Barefoot Season (2 page)

The smile faded as the dark eyes narrowed. “Her mother should have been the one taking care of things, but it was never like that. Michelle loved this place.”

Carly drew in a breath. She and Damaris had argued plenty of times about mother and daughter. Carly was willing to admit Brenda had her flaws, but she’d been the one who had rescued Carly. Given her a job and purpose. Carly owed her. As for Michelle…

“I hope she’s happy with the changes,” Carly said, by way of distraction. The band of tension around her chest was already tight enough that she had to consciously relax in order to draw in a full breath. She didn’t need more stress in her life right now. “You’ve told her what we’ve done, haven’t you?”

“I write her every month,” Damaris said with a sniff. “Not that her mother ever did.”

So much for diverting anyone, Carly thought. But she wasn’t going to give up. “Your blackberry scones are so popular with the guests. I’ve been wondering about offering packages of them for sale on Sunday morning. So our guests could take some home with them. What do you think? Would it be too much work?”

Damaris relaxed in her chair. “I could bake more. It wouldn’t be difficult.”

“We could sell them in packages of four and eight. Use some of that decorative plastic wrap we bought.”

Damaris already knew the cost of each scone, so calculating a price was easy enough. Carly wanted to include a recipe card with the scones, but knew better than to ask. Damaris protected her recipes the way tiger moms protected their cubs—with teeth, claws and intimidation.

“I’m going to check to see if she’s here,” Damaris said as she rose.

Carly nodded, then reluctantly followed her out of the office. Little about the inn would stay the same now—there was no way to deny it, although she’d give it her best effort. Brenda was gone and Michelle was back. That was enough to shift the dynamics, but there were also complications. Ten years away would change anyone, so Carly knew Michelle would be different. The question was, how different? People didn’t always evolve in a positive way.

She paused in the hallway. Evolve in a positive way? Maybe she should stop checking self-help books out of the library for a few weeks and relax with a nice romance instead.

She walked to the front room and stepped behind the dark, raised, hand-carved desk that served as a reception area. Touching the familiar, worn surface relaxed her. She knew every scar, every stain. She knew the bottom left drawer got stuck when it rained and that the knob on the top right drawer was loose. She knew where the cleaning staff hid extra towels and which rooms were more likely to have plumbing problems. She could be blindfolded and walk into any room. Standing there in total darkness, she would be able to say where she was based on the scent, the feel of the light switch, the way the floor creaked when walked on.

For ten years, this inn had been her home and her refuge. The fact that Michelle could take it away from her with a flick of her wrist was beyond terrifying. That it would also be wrong didn’t seem to matter. In the world of moral high ground, Carly feared she’d wandered into quicksand.

“There!” Damaris yelled, pointing out the window.

Carly glanced toward the freshly washed panes, seeing the sparkling glass and the white trim rather than the truck pulling up beyond. She focused on green grass and the explosion of daisies.

The flowers were her hobby, her passion. Where others noticed little beyond a variation on a theme, she saw Shasta daisies and gerberas. Broadway Lights, Gold Rush, daisy Golden Sundrops and, of course, the unique blackberry daisy. Daisies were a part of the very essence of the inn. They were featured in vases at the restaurant table. They danced across wallpaper, colored the murals and were embossed on the inn’s notepaper. She’d kept the bright colors of her garden in mind when helping Brenda choose the new roof. Now the dark green composite shingles were the perfect backdrop, the color repeating in the shutters and the front door.

Damaris raced across the lawn, her white apron flapping like butterfly wings. The older woman held open her arms and embraced a woman much taller and thinner than Carly remembered. She watched, even though she didn’t want to, listened, even though she couldn’t hear.

Michelle straightened, grinned, then hugged the other woman again. Her hair was longer now. A dark tangle of waves and almost-curls. Her face had more angles, her eyes more shadows. She looked as if she’d been sick. Carly knew that she had, in fact, been injured. Michelle looked fragile, although Carly knew better than to trust appearances. Michelle wasn’t the type to give in to weakness. She was more like the scary alien from the movies—the one that would never give up.

She and Michelle were practically the same age—Michelle older by only a couple of months. Back before anything had changed, Carly had known Michelle’s face better than her own. She could account for every scar, telling the story of how it came to be.

There were three defining moments in her life—the day Carly’s mother had left, the night she found out her best friend had slept with her fiancé and the morning Brenda had discovered her crying in the grocery store, unable to afford the quart of milk her obstetrician insisted she drink each day.

Separately, each of those moments barely added up to a quarter hour. A minute here, two minutes there. Yet each of them had shifted her life, rotating it and tossing it on the floor, breaking that which was precious and leaving her gasping for breath. Michelle had been a part of the fabric of her world—ripping it apart until there were only shreds left.

Carly drew in a breath and looked at the woman walking toward the inn. Once again she was dangling by a thread. Once again, Michelle would define her future and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. Unfairness caused her chest to tighten, but she consciously relaxed, telling herself she had survived worse. She would survive this.

