Barefoot Season Part 9

He led the way, holding open a gate for her. She saw a ramp leading up to the back door.

"Previous tenant," he said with a nod.

Lucky her. A ramp was easier than stairs. At least for now.

They went inside.

The kitchen had been updated about ten years ago. The cabinets were wood and plentiful, the stove looked as if it didn't get a whole lot of use. The vinyl floor had a few scratches but looked clean enough for her comfort level. She wasn't obsessive, but had no love for anything that skittered, crept or crawled.

"Living room and dining room are through there," he said, pointing to a doorway at the far end of the kitchen. "Want to see them?"

"Anything noteworthy?"

"No.

"Then I don't need to see them."

He led her in the other direction, down a short hall. He opened a door on the left, showing her a small utility room that contained a washer and dryer, then he stepped into the bedroom at the rear of the house.

It was a decent size, with a queen bed at one end and a TV on a dresser at the other. She checked out the closet, then the small three-quarter bath. The sight of the shower relieved her. At least she wouldn't have to step into a tub every day.

Last she walked through an archway to a small sunroom. Two chairs sat facing the big windows and the backyard behind. Gra.s.s led down to the steely-gray water lapping at the sh.o.r.e.

The s.p.a.ce was big enough for her purposes. Clean, too. The neighborhood quiet.

She turned to him. "What do you do?"

"I have a couple of boats. Sports fishing and tours."

Seasonal, she thought, understanding how the winters could be long and financially lean. Renting out a room would give him a little more income each month. Everyone appreciated that.

"I'll take it," she said. "Do you have some kind of an application you want me to fill out?"

"No. Just give me a check. I rent by the month. Any idea how long you'll be staying?"

"Through the summer," she said, dropping her backpack to the bed and digging through it until she found her checkbook. Once business slowed at the inn, she could find a more permanent place.

She found a pen, then started to write.

When she was done, she looked at him.

"I don't cook," she told him.

"Neither do I. There's plenty of s.p.a.ce in the refrigerator for whatever you want to keep there. I keep a couple of empty cupboards, too. I'll leave them open so you'll know which ones they are. No drugs, no loud parties."

"Not a problem. I won't have time for either."

"Good to know."

She held out the check. "I won't be sleeping with you."

One eyebrow rose as he looked her up and down. "You're not my type."

"Just so we're clear."

"I'm clear."

She handed over the money.

He took it from her and fished a key out of his pants pocket. "Here you go."

She closed her fingers around the cool metal.

"Moving in today?" he asked. "Just so I can get myself under control in time."

He was teasing her. She should have shot something back at him, but she couldn't think of anything appropriately cutting.

She knew what he was thinking. That she wasn't pretty enough, wasn't feminine. She'd never been especially girly, but living with a few thousand soldiers had made her even less inclined. Now she couldn't imagine ever caring about something like her clothes or nails. Her only goals in life were to save the inn and stop hurting. If she could even get one night of decent sleep, she would consider herself lucky.

"Either today or tomorrow," she said. "I have some other things to do."

"Need any help with your things?"

"No, thanks."

"All right. I'll see you around."

She nodded and turned.

Her foot caught on the carpet, locking her in place. Her weight shifted, landing on her bad hip and leg. The pain was a bullet of gla.s.s and fire, wrenching the last of her reserve from her and nearly bringing her to her knees. Only a strong grip on her upper arms kept her from falling.

She gulped in air, nearly weeping from the searing burn.

"I'm okay," she managed, shifted her weight and straightening.

Jared waited until she was steady before he released her.

She thought he would say something. Offer to help her to her truck or tell her she needed to go to the doctor. Instead, he remained silent. Maybe he didn't like to get involved. Maybe he knew she had to figure this out on her own.

She made it to the door, then glanced at him over her shoulder. "Thank you. I'll see you around."

"I'll be here."

She nodded and left.

Once in the truck, she glanced at the house. From the outside, it wasn't much. But to her it was everything she needed. A place to retreat and lick her wounds. Somewhere she didn't have to pretend. Sanctuary.

Nine.

Carly had spent hours of her life sitting on the visitor's side of Brenda's desk. They'd discussed work, had talked about their plans, and sometimes Brenda had yelled at her.

The unhappy conversations had been long and difficult, with Brenda ranting and screaming, calling Carly names, threatening to fire her until her voice went hoa.r.s.e. Sensing giving in to tears would mean the other woman had won, Carly had kept quiet, offering a few words of defense when she could, otherwise simply enduring.

Despite the fact that Brenda had been gone three months and Carly had a two-year employment agreement, she still felt a flutter of nerves as she walked into the familiar s.p.a.ce.

