Barefoot Season Part 29

"Fair enough. Then tell an old friend who cares about you."

She drew in a breath. "Personnel issues. I don't want to talk about it." She looked at him. Sam was a good-looking guy. Too bad she didn't want to sleep with him. He would be happy to satisfy her for an afternoon or two and then be on his way. No promises, no questions. Only she couldn't seem to summon any interest.

"I've been ignoring you, haven't I?" she asked, wondering if the list of ways she was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up would ever get smaller. "You've been here for what? Two weeks? Longer? We haven't done anything together. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I've managed to keep myself entertained."

"Do I want to know her name?"

Sam grinned. "It wasn't all about a woman. I got the job."

"What?" She flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. "That's great. Did you take it? Is it official? Can we celebrate?"

"I did take it, and yes, a celebration sounds like fun. I start next week, I've rented an apartment and my stuff is on its way from Texas."

He led her over to the chairs on the patio and motioned for her to sit. He settled across from her, then stretched out his long legs in front of him.

Sam had spent the past year at Fort Hood. Texas was a long way from the Pacific Northwest.

"You think you're going to be able to adjust to the rain?" she asked, her voice teasing.

"I can adjust to a lot of things. I'm ready to be a civilian again."

"It's been twenty years. How do you know you're going to like it?"

"I liked it before. Besides, I get to sleep in if I want."

"Do you?"

His gaze moved lazily to her face. "Sleep? Sure. Aren't you?"

"Not yet."

"Nightmares?"

She nodded. "I still jump at loud noises."

"I do, too, but I've gotten better at hiding the fact. It's not easy, going through what you did and then coming back here. You spent most of the past ten years in either Iraq or Afghanistan. Even doing a sissy job like you did, there were dangers."

She glared at him. "I didn't have a sissy job."

"You did and you know it."

"I wasn't in direct combat," she admitted. "Neither were you."

"I had my share of encounters."

She'd had the one, but he was talking about more than just the ambush. He was reminding her that there were ongoing rocket attacks, that it was never quiet.

She'd grown up here, on Blackberry Island, where life was regulated by the change of the seasons and tourists migrated like birds. She'd never expected to have to qualify on weapons every three months, deal with summers that were 128 degrees in the shade or watch out for camel spiders in her gear.

While her job had been more about keeping supplies flowing smoothly, she'd never been able to pretend she was anywhere else. The army had turned her into a soldier, but her heart and soul had stayed civilian. She'd thought that would make it easier for her to transition back to her regular world, but she'd been wrong.

"You did the right thing," Sam told her. "Killing him. You didn't have a choice."

"His daughter was with him. Holding on to him. She's going to grow up with that image, with that death, and it's my fault."

"Would you rather be dead?"

"No, but..."

"There's no but. Those are your two choices. You kill him or he kills you. That's why he was there that day. He wasn't going to the market or visiting his best friend. He was out to attack and destroy enemy soldiers. He's the one who chose to take his kid with him. What kind of father does that? Why didn't he leave her at home where she belonged? It wasn't about you, Mich.e.l.le. Making it about you will only make it harder to move on."

She knew he was right about all of it, but hearing the words didn't seem to make a difference.

"You have to talk to someone," he told her.

"You're not the first one with that advice. I've been getting it a lot."

"You've always been stubborn. Most of the time that trait helps. This time it screws you up." For once he looked serious and determined. "You know I care about you, right?"

"Yes."

"Then listen to me. I've seen this happen. You start slipping in little ways, so you compensate. Maybe you drink a little more or do drugs or drive fast. Then you slip further. Before you know it, you're lost and now you've got a s.h.i.tload of other problems. You using?"

"What? Drugs? No. I'm drinking." She grimaced. She hadn't meant to admit that.

"Get help. If you were going to be okay on your own, it would have happened already."

He had a point, just like Pauline had a point. Apparently someone somewhere was trying to send her a message. "I know. I'll find something."

"Let me guess. Soon. When you get around to it. You'll start Monday morning."

"Were you always this pushy?" she asked, hoping to distract him.

"No, but you've never been in this much trouble. You're cracking. It's not going to take much to push you over the edge."

She expected to feel a surge of anger. Being mad would give her strength. Instead, she was overwhelmed by a sudden wave of sadness. She half expected to see the dementors from the Harry Potter books. At least a scary, floating creature sucking happiness would be an explanation. One a whole lot easier than the truth.

"What if I don't get better?" she asked, fighting tears. "What if I can't?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Because you're special? Get off your a.s.s, do some work and you'll be fine."

Without thinking, she stood and crossed the small s.p.a.ce between them. Her arm drew back and her hand closed in a fist. She wasn't sure how she was going to hurt him, but she knew pain would be involved.

