Barefoot Season Read online

  Something Michelle should put a stop to, she thought. Carly had earned her position at the inn. She thought about the handmade welcome cards and the care with which Carly had cleaned the rooms. Honestly, she was damned lucky Carly had taken a job here and stayed on as long as she did.

  Damaris poured them both more whiskey. “You know her past. Once a whore, always a whore.”

  “No,” Michelle said firmly. “I know she’s not sleeping around. Carly loves her daughter too much to risk hurting her. She knows better than almost anyone what that can do to a family. Besides, she works long hours. When would she have time to sleep around?”

  “Not now, but before. In high school. And that husband of hers. He was smart to leave.”

  Damaris had plenty of energy on the subject but not much in the way of facts.

  “High school was a long time ago.”

  “Maybe, but she’s no different. Trust me.”

  That was the problem, Michelle thought later that afternoon as she sat in her office. She did trust Damaris. But she trusted Carly, too, which left her in the awkward position of not knowing who to believe.

  * * *

  “We should shut the whole thing down,” Michelle muttered, standing in the center of the gift shop, her hands on her hips.

  “As long as you’re keeping an open mind,” Carly told her. “Come on, it doesn’t make sense to simply shut the doors. For one thing, we have inventory to deal with. Some can be returned, but there’s a restocking fee, so we’ll lose money for sure. And until we figure out a way to use the space, we’re giving up the rent money.”

  “What rent money?”

  “Isn’t the gift shop paying rent? That was the whole point. It was supposed to be a separate business, not associated with the inn. Brenda had the idea to get into retail.”

  Carly had been the one who had objected, saying it would be a distraction and a drain on finances. Of course, that had been back when she’d still thought she was earning her way into an ownership position. Brenda had sworn the gift shop was going to stand on its own.

  Once it was in place, Carly found she enjoyed working in the store a few hours a week, but that didn’t mean it was a good business decision.

  Michelle leaned against the checkout table and sighed. “She lied. God, I’m getting so tired of saying that. Can I get it out of my system now? Whatever we talk about in the future, whatever happens, if it involved my mother, she lied. She lied and I’m sorry.”

  Carly blinked. “That was good. Sincere and honest, with a hint of whine. I think you’re getting better.”

  Michelle narrowed her gaze. “Are you mocking my PTSD?”

  “No. Just you. I have respect for your PTSD.”

  As Michelle studied her, Carly braced herself. The moment could go either way. Michelle could laugh and they could take one more baby step toward being friends, or she could start throwing blackberry-covered stoneware.

  “Kiss my ass,” Michelle said with a grin.

  “We were never that close.” Carly let out the breath she’d been holding. “Okay. Gift-shop reality check. Based on the lack of rent paid by the gift shop, I’m guessing there aren’t a separate set of books and it’s not its own corporation?”

  “No such luck.”

  “Any way to change that?” Carly held up her hand. “I guess the more important question is, would it help or hurt? Or maybe not be worth the trouble if we’re going to shut it down. For what it’s worth, I think we can make something here.”

  Michelle glanced around. “You’re right—simply closing the doors is stupid. From what I can tell, we’re making a little money off the place and I don’t want to leave the square footage sitting empty. But there’s a ton of inventory that isn’t moving.”

  Carly shifted the printouts on the counter. “I’ve gone over the lists and marked what seems to be selling well and what’s a disaster.”

  “Is there a column for what’s ugly? Because there’s plenty of ugly here.”

  “Let me guess. You hate everything with daisies on them.”

  “That’s a start. At least the blackberries support the island.”

  “Daisies are pretty.”

  “You can eat a blackberry.”

  “Things only have value if they’re edible? That puts a somewhat icky spin on the local baseball team.”

  Michelle laughed. “A couple of the players are cute enough to be delicious. Does that count?”

  “It should.” Carly turned her attention back to the printout. “The dolls are the first concern.” She moved toward that part of the store and Michelle followed.

  “They’re a specialty item,” Carly continued. “The average tourist isn’t interested and the serious collectors don’t know that they’re here.”

  “You don’t like them?”

  “No. I think they’re creepy. Those little hands. I worry they’re going to come alive at night, get into my room and scoop out my brains.”

  Michelle tilted her head. “Really?”

