getting weak. As it was, she had to bite her lip to keep from begging him to take her, right there in front of G.o.d and everyone.

"Officer," she said, smiling.

"Ma'am."

She winced. "I don't consider myself of 'ma'am-ing' age just yet."

"It's a sign of respect." He pointed to the step, next to where she sat. "May I join you?"

She nodded.

He settled beside her. His shoulder brushed hers and she felt a jolt of heat that had nothing to do with it being summer.

"How's it going?" she asked. "Settling into your new job all right?"

"It's good. I like the island, the people. I'm starting to see why there are complaints about the tourists. This is exactly what I've been looking for."

"That's nice."

"I've missed you."

She angled toward him. He'd removed his sungla.s.ses, which made him even more appealing. Temptation pulled at her. She told herself to be strong. Or at least sensible.

"We've hardly spent any time together," she said bluntly. "What's to miss?"

He grinned. "I like your sa.s.s. Let me rephrase that, then. I've been thinking about you a lot. I respect what you said about Mich.e.l.le, but I don't agree with it. I'd like to see you, Carly. We can take it slow. What about you and me taking your daughter out on the duck boat?"

Going out on the water was about her least favorite thing in the world, but the duck boats were safe enough. They drove around town, then went down the boat ramp, directly into the water. The drive wasn't an issue-it was the on-the-water part she objected to. As long as she sat near where they kept the life jackets and looked at the horizon rather than the water, she would be okay.

"Sure," she said. "Gabby loves the duck boats." Robert had taken her last summer and she'd talked about the experience for days. Gabby's inherited fear of the water didn't extend to duck boats.

"Just like that?" he asked. "I thought I was going to have to convince you."

"Apparently Mich.e.l.le doesn't care if we go out." Right now Mich.e.l.le didn't care about anything.

"Good to know."

"I'm worried about her. She's not eating. I think she's drinking a lot. She looks horrible, like she hasn't slept in weeks."

"I know. But I've already said all I can about it to her."

Carly rolled her eyes. "Have you seen her lately?"

"No."

"She's getting worse. I've seen the news stories. I get that it's difficult for soldiers to adjust to being back home, but this is more than that. She needs help."

Sam drew his eyebrows together. "You make it sound serious."

"I think it is."

Sam looked out in the distance. "Some people need to hit rock bottom before they can move forward."

"Maybe," Carly said. "Look, don't tell her I said anything. It'll make her defensive and p.i.s.s her off."

Sam stretched out his legs. "I've known some sisters in my time, but you two have the strangest relations.h.i.+p I've ever seen."

"We're not sisters."

"Your mother married her father, or do I have that wrong?"

"They're married."

They'd been married for years.

Sisters. Carly stared out at the garden as she turned the word over in her head. She and Mich.e.l.le were sisters. Okay, stepsisters, but still. She'd never thought of their relations.h.i.+p like that. Had never considered their familial bond-if you could call it that.

She wondered if putting a name to it would change anything. Neither of them had any family they were close to. Which should mean having each other was important.

Twenty-Eight.

Mich.e.l.le sat on the edge of the dock, her tennis-shoe-clad feet dangling toward the water. It was late afternoon. She should still be at the inn what with this being a busy weekend, but she had escaped. These days she just couldn't handle all the responsibility. She knew she was leaving more and more in Carly's care, but she couldn't seem to summon any interest or concern.

Jared sat next to her. He'd just appeared and she didn't have the energy to tell him to go away. As long as he kept his mouth shut, they would be fine.

She hadn't seen much of him since her breakdown. Mostly because she'd been avoiding him. She'd been avoiding everyone.

"How's the inn?" Jared asked, breaking the silence.

"Fine." She started to tell him she didn't want to talk about it but instead found herself saying, "Everything's screwed up."

"No. Not everything. Just you."

She covered her face with her hands. "Don't start with me. I don't want to hear it."

"You're getting worse, not better. Your clothes are hanging on you. You keep this up, you lose more weight, you're going to end up in the hospital."

Mango had given her the same lecture at her last physical-therapy appointment. It was the reason she hadn't been back to the VA hospital.

"I know you're not sleeping," he added.

She scrambled to her feet, then wished she'd been more careful as pain shot through her hip and down her leg.

"Stop it," she yelled. "Just stop it. You're not my mother. She wouldn't care about any of this and right now that sounds pretty good. If you want me to move out, just say it and I'll go."

Jared stared at her, his expression unreadable. "I don't want you to move out."

"Then leave me alone. You've ruined a perfectly good afternoon."

She picked up her shoes, turned and started walking back to the sh.o.r.e. Her legs felt weak, which happened a lot these day. She was also light-headed. Maybe she should eat something. Didn't Jared always have a d.a.m.n sandwich in the refrigerator?

She'd nearly made it to the end of the dock when she heard him call out behind her, "What's the point in making it back if you only came home to die?"

His words followed her, but she didn't react. Didn't slow, didn't turn back. She just kept moving. That was all she could do.

Carly looked up to find Mich.e.l.le standing in the doorway to her small office, glaring at her.

She took in the sallow skin with an undercoat of gray, the slightly bloodshot eyes, the gaunt cheekbones. Worry knotted in her stomach. Her father might have died from running his car into a tree, but that had simply been a detail. In truth the alcohol had killed him. And he'd looked a lot like Mich.e.l.le did now.

"You need help."

"You're hardly qualified."

"You can't go on like this," Carly told her. "You have to know you're getting worse, not better. Please, Mich.e.l.le. Get some help. Maybe Jared-"

"Leave him out of this," Mich.e.l.le told her, her eyes flas.h.i.+ng with feral rage. "Don't talk to him, don't look at him. Pretend he's not even alive. You got that?"

Carly felt the first whisper of fear. Mich.e.l.le was worse than she'd first realized. Was it possible for a person to slip over the edge and not find her way back?

"I won't have anything to do with him," Carly said quickly. She pressed her hands against the top of her desk, searching her mind for answers. Was there someone she could get in touch with? She had to do something. Maybe Sam would know.

Mich.e.l.le sucked in air. "Look, I know you're worried. It's not as bad as you think. I'm fine."

Mich.e.l.le's cell phone rang. She pulled it from her pocket and stared at the screen. As she studied the number there, her face contorted, her eyes narrowing to slits, her mouth twisting.

"Stop calling me," she screamed, then threw the phone across the room. It bounced off a stack of boxes, the ring still sounding. "Stop it. Stop it!"

Carly got up and reached for the phone. She pushed the ignore b.u.t.ton. The phone went silent.

They stood in the small room, looking at each other. Mich.e.l.le turned away first.

"Sorry," she muttered. "That was my dad. I don't know why he keeps phoning. I want him to leave me alone."

"You don't talk to him?"

"No. Why would I? You don't talk to your mom."

"Yeah, I do. Not often, but a couple of times a year. She came once, to visit. I wish she was more involved with Gabby, but that's not going to happen."

"How can you do that?" Mich.e.l.le's voice was accusing. "They left us. They were horrible, selfish people. They don't deserve to be in our lives."