Barefoot Season Part 19

"They haven't been a problem," she said. "They're up early and gone all day."

"And hey, probably not having s.e.x in the beds. That's nice. I used to hate to find condoms in the trash. Yuck."

Carly laughed. "I'm with you there, but it's not as if we can ask them to take them home when they go."

"Why not? They brought them here in the first place. Pretend it's the beach. Take your bottles and cans with you when you go. Or in this case, used condoms."

"It doesn't work that way. They're our guests."

"You're romanticizing the business. That's never good."

They both laughed.

This was how it had been before, Carly thought. Easy. Back when they were friends, when life had made sense and she'd understood the rules. Before everything had changed.

She wanted that again. To be friends with Mich.e.l.le. To have them trust each other.

Somewhere in the parking lot, a car backfired. Carly glanced toward the noise, then back to the window where she saw a car pulling out.

"Someone needs to get his engine-"

Mich.e.l.le had gone white. Sweat broke out on her face and a tremor rippled through her.

"Are you all right?" she asked, not sure what had happened.

Mich.e.l.le glanced around as if she wasn't sure where she was. Carly reached for her.

"Don't touch me."

The words were more growl than speech, the tone guttural. Carly stepped back. Mich.e.l.le sagged against the wall.

"Just go," she said. "I'll be fine."

Carly hesitated.

"Get out!"

The laughter was gone, as was the moment of connection. She collected her cleaning supplies and did as she was told.

Seventeen.

Still shaking, Mich.e.l.le escaped. She slipped more than walked down the stairs, every part of her on alert. The sound of the explosion-not an explosion, she told herself, something else-still ringing in her head.

She didn't remember walking through the lobby, although she must have because when she was next aware of her surroundings, she was in the empty dining room. She made her way to the kitchen and found Damaris prepping for lunch.

Her friend took one look at her and pulled out a stool.

"Sit," Damaris instructed. "Now."

Mich.e.l.le stumbled forward, then sank heavily onto the stool, her hip screaming in protest.

"Don't tell Carly I have this," Damaris said as she walked into the pantry, then returned with a bottle of whiskey in her hand.

She poured an inch into a gla.s.s, glanced at Mich.e.l.le, then added a little more.

"Drink," she instructed, handing it over.

Mich.e.l.le swallowed a mouthful, letting the good burn erase the last of the fear.

"What happened?"

Mich.e.l.le drew in a breath. "Nothing. It was so stupid. I was upstairs and a car backfired. But I thought..."

Damaris moved close and wrapped her arms around her. "Poor child. You've been through too much. It's not right. Women shouldn't be in the military."

That made Mich.e.l.le laugh. "You're about seventy years behind the times."

"The times are wrong. Why'd you have to go off, anyway?"

Mich.e.l.le raised her eyebrows.

"All right. Maybe you wanted to get away, but the army? For ten years?" Damaris released her. "And look at you now. All injured and jumpy. You're going to get better."

She wasn't sure if it was a question or a statement. "I'm trying." She finished the drink and set the gla.s.s on the counter. "What's the lunch special?"

"Grilled chicken and sun-dried tomatoes on focaccia bread. With extra cheese." Damaris wrinkled her nose. "Those psychologist people came to talk to me."

"Seth and Pauline?"

The cook nodded. "They asked me for more healthy choices on the lunch menu."

"This is your answer?"

"It's chicken."

Mich.e.l.le didn't know if she should laugh or groan. "You couldn't come up with a salad?"

"Salad isn't a meal."

Not an argument Mich.e.l.le was willing to take on.

She looked out the window and saw the psychologists in question leading their group through some kind of exercise. The women were standing, facing the men. Every time the women made a movement, the men copied them.

"Silliness," Damaris said with a sniff as she followed Mich.e.l.le's gaze. "You're married, you stay married. That's the way it is. Being happy or not is up to you. A man can't make a woman happy. It's like asking a cat to grow wings. It's not in their nature. Happiness is in here."

She slapped her chest. "The quicker women accept men don't change, the happier they'll be. I married my husband on my eighteenth birthday. If I was expecting him to make me happy, I'd have died waiting. You have to make a life. Be a good wife, have children. That's happiness. Look at your father. Did he make your mother happy? Of course not."

"He left."