The phone rang. Carly returned to the front desk to answer it.

“Blackberry Island Inn,” she said in a clear, confident voice.

“Let me check that date,” she continued, tapping on the computer keyboard. “Yes, we have rooms available.”

As she took information, confirmed the arrival time and credit-card number, she was aware of Michelle moving closer. The hunter returned. Which left Carly wondering if she was going to be part of the celebration or simply her next prey.

Two

K
nowing and seeing were not the same thing. Michelle stared at the front of the inn and knew the hits were going to keep on coming.

“It’s so good to have you back,” Damaris said, giving her another bone-crushing hug.

At least that was familiar, as was the other woman’s scent of cinnamon and vanilla from the pastries she made each morning. But everything else was wrong. From the roof—a hideous green color—to the matching shutters. Even the shape of the structure had changed. The lines of the building where she’d grown up had shifted, growing out in a way that made the inn look stubby. As if it had a muffin top and needed to lay off the blackberry scones and go find a Zumba class.

To the left, where the restaurant had been, an extra room jutted out, slicing through the side lawn and razing the slope she’d rolled down as a kid. To the right, a garish, wartlike growth was stuck on the side—all bright colors and windows displaying the usual island crap. Dolls and lighthouses, wind chimes and dangling stained glass.

“There’s a gift shop?” she asked, her voice more growl than question.

Damaris rolled her eyes. “Your mother’s idea. Or maybe Carly’s. I never listened when the two of them talked. They’re like the birds. Making noise and not saying much.”

Damaris’s small, strong hands gripped her arms. “Don’t worry about them. You’re home now and that’s all that matters.” Her mouth tightened in concern. “You’re too thin. Look at you. All bones.”

“From being in the hospital,” Michelle admitted. There was nothing like a painful rifle shot to kill the appetite.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the flutter of wings. They were there—the ever-present Puget Sound cranes circling the gray water of the Sound. The birds brought visitors and scientists. For some reason people found them interesting. Michelle had never been a fan. When she’d been eight, she’d spent a whole summer getting pooped on by the cranes. She wasn’t sure if it was just bad luck or an avian conspiracy. Either way, she’d gone from a fairly neutral opinion to hating them. Time away hadn’t lessened her desire to have them gone.

She returned her gaze to the inn and felt her gut lurch with disappointment. How could anyone have done this to the once-beautiful building? Even her mother should have known better.

She probably had, Michelle told herself. This was Carly’s doing, she was sure of it.

“Come inside,” Damaris said, moving toward the porch. “It’s going to rain and I want to feed you.”

The unrelated thoughts made Michelle slightly less uneasy. At least Damaris was the same—welcoming and loving, always needing to feed those around her. Michelle would hang on to that.

She walked haltingly next to the much shorter woman, knowing she should probably be using her cane but refusing to show weakness. Not when the situation felt so strange. And in her world, not knowing what came next meant she was in danger.

One of the thrilling results of multiple posts in Iraq and Afghanistan, she thought grimly. Along with nightmares, a hair-trigger temper and an attractive little tic that showed up under her left eye from time to time.

She’d foolishly allowed herself to believe that the second she saw the inn, she would be okay. That being home was enough. She’d known better, but still, the hope had lived. Now it shriveled up and died, leaving her with little more than the pain in her hip and a desperate longing to be ten years old again. Back when crawling onto her dad’s lap and feeling his strong arms holding her tight made everything all right.

“Michelle?” Damaris’s voice held concern.

“I’m okay,” she lied, then smiled at the other woman. “Or if you don’t believe that, how about I plan to be okay eventually? Can you live with that?”

“Only if you promise to eat.”

“Until I burst.”

Damaris’s hair had gone a little gray and there were more wrinkles around her eyes, but other than that, she was as she had been. At least that was something. Michelle was still searching for a piece of her home that was recognizable. Even the gardens were different, she thought as she stopped to look at the yards of happy daisies waving in the slight breeze.

Their color exploded in a cheerful pattern, edging the lawn, creeping up toward the main building, sliding around the side. They were all different, as if someone had sought out the obscure, the most bold. Their brightness seemed like a scream to her bruised senses and she wanted to shield both her ears and her eyes.

The front-porch stairs brought her attention back to the inn. She braced herself for the fire that would sear her and the subsequent nausea and sweat.

She put her right foot on the first stair, then lifted her left. Preparing for the flames didn’t make them any less hot. Pain tore through her, making her want to beg for mercy or, at the very least, stop. With all the changes they couldn’t have put in a ramp?

By the time she made it to the top, she was coated in cold, clammy sweat and her legs trembled. If she’d eaten that morning, she would have vomited—an elegant homecoming. Damaris watched her surreptitiously, worry darkening her brown eyes.

“Is it your mother?” she asked, her voice quiet, as if she didn’t want to hear the answer. “I know the two of you never got along, but still, she’s dead. You can’t blame yourself for not making it back to the funeral.”