  “No, but I’m not a doll person. I’ve made a few calls and there’s a doll store up in Bellingham. The owner is interested in our inventory. She would come and get them, paying us what we paid. We wouldn’t make any money on the transaction, but we wouldn’t lose any, either.”

  “I wish there was a way to make money on them.”

  “Me, too, but we haven’t sold a single doll in two months. Most of the inventory is over a year old.”

  “They were a stupid purchase.” Michelle sighed. “Let me guess… My mother’s idea?”

  “Yes, but I picked everything with daisies.”

  “Spreading the blame around?”

  Carly fluttered her eyelids. “Some of the daisy items are our bestsellers.”

  Michelle pointed to the china collection in a daisy pattern. There were a few dishes, but most of the shelves held serving pieces, salt and pepper shakers, along with napkin holders and cake plates.

  “Like those?”

  “They sell really well, so yes, we could expand that. Carry even more.”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “A little.” Carly patted her arm. “Just tell yourself people are freaks. You’ll feel better.”

  “It’s going to take more than that.”

  Carly thought about pointing out she owned a few of the pieces herself, but she figured she’d teased Michelle enough. She liked that they were able to talk like colleagues instead of enemies and she appreciated that her boss had taken her advice with the clothes and was even wearing a little mascara. She was still painfully thin, but that would probably get better when her hip stopped hurting so much.

  Michelle sighed. “Okay, fine. We’ll keep the ugly dishes. What else?”

  Carly pointed to the bolts of fabric. “Boston Flemming is a local textile artist. She hand paints fabric. Very exclusive, very pricey. Our store is the only place you can buy her work retail. When she’s not creating directly for clients, she plays around with new ideas and we get to sell the results.”

  “Nice,” Michelle said. “Looks expensive.”

  “About a hundred dollars a yard.”

  Michelle blinked. “I’m less interested in having a sofa re-covered right now.”

  They worked their way through the rest of the inventory list. They agreed on keeping the books and adding more local artists, and disagreed on the touristy items like magnets and pens. Michelle wanted them gone.

  “We’re a tourist destination. Grandma wants to take home something for the grandkids,” Carly said. “They make money.”

  “Fine,” Michelle grumbled. “You’re right.”

  “Hearing that never gets old.”

  Michelle opened her mouth to respond, then her gaze shifted. Her eyes widened and her mouth curled into a surprised and happy smile.

  Before Carly could figure out what had happened, Michelle went hurrying past, nearly running, her arms open.

  Carly turned and saw her fling herself at a tall,
dark-haired man who had just walked into the gift shop.

  “I ignored the closed sign,” he said, catching her as she flung herself at him.

  “You’re here!” Michelle said happily. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “I came to see you. Just like I promised.”

  They both laughed and the man spun Michelle in a circle. Carly could feel the affection between them, the pleasure at being back together.

  So Michelle had a man in her life, she thought, turning and quietly walking out to give them privacy. A hunky man with smiling eyes. Some women had all the luck.

  Eighteen

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” Michelle said, hugging Sam again. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

  “I just did.”

  His easy grin, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, were all familiar. “It’s good to see you.”

  “You, too.”

  She led him out of the gift shop and down the hall to the restaurant. It wasn’t open for lunch yet, but she motioned him to a table, then went to grab a warming carafe of coffee.

  “You sit,” he said, coming up behind her. “I can get the coffee.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “You’re limping. I don’t like to see you hurt.”

  Words designed to make her feel safe and protected. Emotions that were hard to find these days.

  “When did you get here?” she asked when he returned. “On the morning ferry?”

  “I’ve been here a couple of days,” he said as he sat across from her.

  “What? And you didn’t call me?”

  “I wanted to look around. Check things out.” He pushed the sugar toward her. “You talked about this place so much, I needed to make sure infamous Blackberry Island was as great as you promised.”

  “And?”

  “I like it.”

  “You couldn’t come see me first? You had to approve of my hometown?”

  “I’m applying for a job here. That’s why I was checking it out. You okay with that?”

  His dark blue eyes met hers as he waited for his answer. She knew he would leave the island if she told him to. That he wouldn’t do anything to hurt or upset her. He’d always been one of the good guys.

  “What kind of job?”

  The grin returned. “You have to ask?”

  “Sheriff.”

  “Deputy. I’ll get to sheriff soon enough.”

  “They must have been thrilled by your résumé.”

  “They were impressed.”

