Barefoot Season Part 4

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."

Mich.e.l.le 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 s.p.a.ce 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."

Mich.e.l.le 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, Mich.e.l.le. 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.

"Mich.e.l.le?"

She paused and glanced back.

Damaris smiled. "I'm proud of you."

Mich.e.l.le felt her throat tighten. "Thank you."

Five.

Her mother's office, her office now, was one of the few places that wasn't different. Mich.e.l.le 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 b.u.t.ton 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. Mich.e.l.le'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. Mich.e.l.le had never imagined living anywhere else.

Ten years ago circ.u.mstances-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 pa.s.sword. The computer might be new, but the software had obviously been transferred from the one before. She entered her old pa.s.sword 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. Mich.e.l.le 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.

Mich.e.l.le 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. Mich.e.l.le 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, Mich.e.l.le 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 Mich.e.l.le 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, Mich.e.l.le pushed the flashing b.u.t.ton, disconnecting Carly and connecting the other call.

"This is Mich.e.l.le Sanderson. How can I help you?"

"Mich.e.l.le, how great to talk to you. I'm Ellen Snow from the bank. I don't know if you remember me."

Mich.e.l.le 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," Mich.e.l.le 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."

Mich.e.l.le opened her mouth, then closed it.

What was she supposed to say in return? Her reasons for joining had been far from altruistic, and now that she was back she wanted to slip into normal, to pretend it had never happened. Hardly actions worthy of thanks.

"Ah, you're welcome."

"Now that you're home, I'm a.s.suming you're going to be taking over the inn?"

"Yes."

"Good. As you may know, the bank has two notes on the property. A first and a second mortgage." Ellen's tone had shifted from friendly to business. "We should talk about them as soon as possible. Is ten-thirty good for you?"

A second mortgage? When had that happened? At least it explained the second monthly payment, but why?

She closed her eyes and saw the new roof, the larger restaurant, then swore silently. Her mother had been in charge-it was the gift that kept on giving.

"Ten-thirty this morning?"

"Yes. I have some time then."

It wasn't as if Mich.e.l.le had anything else to do. "I'll be there."

"I look forward to it."

Island Savings and Loan stood in the center of town. The once-thriving business district had been taken over by stores and restaurants that catered to tourists rather than locals. Most of the companies that served locals had been eased toward the outskirts of town, but the Savings and Loan stood where it had for nearly a hundred years.

Mich.e.l.le parked in front, then walked through the gla.s.s doors-one of the few concessions to modern times. The rest of the building was brick, with hardwood floors and a mural completed in the 1940s.

There was no security guard, and if she ignored the high-tech cameras mounted on the walls, she could almost pretend she was a kid again, going to the bank with her dad.

An older woman stood in front of a lone teller. Otherwise, there didn't seem to be any other customers. Mich.e.l.le glanced around at the offices lining the walls, then walked toward the one with Ellen's name stenciled on a wood-and-gla.s.s door.

She knocked on the open door.

Ellen looked up, then smiled and stood. "Mich.e.l.le, thanks so much for coming in. How are you?"

"Fine, thanks."

She did her best not to limp as she entered the small s.p.a.ce. Her T-shirt and cargo pants had seemed fine back at the inn, but here, with Ellen, she felt underdressed and grubby.

The other woman was as thin as she'd been back in high school. Long blond hair hung past her shoulders. Hazel eyes were framed with discreet makeup. Pearls, probably real, sat on top of a light green twin set. Low heels and a black knee-length pencil skirt completely Ellen's "I'm a banker, trust me" look.

As Mich.e.l.le took the offered seat, she tried to remember if she'd bothered to comb her hair that morning. She'd showered, so she was clean, but her lone concession to grooming had been to brush her teeth.

"I was so sorry to hear about your mother," Ellen said gently, waiting until Mich.e.l.le sat before resuming her place behind her desk and leaning forward. "It must have been difficult for you. I heard you'd been injured around the same time. It's not fair, is it?"

"No, it's not."

Ellen sighed. "The loss and being hurt. Now this." She motioned to the slim file on her desk.

Mich.e.l.le stared at the closed folder. "What do you mean?"

The other woman pressed her lips together, as if considering her words. "Have you had a chance to go through the finances of the inn?"

Mich.e.l.le regretted leaving the vodka bottle in her motel room. Right now a drink seemed like a smart move. "No. I'd only been in a few minutes when you called."

"Then let me bring you up to speed." She opened the file. "I really hate to be the one to tell you about this. I wish it could wait." She paused.

Mich.e.l.le felt the familiar sensation of something crawling on her skin. "Just say whatever it is."

"The inn is in trouble. If it were up to me, we wouldn't be having this conversation. I know you just got home and need time to readjust, but we have a loan advisory board. The new regulations are so strict. Back in the day I'd have more control. I'm so sorry."

Maybe it was a lack of sleep, but Mich.e.l.le would swear the other woman had just given an explanation that hadn't made anything more clear.

"What are you talking about?"

"The loans on the inn. There are two mortgages, both delinquent. I'm afraid we're talking about foreclosure."

Mich.e.l.le shot to her feet, ignored the stabbing agony in her hips. "What? That's not possible. How can you say that?"

"I'm afraid I can say it because it's the truth. The last three payments were made on time, but they were only for current amounts. There are months of back payments on both mortgages. With penalties and interest."

Mich.e.l.le sank back into the chair. The pain in her hip radiated out like light from the sun. It burned through her, making it difficult to concentrate.

"We own the inn outright. Maybe my mom took out a loan to pay for the renovations, but how much can it be?"

Ellen handed her a single sheet of paper with two loan balances. They totaled nearly half a million dollars. The amount in arrears was nearly thirty thousand.

Mich.e.l.le dropped the paper on the desk and sucked in air. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be. Not even her mother would be so irresponsible.

"I think most of the money went into renovations," Ellen said gently. "Not to speak ill of the dead, but Brenda spent money more easily than she should have. The first mortgage payments were often late. When she approached me about a second mortgage, I wasn't sure I could get it through the committee. I really had to convince them to give her the loan." She sighed. "Which makes this mess partially my fault. From your reaction, I'm guessing you didn't know."

"No. She never said anything. The inn was held in trust until I was twenty-five. By then, I was gone and she continued to run things." Into the ground, she thought bitterly, wondering how much of the money she'd blown on things for herself. Clothes and jewelry. New cars.

She couldn't believe it, couldn't take it all in. Once she'd seen the renovations, she'd thought there might be a few bills to deal with, but nothing like this.