“I don’t,” Michelle managed, the words forced out through clenched teeth. Being shot was one of the best excuses around.

A few more breaths and the pain faded enough to be bearable. She was able to straighten without gasping. Which allowed her to notice that the furniture on the porch was new, as was the railing. Her mother had certainly been free with whatever profits the inn brought in.

“Hello, Michelle. Welcome home.”

She swung her gaze to the wide double doors and saw Carly standing on the threshold.

There were changes there, too. Short hair instead of long. The same color of blond, the same dark blue eyes, but now they were edged in subtle makeup. Less Goth, more ladies-who-lunch.

The simple black skirt and flats, the long-sleeved, pink shirt with a tiny ruffle on the cuffs, were perfectly professional for the inn. They made Michelle feel rough by comparison. She was aware of her baggy cargo pants—still the easiest things to pull on that weren’t sweats. Her long-sleeved T-shirt had been to war and back and looked like it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d used mascara or moisturizer. Or had her hair cut by someone who’d actually studied to be a stylist.

By contrast Carly was pretty. Prettier than she remembered. Feminine.

Growing up, Michelle had been the beauty—with her long dark hair and big green eyes. Carly had been cute. The sidekick in the “who has the best smile” contest. Resentful of yet another change, Michelle wanted to turn away. To go back to…

Which was the issue. The inn was all she had and leaving wasn’t an option.

Carly continued to smile, looking calm and in control. “We’re so excited you’re back.” The smile faded. “I’m sorry about Brenda. She was a wonderful woman.”

Michelle raised her eyebrows. There were many words to describe her late mother.
Wonderful
wasn’t one of them.

More worrying, however, was the other woman’s attitude. As if it were her place to welcome anyone. As if she belonged here.

“It’s been a long time,” Carly added. “I haven’t seen you since…” She paused. “It’s been a long time,” she repeated.

The words, possibly impulsive, possibly planned, reminded Michelle of her last hours in this place. She supposed she should be embarrassed or guilty, that Carly expected an apology. Yet despite what she had done, Michelle found herself wanting Carly to apologize. As if Carly was the one who had done wrong.

They stared at each other for a long minute. Michelle fought memories. Good ones, she thought resentfully. She and Carly had spent thousands of hours together, had grown up together.

Screw that, she thought, pushing them away. She walked purposefully toward the door. As expected, Carly stepped aside to let her pass.

The inside was as changed as the outside. The cheerful curtains were new, as was the fireplace surround. The hardwood floor had been refinished, the walls painted, and there was a god-awful daisy mural in the hallway leading to the restaurant.

But the reception desk was the same, and that was what Michelle hung on to, mentally if not physically. As the room seemed to dip and swirl and shift, she understood that expecting nothing to change had been foolish. She had thought she would return to exactly what she’d left—minus her mother. That when she stepped into her home, it would be as if she’d never left. Never been to war.

“Are you all right?”

Carly reached for her as she spoke. As her arm moved, the light caught the gold charm bracelet on her wrist.

Michelle knew it intimately. As a child, she’d been mesmerized by the sparkly, moving bits of gold. As she grew, she’d learned the history behind each charm, had made up stories about the delicate starfish, the tiny high heel. The bracelet had been her mother’s and it was one of the few good memories she had about the woman.

Now Carly wore it.

Michelle didn’t want it but she sure as hell didn’t want Carly to have it.

Anger bubbled and boiled like water spilled into a hot skillet. She wanted to grab Carly’s delicate arm and rip off the chains of gold. She wanted to smash and take and hurt.

She drew in a breath like she’d been taught. While she wasn’t a big believer in PTSD, she’d been told she suffered from it. So she’d listened to the counselors when they’d talked about avoiding stress and staying rested and eating well. She’d listened, then she’d picked and chosen what she thought would work for her.

She did the breathing because she couldn’t pick an action and every part of her hurt. Then she limped away, each step burning, the soft tissue weeping in protest.

She went down the shorter hall on the right, turned a corner and stopped in front of an unmarked door. At last something that hadn’t changed, she thought, touching the frame where small cuts marked how she’d grown. The cuts ended abruptly, not so much because she’d stopped getting taller, but because the man who had cared so much, the father who had loved her, had left.

She turned the door handle, needing to be inside. Needing to be where she could retreat and lick her wounds.

The door was locked. She tried again, then pounded her fist against the wood—the thuds sharp and determined.

The door opened, exposing a wide-eyed teenage girl.

“Oh, hi,” the girl said, her freckled nose wrinkling slightly. “Sorry. The guest rooms are all upstairs. This is private.”

“I know what this is,” Michelle said, speaking for the first time since entering the inn.

“Who is it, Brittany?” a young girl called from the back of the apartment.

“I don’t know.” The teen turned back to the door, looking expectant, as if waiting for Michelle to leave.

Michelle wanted to make her way to her room, to fall on her bed and sleep. Because sleep, when she could find it, healed.

She pushed past the teen and stepped through the looking glass.