Susan Mallery - Barefoot Season

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

Her 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.”