He was on his feet faster than she thought possible, grabbing her fist and turning it easily, using her force against her. Less than a second later, she was locked against his body, completely immobilized, with an arm pressing across her rib cage.

Soft laughter filled her left ear. "You are in bad shape if you're trying to take me on."

"You p.i.s.sed me off."

"I got that." He released her, then touched her cheek. "Get help."

"I will," she said grudgingly, wondering if she was telling the truth.

He hugged her and she hung on to him, absorbing his strength. When he released her, she looked up, prepared to thank him. Only his attention wasn't on her. He was looking at the inn.

No. Not looking. He was searching. She followed his gaze and saw a flash of movement. Carly was checking rooms.

"What are you-?" She stopped talking and stared.

She recognized the look, the slow, s.e.xy grin, the expectation in his eyes. d.a.m.n him.

"You're interested in Carly?" she demanded.

"Sure. Why not? Have you seen her?"

"I can't escape her," Mich.e.l.le muttered, knowing Carly was appealing. Tiny and blonde with plenty of curves and a girly air about her. She didn't have to be told to dress right or deal with things like waking up screaming or drinking too much. "I hate her."

"No, you don't."

"I should."

"She's your business partner and your friend."

"Don't confuse me with the facts. I can't believe you want to date her."

His expression shifted to something close to male satisfaction. Mich.e.l.le felt her mouth drop open.

"You're sleeping with her?" Her voice was shrill with outrage. "When? How? Yuck."

"It's not a regular thing," he admitted.

"But you'd like it to be. She works here."

"And?"

"And, well, she does. And she has a kid."

"I like kids."

"When was the last time you were around one?"

"Is there a test?" he asked. "What's your problem?"

She wasn't sure, which made it hard to answer the question. She wanted to say it wasn't right, that he wasn't allowed to see Carly ever again-but if she said that, Sam would only laugh.

"Why are you upset?"

"I'm not."

He looked at her, not saying anything.

"I'm not," she repeated. "It's just weird. I don't like it."

"Then don't watch."

She shoved him. "Have I mentioned I don't like you very much?"

"You love me, and I love you. I always will. But that doesn't mean you get a say in my personal life."

She sighed. "I know."

Carly carefully sprinkled on the last edge of glitter, then waved the handmade card to let the glue dry. She was working ahead, getting the welcome cards ready in batches. The front wasn't quite as personalized, but she made sure the note inside was. In summer, with the inn full most of the time, she couldn't take the time to do much more.

Forty finished cards lay on her desk. She collected the craft supplies and put them in their box, then slid the box onto the bottom shelf of the bookcase in her office.

The desk and bookcase were hers. The rest of the s.p.a.ce served as a secondary storage room, with boxes of paper, printer cartridges and seasonal decorations.

At one time Carly had wanted a bigger office, something more professional, maybe with a window. But lately she'd decided she was okay with what she had. It might not be huge, but she had enough room for what she needed to be doing. In truth, she would rather be out with the guests than in here, dealing with numbers. The burning need to be in charge had faded.

Some of that was because working with Mich.e.l.le was easier than working for Brenda. Mich.e.l.le had her issues-the incident with the daisies proved that-but her outbursts weren't as unpredictable or vicious. With Brenda, Carly had been the target. With Mich.e.l.le, she was just collateral damage.

She moved her laptop onto her desk and started it. As the machine whirred and hummed, she thought about Mich.e.l.le ripping out all the daisies. She supposed she should still be upset by what had happened, but she'd let it go. Mich.e.l.le hated the daisies. At that moment, she'd wanted to lash out, so she'd destroyed the flowers.

While that should be a big thing, it wasn't. She supposed because it was completely overt. Brenda had liked to sneak around, jabbing in unexpected ways. Mich.e.l.le's blunt-force attacks weren't the least bit subtle. There was no wondering about intent or meaning.

Her computer finished booting up. The main screen appeared, icons scattered across a picture of Gabby holding daisies. Carly started to laugh. Okay, maybe she had gone a little flower mad with the decorating. Maybe she could tone things down a little.

Mich.e.l.le stepped into the office, tapping lightly on the open door.

"Got a second?"

"Sure." Carly pointed to the narrow wooden chair across from her desk. "What's up?"

Mich.e.l.le stared at her for a long moment. "I'm sorry about the daisies. I went a little crazy."

"It was impressive carnage."

"You're not p.i.s.sed?"

"No. I can almost understand. Maybe there is too much of a daisy theme here. I'll tone things down."

Mich.e.l.le's mouth twisted. "Don't say that. You should be furious with me."

"Sorry, no. I really do understand. At least as much as I can, under the circ.u.mstances."