She rarely used the room, preferring to do her paperwork from a much smaller office behind the linen storage closet. The sense of safety and privacy more than made up for the lack of windows and ancient furniture.

Mich.e.l.le, still pale and thin, motioned for her to sit. Carly eyed the chair, wondering if she would ever be able to see it without remembering the screaming. Reminding herself that Mich.e.l.le wasn't her mother and that she was needed would have to be enough for now.

"Thanks for getting me this," Mich.e.l.le said, waving the papers Carly had given her. They listed everyone's duties, including her own, and approximate hours worked.

"I'm going to go through the books for the past couple of years and see where all the money went," Mich.e.l.le continued. "From what I've been able to learn so far, there have been plenty of guests staying at the inn. I know the remodeling sucked up big chunks of cash."

Her gaze dropped to Carly's wrist, where one of Brenda's charm bracelets lay next to her watch.

Carly stiffened. Brenda had left her all her personal effects. It was in her will, the one Carly had taken to a local attorney to discuss. The one that made it clear the inn had never been Brenda's to offer.

Carly had packed up the other woman's personal belongings and put them in storage. Clothes, books, papers. A lifetime of intimate things. Even though Brenda had charged her with taking care of them, Carly hadn't been sure. Mich.e.l.le was Brenda's daughter. The decisions should have been hers.

Brenda had also left Carly all her jewelry. The collection had grown over the years. Pretty rings and earrings. A few necklaces and the charm bracelets.

Carly had packed most of them away, as well, keeping a few pieces-the ones with good memories. Legally she could have kept it all. Brenda had been very specific in her will. But it hadn't seemed like the right thing to do.

Now she felt self-conscious about the bracelet, wanting to cover it with her free hand and explain.

"I need to follow the money," Mich.e.l.le told her. "That will take a few days. Maybe a week." She glanced at the list Carly had prepared. "You have a lot of responsibilities."

"I like to keep busy."

"You're scattered."

"I fill in where I'm needed."

"You're good with the guests."

Carly tilted her head, sure she couldn't have heard right. "What?"

"I've read a lot of the comment cards they leave behind and I've been talking to people."

"Not Damaris," she muttered before she could stop herself.

Mich.e.l.le surprised her by smiling. "Not Damaris. But other people who work here. Everyone likes you."

Carly waited, but there was no slam that followed the comment. "I like what I do," she finally admitted. "Working with the guests is what I enjoy most."

"Then it all works out because I think you need to spend most of your day dealing with the guests. That's where the money is. We're rearranging the work schedule in the gift shop."

Carly thought about the store and sighed. "It's not making much money, is it?"

"I haven't looked into it in detail yet, but no. What the h.e.l.l were you thinking?"

Vintage Mich.e.l.le, she told herself. "I was thinking that your mother wanted to open a gift shop, and no, I couldn't talk her out of it and neither could you. I was thinking we could use a hotel-like gift shop off the lobby where we offered snacks, toiletries and a few local knickknacks. She had Barty draw up the designs for what you see now."

"Barty?"

"The contractor."

"My mother slept with a guy named Barty?"

Carly grinned. "I think it was a family name."

"Like Mango? What is it with these family names?"

"Mango?"

"Never mind. So now we have Barty to thank for that monstrosity. I have no idea what we're going to do about it. Maybe fire-sale everything. I'll have to work up the numbers. I wonder what we can use the s.p.a.ce for."

"The gift shop might be profitable if we had more focused inventory."

"We're competing with the stores in town."

"We have a captive audience with our guests. If they decide they want something, why go all that way when they can buy it here? With the gift shop as part of the hotel, our rent is cheaper. Maybe we could narrow the scope and sell it for a little less than everyone else."

"That could work."

"Excuse me while I fall over in my chair."

Mich.e.l.le glanced at her. "You're allowed to have good ideas. You managed to work with my mother for nearly a decade. That means you're tough or really, really stubborn."

"Maybe both," Carly said, thinking she'd never thought of herself as tough, but she liked the sound of being that way.

"I'll run the numbers. It's all going to come down to math." She pa.s.sed over a sheet of paper.

Carly leaned forward and took it.

A neat grid showed the various parts of the inn-the restaurant, front desk, housekeeping, the gift shop-and the hours of operation. Names had been placed in different boxes.

"It's a work schedule," Carly said, pleased to see it was close to the one she used, with a few modifications. Mostly in her hours. They were substantially less.

"A lot easier to do on the computer," Mich.e.l.le told her. "How can you survive without knowing how to use one?"