  Sam had been in the army twenty years, and he’d spent nearly all of them in the military police. He had the training and experience any town sheriff could want.

  “Need a character reference?” she asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “You still could have told me you were here.”

  “I wanted to surprise you by saying I was applying for the job, so I waited until I was sure.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  His dark eyes stared into hers and the smile faded.

  “Ugh.” She pulled her fingers free. “I mean it. I’m fine. How are you? You ready to be a full-time civilian?”

  He rubbed his hair, still regulation. “Some things will take getting used to. You sleeping?”

  “Why are we talking about me? I’m not that interesting.”

  “You are to me. Are you?”

  “No. Sometimes.” She cupped her hands around the mug. “I have nightmares. It sucks.”

  “You in a group?”

  She groaned. “Not you, too.”

  “That’s a no.”

  She glanced at him from under her lashes. “Did I say I was happy to see you? I spoke too soon.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  He was right. Sam was one of the few people she trusted absolutely. Having him around would mean someone had her back.

  “If you don’t want to talk about your emotional health—”

  “I don’t,” she interrupted.

  “How’s the hip?”

  “Better. It still hurts and I get tired, but I’m off the prescription painkillers. I use over-the-counter stuff now.” And her new BFF in a bottle, but he didn’t need to know that. “There are—”

  She stopped and frowned at him. “Wait a minute. If you’ve been on the island for a couple of days, where have you been staying? Not here.”

  “They said you were full when I called.”

  “You should have asked for me. I could have thrown someone out for you.”

  He chuckled. “While the sentiment touches my heart, there’s no need. I’m at the Tidewater Inn down the road.”

  “We have a better breakfast.”

  “I’ll try it in the morning.”

  “You’d better. I’ll check the reservations. We should have something.”

  “Not to worry. I’m fine where I am.”

  “I might insist.”

  “If it’s important to you.”

  She smiled. “It’s good to see you.”

  “It’s because I’m so good-looking, right? I have that problem all the time. Women can’t let go of me.”

  She leaned back in her chair and laughed. The sound came from deep in her belly, vibrating in her chest. It filled her, spilling out and making the constant pain in her hip fade. She laughed until she had to gasp and catch her breath.

  “Thank you,” she managed, wiping tears from her eyes.

  “Part of my charm.”

  “You are charming.”

  She asked about his parents, who’d retired to Austin, and his sister. As they spoke, she noticed his attention drifting past her to something outside the window.

  “What?” she asked, turning in her seat. “We have three couples here in some kind of therapy program. Are they out there doing those strange exercises?”

  But none of her guests were in view. The only thing she could see was Carly and Gabby picking daisies.

  Michelle looked back at Sam. “No.”

  “What? She’s cute.”

  “Cute? What are we? In high school?”

  “I didn’t think you’d want me saying anything else in front of you.”

  “What do I care?”

  “Then why are you glaring?”

  She consciously relaxed her face. “I’m not glaring.”

  “Yeah, right. What’s the problem? Is she married?”

  “No. But as you can see, she has a child.”

  “I like kids.”

  “Since when? You stay away from her.”

  “I don’t think I have to listen to you.”

  “You’ll be sorry if you don’t.”

  “Why?”

  A question she couldn’t answer. Even more disconcerting, she wasn’t sure who she was trying to protect—Sam, Carly or herself.

  * * *

  “I know I’m a fool,” the woman said, her voice shaking as tears spilled down her cheeks. “I tell myself to be strong. That I should leave him. That’s what you’re thinking, aren’t you? That I’m an idiot?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  Carly patted the other woman’s shoulder sympathetically, hoping she looked more comfortable than she felt. She’d come into the lounge area to make sure there was fresh wood in the fireplace. Seth and Pauline wanted to use the space that evening and it was going to be cool. Carly had thought a crackling fire might both warm the guests and give them a little nudge in the romance department.

  What she’d found in addition to plenty of wood was one of her guests curled up in the window seat, sobbing. Even worse, Carly couldn’t remember her name. It was an M name. Mary? Marti? No, there were more syllables than that. Martina? Now Carly searched for a polite way to ask.

  The woman, maybe in her mid-to-late thirties, dabbed at her face. “He cheats. That’s why we’re here. My mom says I need to pack up and go but I have two kids. They love him and I don’t want to be a single mother. Besides, the re
st of the relationship isn’t so bad. I just keep hoping one day I’ll be enough.”