Barefoot Season (5 page)

“What do you think of the changes?” Damaris kept her attention on the eggs she whipped.

“That they’re more than you said. The whole inn is different.”

“I didn’t want to upset you. Carly suggested the remodel, but then your mother ran with it. The contractor was from Seattle. God forbid Brenda should hire local. I think she was sleeping with him.”

“My mother?”

“He took advantage of her, if you ask me. The new roof and kitchen remodel became what you see. I almost felt sorry for her. He left when he was done and never came back. Such bad luck with men.” She looked over her glasses. “Like I said, I almost felt sorry for her.”

Michelle couldn’t summon even that much compassion. “She should have known better. The inn didn’t need to be different. It wasn’t hers. She didn’t have the right.”

“Did you think that would have stopped her?”

“No.”

The pounding was back in her head. The hip ache had never gone away. She supposed she could take one of the pain pills the doctors had given her but she didn’t like how they made her feel. Loopy.

Talk about irony. She had no problem washing away her life with vodka but resisted pain medication. Of course, in the scheme of things, that contradiction wasn’t even a footnote when compared with the rest of the jumble in her head. She had a feeling she was one step away from being a case study in some medical magazine. Or maybe she was giving herself too much credit.

Damaris set a plate in front of her. Cinnamon French toast with sausage. And blackberries on the side.

“Really?” she asked, nudging one of the berries until it threatened to roll off her plate. “Even with me?”

Damaris grinned. “Habit.”

Because all food was served with blackberries here on Blackberry Island. When she was little, her dad had teased that they should be grateful they didn’t live on Broccoli Island or Spinach Inlet. She remembered laughing and laughing, then drew in a breath and tried to remember the last time she’d found anything remotely funny.

She sliced off a small piece of the French toast. The edges were crispy, the cinnamon visible through the layer of egg. Once on her tongue, the flavors mingled, sweetened by the maple syrup. The bread itself, light yet substantial, had what those in the business called “mouth feel.”

Most people believed that scent memory was the most powerful but for Michelle it was taste. She could remember this breakfast from what felt like a thousand years ago. Could remember where she’d been sitting, what the conversation had been about. Damaris had made this exact meal for her on her first morning working for the inn.

“God, you’re good.”

Damaris laughed. “At least that’s the same.”

She poured herself coffee and pulled up a stool, watching as Michelle devoured the food.

Michelle finished the French toast, then went to work on the sausage. It was exactly as she recalled, made locally by organic farmers at the north end of the island. She ended with the blackberries.

“Are they from Chile?” she asked. It was way too early in the season for them to be local.

Damaris’s eyes widened. “Shhh. That’s practically blasphemy. Everything we serve is local.”

“You’re such a liar. Is that what we’re saying now?”

“No, but people assume.”

“It’s fifty degrees outside and the first week of May. No one thinks these are local.”

Damaris sniffed. “There’s a greenhouse on the far side of the island.”

“It’s the size of a toaster. They could plant maybe two bushes in there.”

“Still.” Damaris reached for her own cup of coffee. “What happens now?”

Michelle had a feeling the cook wasn’t asking if she planned to take her plate over to the sink or not. The question, and answer, was more complicated than that.

“I return to my regularly scheduled life. Run the inn, like I did before.”

“You can’t do it by yourself.”

Michelle glanced at her, wondering if she’d heard about what had happened with Carly the previous night.

“It’s bigger now,” the cook continued. “Thirty rooms. The summer’s coming. You know what that means.”

Crowds, tourists and a houseful of guests.

I fired Carly.

Michelle thought the words, testing them, enjoying the sense of satisfaction they produced.

Reality would be different, she thought, gripping her coffee. Reality was hard work and long hours. With her hip and the physical therapy that would require, not to mention the fact that stairs were going to be a nightmare, Damaris was right. She couldn’t do it on her own.

This close to the summer season, finding a replacement for someone who knew the inn would be difficult. While the words had come from her heart, she knew letting Carly go would be stupid.

“You’re saying I have to keep her.”

No need to say who “she” was.

Damaris shrugged. “For now. She won’t want to go. She has her daughter. Gabby. A sweet girl, considering.”

Damaris had always been an ally. Impulsively, Michelle stretched her arm across the stainless counter and squeezed her friend’s hand.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.”

The door to the dining room swung open and a dark-haired woman a little younger than Michelle entered. She wore a pink blouse tucked into black trousers. Her hair had been pulled back into a ponytail.

“Isabella, come. This is Michelle. Michelle, my daughter-in-law. Isabella is married to Eric.”

Michelle smiled. “I can’t believe he finally got married.”

“Four years ago,” Isabella said.

Michelle remembered Eric being the kind who didn’t see the point in having a girlfriend. Why limit yourself to just one? He’d hit on her a couple of times, once even flashing her his penis. It was the first one she’d ever seen and her unplanned “Really? Is that what all the fuss is about?” had not only deflated him but insured he didn’t bother her again.

“Congratulations,” she now told Isabella, hoping Eric was a better husband than his past behavior implied.

“Thank you.”

“They have a baby. A little girl.”