"Exactly. One day he was here, the next he was gone. She never got over it. I'm not saying he should have done what he did, but when he was gone, she had a choice."

The logic was twisted, but Mich.e.l.le had to agree with the part about Brenda. Her mother could have gotten over what had happened. Instead, she'd chosen to be miserable.

"Mom took it hard," she murmured, wondering what her life would have been like if her mother had been a different person. Or was asking the question too much like wanting cats to grow wings?

"I don't care about her," Damaris said. "Not to speak ill of the dead, but you're the one I worry about. You had to take on too much, too soon. Your mother should have taken care of you. Instead, you took care of her."

Mostly out of guilt, Mich.e.l.le thought. Because she'd known in her heart her father had loved her more than he'd loved his wife and even as a child she'd guessed that was wrong. Not that his love for his daughter had kept him from leaving.

She'd been sixteen when she'd walked in on her father in bed with Carly's mother. The image had burned itself in her brain-two adults she'd loved and trusted betraying them all. She still remembered the sight of Lana's bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s bouncing and heaving as her body arched, Frank's head buried between her spread legs.

At first she hadn't realized what they were doing. She'd stood there, gaping, confused but with a growing sense of shame and horror. She must have made a sound, because they both suddenly turned and looked at her, their shocked expressions probably mirroring her own.

She'd run. Run down the stairs and out of the inn, making her way to the side of the road before throwing up. Then she'd kept on running until the cold and the rain had caused her to slow.

The tears had continued to pour down her cheeks. She'd been crying when her father had found her.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," he'd said.

That was as close as he'd come to apologizing. He'd never asked if she was all right or even said why he was betraying his wife with her best friend, the mother of Mich.e.l.le's best friend. Instead, he'd talked about how important it was for Mich.e.l.le to keep quiet.

"Your mother won't understand," he'd told her.

Mich.e.l.le had wanted to scream that she didn't understand, either. That it wasn't right.

"You're my best girl. I need you to keep this a secret."

He'd explained why it was important, but she hadn't been able to hear much more. She'd agreed, more because she couldn't imagine talking about what she'd seen than because she agreed with his excuses.

She'd always been a daddy's girl. When she'd been little, he'd been the one to tuck her in, to read her stories. She'd felt safe. Protected.

All that disappeared the afternoon she'd found him in bed with Carly's mother.

Mich.e.l.le had pretended to have the flu and had retreated to her bed for two days. She'd been unable to look at her father, to deal with her mother. Slowly, so slowly, life had resumed and she'd told herself to pretend it had never happened.

The following year when both Carly and Mich.e.l.le were about to start their senior year of high school, her father and Lana had run off together. They'd disappeared into the night, leaving only notes behind. Their love had been too great to be denied, they'd written.

The second betrayal had forced the truth from Mich.e.l.le. She'd admitted what she'd seen to both Brenda and Carly. She'd expected they would all grieve together. Instead, Brenda and Carly had banded together to blame Mich.e.l.le. Her mother had insisted if Mich.e.l.le had told the truth, Frank wouldn't have left. That somehow Brenda would have been able to stop him. Carly had agreed.

While her relationship with her mother had never been especially close, after Frank left, it had gotten worse. More devastating had been the loss of her best friend. Carly had disappeared from her life. Mich.e.l.le had faced her last year of high school completely alone, having lost mother, father and best friend in a matter of hours.

Damaris pushed her gla.s.s toward her. "Drink," she instructed again. "We shouldn't be talking about this. You have enough on your mind. You don't need to be remembering the past."

"I agree," Mich.e.l.le murmured, knowing it was too late for that. "He's been calling."

"Who? Your father?"

She nodded. "A couple of times. I don't know how he got my cell number."

"Don't look at me. I wouldn't give it to him."

"I know."

"Maybe Carly did."

Mich.e.l.le was less sure. "Does she talk to her mother?"

"How would I know? She and I rarely speak."

"You work together."

Damaris sniffed. "We both work at the inn, but we've never been friendly. She's always in here, telling me what to do. I ignore her."

Something Mich.e.l.le 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 d.a.m.ned 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 wh.o.r.e, always a wh.o.r.e."

"No," Mich.e.l.le 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, Mich.e.l.le 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," Mich.e.l.le 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 a.s.sociated 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.