Barefoot Season

by Susan Mallery

  “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 shell.

  “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 God 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 assumed it had something to do with being loyal to Michelle. 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 assistants 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 passing. 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, Michelle 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.

  Michelle 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 passed 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 butter 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?”<
br />
  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 shifted 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.”

  * * *

  Michelle 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 Michelle 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 passenger’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.

  “Hello,” 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.”

  “Michelle 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, Michelle thought, liking the older woman.

  “You’re retired?” Michelle 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?” Michelle 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.

  “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,” Michelle said, feeling uncomfortable.

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

  “You’re going to have an assistant. 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.”

  Michelle 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 Michelle.

  Carly worried about her but didn’t know what to do. Michelle mostly kept to her office and rarely spoke to anyone. Carly wasn’t qualified to offer help, nor could she force Michelle 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 sunglasses. He walked toward her, all confident male and powerful sexuality. 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 God 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 sunglasses, which mad
e 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?”