“That’s nice.”

An awkward silence filled the room.

“Okay. Well, it was lovely to meet you.” Isabella turned to her mother-in-law. “The last of the customers left. I’m closing up the dining room. I’ll be back at eleven-fifteen.”

“See you then.”

“Bye,” Isabella said, and left.

“She’s a hostess here. She works breakfast and lunch,” Damaris said. “The schedule is convenient for her. She can make some money and be home with the baby.”

“Good.”

Michelle knew she should ask more questions, get involved. She was back now. But dealing with people, the easiest part of the job, suddenly seemed impossible. She wanted to retreat to a small space where she would feel safe. Somewhere familiar.

She rose and reached for her dishes.

“Leave those,” Damaris told her. “I’ll take care of them.”

Michelle walked around the table and embraced the woman who had always taken care of her.

“Thank you,” she whispered, kissing Damaris on the top of the head.

“Welcome home, Michelle. I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me, too.” Sort of.

She limped to the door leading to the dining room. From there she would enter the inn and figure out what was next.

“Michelle?”

She paused and glanced back.

Damaris smiled. “I’m proud of you.”

Michelle felt her throat tighten. “Thank you.”

Five

H
er mother’s office,
her
office now, was one of the few places that wasn’t different. Michelle settled on the old wooden chair and grinned when she heard the familiar squeal of protest. The chair was older than her, dug up from some office furniture sale years and years ago. Like the desk, it was scarred and old-fashioned, but serviceable.

The computer had been replaced, probably more than once in the past ten years, she thought as she pushed the power button on the tower. Although it wasn’t as new as the one she’d used in Afghanistan.

Behind her, built-in bookcases covered the wall from floor to ceiling. Old ledgers dating back decades gathered dust. The smell of aging leather and musty pages comforted her. Here, with a watercolor of the inn as it used to be, with the familiar fading braided rug underfoot, she at last felt at home.

In the 1950s her newly married grandparents had inherited an unexpected windfall and had impulsively purchased the inn. Michelle’s father had been born and raised here, as had she. Three generations of Sandersons had left their mark on the halls and floors of the old building. Michelle had never imagined living anywhere else.

Ten years ago circumstances—okay, guilt—had caused her to join the army. Within eleven months she’d been sent overseas, eventually ending up in Iraq. Working in the supply office had kept her busy. Knowing that she was making a difference had caused her to request two more deployments.

She’d spent her leave time in Europe, had wandered through Australia for nearly three weeks, had seen the Great Wall. As far as she was concerned, she was ready for the Been There, Done That T-shirt. If she had her way, she would never leave the island again.

She turned her attention to the screen and clicked on the icon for the inn. A box came up, demanding a password. The computer might be new, but the software had obviously been transferred from the one before. She entered her old password and screens flashed in front of her. She navigated easily through reservations, then to the computer version of a check register.

The dates there made her frown. All the entries abruptly ended three months ago. What had—?

Her mother’s death, she realized. Brenda had taken care of the bookkeeping for the inn. She would have been the one using the computer. Carly hadn’t, which meant what? That none of the bills had been paid? She remembered Carly having many flaws, but being irresponsible wasn’t one of them.

She turned her attention to the paperwork stacked on the desk. She looked for a pile of bills but instead found a pad of paper with a neat, handwritten list.

“April 17. Blackberry Island Water. $237.18.”

The entries went back the three months and included two mortgage payments each month for different amounts. Michelle studied the list, recognizing the writing as Carly’s. So she
had
been paying bills, but by hand. She wasn’t sure if the other woman hadn’t used the computer because she didn’t know how or didn’t think she was supposed to.

Michelle dug in the drawers and found the checkbook. Her mother’s writing jumped out at her, a rambling scrawl that contrasted with Carly’s smaller, neater entries. Michelle stared at the numbers, seeing the actual form of them rather than the amounts. She drew in a breath and braced herself for the inevitable.

Inhale, exhale, and there it was.

The subtle slam of a car hitting the side of a mountain. Guilt. It hit her from every direction, making her writhe in her seat as her breakfast turned from comfort food to something heavy in her stomach.

Self-reproach mingled with shame, but the emotions were elusive. Because she and her mother hadn’t gotten along, because the other woman had blamed her for things that a teenager could never be responsible for, Michelle knew deep down inside she’d been glad she hadn’t been here at the end. And that being glad was wrong.

It wasn’t that Brenda had been alone. Carly had been there, or as Brenda had referred to her in her infrequent emails, “the true daughter of my heart.” But Carly wasn’t family.

Knowing in her head that ambivalence was the cause of the guilt didn’t make it any easier to endure.

“Focus,” she told herself. The hangover had faded enough that the headache was nothing more than dull background noise. After ten years, who knew what kind of financial turmoil the inn had experienced. She would dig into the numbers and come up with a plan. The army had taught her to excel at logistics.

She reached for the mouse, only to have the phone ring. The sharp sound cutting through silence caused her to jump. Her heart raced and a cold sweat instantly coated her body. Fear joined the ache in her hip and made her want to duck under the desk. Instead, she picked up the receiver.

