Barefoot Season. Сьюзен Мэллери
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what she had done, Michelle found herself wanting Carly to apologize. As if Carly was the one who had done wrong.
They stared at each other for a long minute. Michelle fought memories. Good ones, she thought resentfully. She and Carly had spent thousands of hours together, had grown up together.
Screw that, she thought, pushing them away. She walked purposefully toward the door. As expected, Carly stepped aside to let her pass.
The inside was as changed as the outside. The cheerful curtains were new, as was the fireplace surround. The hardwood floor had been refinished, the walls painted, and there was a god-awful daisy mural in the hallway leading to the restaurant.
But the reception desk was the same, and that was what Michelle hung on to, mentally if not physically. As the room seemed to dip and swirl and shift, she understood that expecting nothing to change had been foolish. She had thought she would return to exactly what she’d left—minus her mother. That when she stepped into her home, it would be as if she’d never left. Never been to war.
“Are you all right?”
Carly reached for her as she spoke. As her arm moved, the light caught the gold charm bracelet on her wrist.
Michelle knew it intimately. As a child, she’d been mesmerized by the sparkly, moving bits of gold. As she grew, she’d learned the history behind each charm, had made up stories about the delicate starfish, the tiny high heel. The bracelet had been her mother’s and it was one of the few good memories she had about the woman.
Now Carly wore it.
Michelle didn’t want it but she sure as hell didn’t want Carly to have it.
Anger bubbled and boiled like water spilled into a hot skillet. She wanted to grab Carly’s delicate arm and rip off the chains of gold. She wanted to smash and take and hurt.
She drew in a breath like she’d been taught. While she wasn’t a big believer in PTSD, she’d been told she suffered from it. So she’d listened to the counselors when they’d talked about avoiding stress and staying rested and eating well. She’d listened, then she’d picked and chosen what she thought would work for her.
She did the breathing because she couldn’t pick an action and every part of her hurt. Then she limped away, each step burning, the soft tissue weeping in protest.
She went down the shorter hall on the right, turned a corner and stopped in front of an unmarked door. At last something that hadn’t changed, she thought, touching the frame where small cuts marked how she’d grown. The cuts ended abruptly, not so much because she’d stopped getting taller, but because the man who had cared so much, the father who had loved her, had left.
She turned the door handle, needing to be inside. Needing to be where she could retreat and lick her wounds.
The door was locked. She tried again, then pounded her fist against the wood—the thuds sharp and determined.
The door opened, exposing a wide-eyed teenage girl.
“Oh, hi,” the girl said, her freckled nose wrinkling slightly. “Sorry. The guest rooms are all upstairs. This is private.”
“I know what this is,” Michelle said, speaking for the first time since entering the inn.
“Who is it, Brittany?” a young girl called from the back of the apartment.
“I don’t know.” The teen turned back to the door, looking expectant, as if waiting for Michelle to leave.
Michelle wanted to make her way to her room, to fall on her bed and sleep. Because sleep, when she could find it, healed.
She pushed past the teen and stepped through the looking glass.
Nothing was as it was supposed to be. Not the walls or the rugs on the floor or the furniture. The tattered plaid sofa was gone and in its place was a tightly slipcovered couch in shades of blue. Daises were everywhere—in vases, on pillows and pictures. Even the curtains were a testament to the mocking flowers. Where there weren’t daisies, there were blackberries.
She stared at the new chairs, the kitchen table she didn’t recognize and the toys. A dollhouse in the corner. Stuffed animals and a stack of games on the wide windowsill.
A girl, maybe ten, stepped in front of Michelle. Her eyes were big and dark blue, her expression fearful. She had an iPod in her hand.
“Who are you?” she asked, then those big eyes widened. “I know,” she breathed, and took a step away, nearly flinching as she moved. “You need to leave. You need to leave now!”
“Gabby!” the teen said, sounding shocked.
Michelle moved quickly, backing out of the room, ignoring the protesting agony wrapping itself around her hips and making her stumble. Everything was wrong. There was too much pain and the room was tilting. She couldn’t breathe, didn’t know where she was. It was as if she’d stepped on what she thought was solid ground and instead found herself falling.
She went as fast as she could, feeling the damage, knowing she would pay later and not caring. Back the way she’d come. In the entryway, Carly waited. Still perfect in her girly clothes and Brenda’s bracelet. Michelle stopped in front of her.
“You’re fired,” she said, speaking clearly, despite the burning sensation in her hip.
Carly went pale. “What? You can’t do that.”
“I can. This inn is mine, remember? You’re fired. Pack up and get out. I never want to see you again.”
She passed Damaris, stumbled more than walked down the stairs and made her way to her truck. She nearly passed out from the pain of dragging her left leg inside, but made it, then started the engine and drove away.
Two sharp right turns later, she pulled to the side of the road and put the truck in Park. Harsh sobs squeezed out of her throat. Her hands shook and cold invaded down to her bones.
There were no tears—only the sounds and knowledge that just because she’d come home didn’t mean she had anywhere to go.
Three
“The special tonight is a variation on chicken Marsala,” Carly said, smiling at the older couple sitting by the window. “Mushrooms, fresh herbs and a Marsala cream sauce with rigatoni. It’s one of my favorites.”
The woman, her white hair piled on her head, smiled. “I’m not sure my waistline can handle that, but it sounds delicious.”
Her husband nodded. “We brought our own wine. That’s okay, isn’t it?”
Carly looked at the bottle. A blackberry sticker sat on the top left corner of the label, which meant the bottle had been purchased in town.
“Of course,” she told them. “There’s no corkage fee. Would you like me to open your wine now and let it breathe?”
The husband grinned. “I don’t know. That sounds pretty fancy.”
“You’re the one who picked the great wine. Why don’t you let me open it? While you’re deciding on dinner, I’ll get the wineglasses and you can have a taste.”
“Thank you.” The woman patted her husband’s hand. “We’re having a lovely time. This is our third visit here. We haven’t been in a few years. You’ve made some wonderful changes.”
“Thank you. I hope we won’t have to wait so long for the pleasure of your company again.”
She excused herself and retreated to the butler’s pantry off to the side. After collecting wineglasses and an opener, she returned to the table and took care of the guests. Next she checked on the other three tables before heading for the kitchen to pick up salads.
So far no one had noticed anything was wrong. Or if they had, they hadn’t commented, which was nearly as good. If she kept busy,