Barefoot Season Part 35

They made it outside. She walked to the side of the yard he'd used before and waited while he did his business. When they were back in the house, she unfastened the leash and set it on the counter.

"Let's get you some lunch."

She'd had to guess on the amount of food he needed. The bag of dry food had listed measurements for different weights, but Mich.e.l.le had no idea how big he was. She'd decided several small meals would probably be easier for him than one big one. He'd obviously been starving. Giving him too much might make him sick.

She set down the food, then walked to the refrigerator. Not that there was any point. She hadn't bothered keeping food around and Jared mostly ate out. But when she opened the door she was surprised to see the top shelf was nearly full. There were cartons of juice, bottles of ginger ale and Sprite. Three sandwiches nestled together, each clearly marked with the type, along with potato salad in a plastic container.

In her cupboard she found cookies and chips. Sugar and salt, she thought. Apparently Jared was a whole lot more interested in fattening her up than she'd thought.

She knew the drinks were to help her stay hydrated. The sugar in them would help with the shakes and withdrawal. Like the dog, she would have to take it slow.

She poured a large gla.s.s of juice. After collecting the turkey sandwich, the potato salad and a fork, she carried everything back into her room. The dog followed. She put the food on her nightstand and flipped on the TV.

As she turned to get into the bed, she b.u.mped the dog. They both jumped. He crouched and started for the corner.

"Wait," she called. "I'm sorry."

He stopped and looked at her.

He was still close enough for her to touch him. Slowly, she stretched out her arm. He took a step away. She slid toward him, murmuring she wasn't going to hurt him. He watched her, head low, tail tucked.

At last she was able to brush her fingers against his back. He shuddered but didn't move.

"Good boy," she whispered, touching him gently, avoiding the still-healing welts on his side. "That's better."

She petted his back, staying away from his head, although she did scratch the back of his neck. He raised his head a little and his long tail straightened a little.

"Oh, so you like that, do you? I'll remember for next time."

She returned to the bed. He walked over to his pile of blankets and settled down. She'd thought he might want a part of her lunch, but he ignored the fact that she was eating, closed his eyes and went to sleep.

Sometime after midnight, Mich.e.l.le came awake with a start. She'd been dreaming that she was back in Afghanistan. Not the shooting, thank G.o.d, but reliving being there was enough to get her heart racing.

She sat up and realized she felt a little better. Not so shaky. Maybe the alcohol had left her system, or maybe it was the food. She'd had another sandwich for dinner, along with most of the chips. She'd found ice cream in the freezer and had decided that Jared deserved to be nominated for sainthood. Not that he'd been around to accept the offer. She hadn't seen him since he'd brought her home from the bar.

She glanced at the dog and saw he was watching her. He'd eaten and slept, as well. The last time she'd taken him out, he'd stood quietly while she'd attached the leash. It seemed they'd come to some kind of understanding.

"Let's go out," she said as she stood.

He rose and walked toward her. She reached down to pat him. He flinched, his skin rippling under her touch, but then he was still. He raised his head slightly, looking at her.

Slowly, she moved her hand to his cheek and rubbed gently. A trust exercise for both of them, she thought. She could hit him, but he could bite off her hand. Neither happened.

She dropped her hand and picked up the leash. He let her snap it in place without cowering. Progress, she thought.

Later, when he'd done his business and they were back in her room, she climbed back into bed. She left the light on, as much for herself as for him. She rolled onto her side and was about to close her eyes when she felt his steady gaze.

She s.h.i.+fted around to find him standing by the bed, looking at her.

"What?" she asked, raising herself onto her elbow. Was he hungry? Should she feed him again? "I need an instruction manual."

He continued to stare, then, with one giant leap, jumped onto the bed. He collapsed at the foot of it, curled up, his b.u.t.t against her legs.

An unexpected development, she thought.

"I generally take a little longer to get into bed with a guy," she told him.

Instead of being impressed or the least bit chagrined, the dog closed his eyes and sighed.

"I know just how you feel," she said, dropping down to rest her head on her pillow.

The weight at the end of the mattress felt kind of good. At least neither of them was alone anymore. They would find a way to heal each other, which had probably been Jared's plan all along.

Thirty.

Carly was working the front desk. They were fully booked for ten straight days, from the weekend before the Fourth through the weekend after. Having the holiday itself fall on a Wednesday this year was turning out to be good for business.

This Sunday morning she'd already recommended restaurants for brunch, including their own, had organized wine tasting and antiquing tours and had begged a local artist to open his gallery an hour early.

She'd been on the run since Friday, but if everything went well, she would get a couple of hours off that afternoon. No one was checking in and the cleaning staff was taking care of the rooms. A chance to relax with her daughter and maybe just breathe sounded pretty good.

She glanced at the phone and wondered if she would hear from Mich.e.l.le. Not that her boss could use her cell. It was still in little pieces in a Baggie. Carly had collected them all after Mich.e.l.le had gone crazy the other day. She wasn't sure what she was going to do with them, but at least she had them.

Sunlight spilled into the reception area. They were promised a mostly sunny morning with clouds piling up in the afternoon. Rain tomorrow, which might send guests home early. It was probably wrong of her to be happy about that, but she wouldn't mind having the extra time to clean rooms before the next batch of visitors arrived. Tuesday would bring a new group for the therapy sessions. This time they would be working out their problems over the holiday, which should be interesting.

She heard a familiar engine and looked up to see Mich.e.l.le pulling around the side of the building toward the employee parking lot. Concern twisted around apprehension. Was Mich.e.l.le better or worse? Had she lost it completely or figured out a way to get help? There was only one way to tell.