“Sanderson,” she said from long habit, then unclenched her teeth.

“There’s a call for you on line one. Ellen Snow from Island Savings and Loan.”

Carly’s voice was calm. Had Michelle only imagined the thrill of firing her the previous night?

“You’re still here?”

“So it seems. Did you want to take the call?”

By way of answering, Michelle pushed the flashing button, disconnecting Carly and connecting the other call.

“This is Michelle Sanderson. How can I help you?”

“Michelle, how great to talk to you. I’m Ellen Snow from the bank. I don’t know if you remember me.”

Michelle leaned back in her chair. “We went to school together.”

Ellen laughed. “That’s right. I was a year behind you and my brother, Miles, was a year ahead.”

The images were vague. Blond, she thought. Nordic. Miles had been popular, Ellen less so.

“I remember,” Michelle said, going for polite rather than accurate.

“I just want to say I think what you did is wonderful. Serving our country that way. This probably sounds strange, but thank you.”

Michelle opened her mouth, then closed it.

What was she supposed to say in return? Her reasons for joining had been far from altruistic, and now that she was back she wanted to slip into normal, to pretend it had never happened. Hardly actions worthy of thanks.

“Ah, you’re welcome.”

“Now that you’re home, I’m assuming you’re going to be taking over the inn?”

“Yes.”

“Good. As you may know, the bank has two notes on the property. A first and a second mortgage.” Ellen’s tone had shifted from friendly to business. “We should talk about them as soon as possible. Is ten-thirty good for you?”

A second mortgage? When had that happened? At least it explained the second monthly payment, but why?

She closed her eyes and saw the new roof, the larger restaurant, then swore silently. Her mother had been in charge—it was the gift that kept on giving.

“Ten-thirty this morning?”

“Yes. I have some time then.”

It wasn’t as if Michelle had anything else to do. “I’ll be there.”

“I look forward to it.”

* * *

Island Savings and Loan stood in the center of town. The once-thriving business district had been taken over by stores and restaurants that catered to tourists rather than locals. Most of the companies that served locals had been eased toward the outskirts of town, but the Savings and Loan stood where it had for nearly a hundred years.

Michelle parked in front, then walked through the glass doors—one of the few concessions to modern times. The rest of the building was brick, with hardwood floors and a mural completed in the 1940s.

There was no security guard, and if she ignored the high-tech cameras mounted on the walls, she could almost pretend she was a kid again, going to the bank with her dad.

An older woman stood in front of a lone teller. Otherwise, there didn’t seem to be any other customers. Michelle glanced around at the offices lining the walls, then walked toward the one with Ellen’s name stenciled on a wood-and-glass door.

She knocked on the open door.

Ellen looked up, then smiled and stood. “Michelle, thanks so much for coming in. How are you?”

“Fine, thanks.”

She did her best not to limp as she entered the small space. Her T-shirt and cargo pants had seemed fine back at the inn, but here, with Ellen, she felt underdressed and grubby.

The other woman was as thin as she’d been back in high school. Long blond hair hung past her shoulders. Hazel eyes were framed with discreet makeup. Pearls, probably real, sat on top of a light green twin set. Low heels and a black knee-length pencil skirt completely Ellen’s “I’m a banker, trust me” look.

As Michelle took the offered seat, she tried to remember if she’d bothered to comb her hair that morning. She’d showered, so she was clean, but her lone concession to grooming had been to brush her teeth.

“I was so sorry to hear about your mother,” Ellen said gently, waiting until Michelle sat before resuming her place behind her desk and leaning forward. “It must have been difficult for you. I heard you’d been injured around the same time. It’s not fair, is it?”

“No, it’s not.”

Ellen sighed. “The loss and being hurt. Now this.” She motioned to the slim file on her desk.

Michelle stared at the closed folder. “What do you mean?”

The other woman pressed her lips together, as if considering her words. “Have you had a chance to go through the finances of the inn?”

Michelle regretted leaving the vodka bottle in her motel room. Right now a drink seemed like a smart move. “No. I’d only been in a few minutes when you called.”

“Then let me bring you up to speed.” She opened the file. “I really hate to be the one to tell you about this. I wish it could wait.” She paused.

Michelle felt the familiar sensation of something crawling on her skin. “Just say whatever it is.”

“The inn is in trouble. If it were up to me, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I know you just got home and need time to readjust, but we have a loan advisory board. The new regulations are so strict. Back in the day I’d have more control. I’m so sorry.”

Maybe it was a lack of sleep, but Michelle would swear the other woman had just given an explanation that hadn’t made anything more clear.

“What are you talking about?”

“The loans on the inn. There are two mortgages, both delinquent. I’m afraid we’re talking about foreclosure.”

Michelle shot to her feet, ignored the stabbing agony in her hips. “What? That’s not possible. How can you say that?”

“I’m afraid I can say it because it’s the truth. The last three payments were made on time, but they were only for current amounts. There are months of back payments on both mortgages. With penalties and interest.”

Michelle sank back into the chair. The pain in her hip radiated out like light from the sun. It burned through her, making it difficult to concentrate.