Сьюзен Мэллери - Summer Nights

“A hero?” he asked with a grin, then slapped his hand against the truck. “Okay, you’ve done your best to confuse me by being sexy and a war vet. But I’m not going to be distracted. I want ten thousand. Not a penny less.”

Sexy? That did make her laugh. At this stage in her life she would have trouble qualifying as a trophy girlfriend for a man pushing ninety. But hey, a compliment was always nice to hear.

She turned her attention to the truck. It was in decent shape, with relatively new tires and only a few dents. The mileage was low enough to allow her to get a few years out of the thing before she would have to start replacing parts.

“Ten’s crazy high,” she said. “I’m paying cash. I’m thinking closer to eight.”

“Eight?” He clutched his hands to his chest. “You’re killin’ me. You really going to do that to a future hero?”

She chuckled. “Come on, kid. We’ll take her for a drive and swing by a mechanic friend of mine. If he says the truck is good, I’ll give you nine-five and you can call it a win.”

“You’ve got a deal.”

* * *

Two hours later, Michelle let the guy—Brandon—off at his place. A mechanic she knew on the base had given her the thumbs-up on the truck and she’d handed over an ordered stack of crisp bills. In return she’d collected paperwork and keys.

Now, as she pulled away from Brandon’s house, she eyed the gray sky. She was back in western Washington state, where rain was so prevalent that a day of sunshine was the lead story on the local news. Leaving luggage in the open was taking a risk and she’d dropped her two duffels in the back. She decided the clouds looked more lazy than ominous. Her duffels should be safe enough on the drive home.

Home. It was a long way from where she’d spent the past ten years. Blackberry Island, an actual island in Puget Sound, connected to the mainland by a long bridge, might technically be within commuting distance of Seattle, but it was a world away. The single town on the island billed itself as the “New England of the West Coast.” A selling point she’d never understood.

Quiet, touristy, with quaint stores and a slower pace of life, the island celebrated all things blackberry. There were silly traditions and a rhythm to the seasons that had always seemed annoyingly out of step. At least before. But what she once hadn’t appreciated now seemed appealing to her.

She shifted on her seat, the pain in her hip as constant as ever. The physical therapists had sworn it would get better, that she was healing quicker than they’d expected. She was already bored with the recovery process—it took too damn long. But there was no rushing her body along.

She found her way to the main road, then onto the freeway. She headed north, merging with the traffic. The number of cars surprised her. Their orderly progress. She was used to Hummers and assault vehicles, not SUVs and sports cars. The damp, cool air was also something she’d forgotten. She switched on the heater and wished she’d thought to pull out a jacket. It didn’t matter that it was May. Seasons were for sissies. Summer came late to this part of the country. Fortunately, the tourists came early.

She knew what to expect over the next four months. Starting with Memorial Day and going through Labor Day, the island would be crawling with visitors. They came for the boating, the famous Puget Sound cranes and for the blackberries. Blackberry Island was the you-know-what capital of, well, the West Coast. Vacationers would crowd the restaurants, buying all sorts of knickknacks and handmade items. And they would eat blackberries.

They would put fresh blackberries on their pancakes, in salads, on or in nearly every type of food known to man. They would purchase blackberry ice cream from vendors and blackberry cookies from kiosks. They would buy tea towels and mugs with blackberry motifs and taste the dubious results of the annual blackberry-chili cook-off. Best of all, they would fill every room in a fifty-mile radius. Including the rooms at the Blackberry Island Inn.

Michelle could practically hear the happy hum of the inn’s bank balance filling. Like most businesses on the island, the inn made most of its annual income during those precious four months. The days would be long, the hours endless, the work backbreaking, but after being gone for so long, she was eager to dive back in. To return to the one place she could count on never to change.

* * *

“Is she here yet?”

Damaris asked the question from the doorway to Carly Williams’s office.

Carly looked up from the welcome card she’d been making. Part of what the Blackberry Island Inn offered guests was personalized service. She found out about her guests before they arrived, then put a handmade welcome card in their room. The Banners, an older couple who had come to bird-watch and do some wine tasting, had mentioned how much they loved the water. Carly had made sure they were in a west-facing room and was creating a card that featured a photo of Blackberry Bay at sunset.

Bits of ribbon and lace were spread across her blotter. A glue stick sat upright, next to her battered tweezers. She absently rubbed at a tiny square of glitter on the back of her hand.

“She’s not here,” she told Damaris, then gave her a smile. “I said I’d let you know when she arrived.”

Damaris sighed. Her glasses had drifted down her nose, giving her an absent air. More than one newly hired server had assumed her slightly scattered appearance meant that she wouldn’t notice if an employee was late or didn’t offer more coffee the second a sip was taken. All mistakes that were later regretted.

“I thought she’d be here by now,” Damaris admitted. “I’ve missed her so much. It’s been too long.”

“It has,” Carly murmured, not wanting to think about how her life would be altered when Michelle returned. Reminding herself that she’d been the injured party didn’t stop her stomach from churning.

Everything was different now, she told herself. She was capable, and for the past three months she’d been the one running the inn. She was a valued asset to the inn. If only Michelle would see it that way.

Damaris moved into her office and took the chair on the other side of the desk.

“I still remember when she hired me,” the fiftysomething cook said with a sigh. “She was what? Sixteen? I had children older than her. She sat right where you are. So scared. I could see she was shaking.” Her lined mouth turned up in a smile. “She’d checked a book on interviewing out of the library. She’d tried to hide it under some papers, but I saw it.”

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?”