She stayed in place at the front desk, trying to look busy. After a couple of minutes, she heard footsteps accompanied by an odd clicking sound. She looked up at Mich.e.l.le walking toward her. At her side was a large, skinny dog with healing welts on its side and a terrified expression in its eyes.

"Hi," Mich.e.l.le said.

She looked marginally better, Carly decided as she studied her. Less gray, but still pale. Her eyes were clearer and more focused, but her hands trembled as she held the leash.

"Hi."

"Sorry I disappeared. I had to deal with some stuff."

"Okay." Carly wasn't sure if she should ask if Mich.e.l.le was still crazy or simply find out over time.

"I have a dog now."

"I can see that. I'm not sure Mr. Whiskers is going to approve. He's sort of settled into a place of authority around here."

A hint of a smile tugged at Mich.e.l.le's mouth, then faded. "He's a rescue dog. Somebody tortured him, then abandoned him. I'm pretty sure Mr. Whiskers would be able to kick his b.u.t.t."

Carly moved out from behind the counter. "I've never understood why some people hurt animals."

She dropped to her knees by the dog. He trembled and sidestepped away. She stayed in place, offering her fingers for him to sniff. When he inched his muzzle toward her hand, she raised her other to his back and lightly stroked him.

"Hey, there," she murmured. "I know it's tough now, but things will get better. You've come to a good place. I think everyone here is going to spoil you, and what dog doesn't like that?"

He stared at her with sad eyes, but she thought he might look a little less afraid.

She rose. "Are you, um, here for the day?"

Mich.e.l.le nodded. "Yes. But before I start work, I need you to do something for me."

She led the way to her office, the dog following on his leash. He glanced around, obviously terrified of what might jump out and hurt him.

As they went inside, Mich.e.l.le pa.s.sed over the leash. "Hold him for a second."

She started opening drawers and moving books around, pulling out bottles of vodka from various hiding places. When she was done, there were six bottles-some full, some nearly empty-on her desk.

"I need you to dump these," Mich.e.l.le said, staring at the bottles rather than Carly. "Then check regularly. I don't plan to hide them anymore, but knowing you'll be looking will help."

Carly nodded. "Of course. Can I do anything else?"

"I don't know. I'm still figuring out what I'm supposed to be doing. I'm sorry for disappearing like that and leaving you with everything. It's a busy weekend."

"We're full and that's good. Don't worry. We managed. Everyone pulled together. Helen is working out great. People love her food. We've had a run on her chicken salad on focaccia bread. You should try it."

Mich.e.l.le smiled. "Is that a hint?"

"You've lost a lot of weight."

"I haven't been eating. I'm doing better. The dog and I both need to get our strength back."

"Are you keeping him?"

Mich.e.l.le nodded slowly. "I am. I think we need each other. I never thought about getting a dog before, but I like having him around."

She drew in a breath. "I know this is a bad time to disappear again, but I need to go to a meeting this morning."

"It's Sunday."

"They have them."

Carly's gaze slid to the bottles. "Oh. That kind of meeting."

Mich.e.l.le laughed. "No. I think the alcohol was a symptom, but not the real problem. I'm going to a support group for returning vets."

"Do you need me to babysit your dog?"

"I was going to take him with me. Then I can come back and work. Oh, do you know where there's a pet store? He needs food and a bed, maybe some toys. What do dogs like? b.a.l.l.s?"

"I can go," Carly offered. "I was going to duck out for a couple of hours this afternoon, anyway. I can take Gabby to the pet store with me. She'd love it."

"Are you sure? If you don't mind, I'll say yes, then stay here and look after things. I'll pay you back."

"It's not about the money." Carly drew in a breath. "I'm glad you're back. I was worried."

"I know. You were trying to help. I should have been more gracious."

"Why start now?"

Mich.e.l.le grinned. "Good point." She picked up the Baggie containing the broken pieces of her phone. "I should probably get this fixed, too."

"I don't know. If you really don't want to get any calls, you've found the perfect solution."

"I think a phone could come in handy. I'll go first thing tomorrow."

There was a moment of silence, then Mich.e.l.le said, "Thank you. For everything. I know I haven't been easy to deal with. Damaris pushed me over the edge. I thought I could trust her completely and it was all a lie. I didn't know how to handle that. You were there for me."

"You're welcome," Carly said, suddenly fighting tears. "I want to help and be someone you can depend on." She almost said that they were sisters and should be there for each other, but maybe it was too soon for that. She'd barely come to terms with that reality herself.

"At the risk of p.i.s.sing you off," she said cautiously, "I do have to tell you one thing. It's not completely horrible," she added. "It's just strange."

Mich.e.l.le drew in a breath. "Okay. What is it? Alien landings? The daisies have been sneaking out at night and killing people?"

"Ellen stopped by. She was her usual unpleasant self to me, which I'm used to. But she implied that the rules she put in place for you didn't come from any committee or the bank board. That she had done it herself, sort of as a power play."

"Can she do that?"

"I don't know. I have no experience with the banking world. I just wanted to tell you what happened."

"Nothing I'm dealing with today," Mich.e.l.le admitted. "It's way above my pay grade right now. Anything else I should know about?"

"Mom, Mom, are you-?"

Gabby rounded the corner, then slid to a stop, her eyes huge.

"Mom, is that a dog?" Her voice was thick with reverence, as if she'd just been given the world.

"Yes. Mich.e.l.le is taking care of him. Be careful, he's-"

There was no time to finish the statement, warning her daughter that the pathetic guy might not react well to a child's exuberance. Gabby barreled toward him, arms outstretched. The dog whimpered and started to back away, but his leash held him in place.

Then Gabby had reached him. She wrapped both arms around his body and leaned her head against his back.