Barefoot Season. Сьюзен Мэллери
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faucet in the bathroom.
Michelle supposed she could have found a nicer place, but she hadn’t had enough interest. This place would do for the night. It had the added advantage of being close to the main highway into town and a favorite stop for truckers. She was unlikely to run into anyone she knew. Right now being anonymous was a win.
She ran water in the shower until steam filled the small bathroom. After stripping down, she stepped into the spray and let the hot water wash over her. She used the soap, rubbing the tiny bar into her hair, then rinsing.
Despite the heat, she shivered, eventually turning the taps off and drying with the small, thin towel provided. She couldn’t see herself in the mirror, which was fine. It wasn’t as if she was going to put on makeup. Her lone concession to her skin while deployed had been sunscreen. Now that she was back in the Northwest, she didn’t even have to bother with that.
As she dressed, she avoided looking at the still-healing scars on her hip. She was sure the surgeon had done his best to tidy up the injury, to mitigate the blast marks from the gunshot, but he hadn’t had much to work with.
In her head she knew she was lucky. She was all in one piece. A partial hip replacement was barely a footnote compared to what others had suffered. She’d survived, meeting every soldier’s goal of not getting dead. The rest would take care of itself.
She left the small bathroom. A stack of take-out menus sat on the narrow desk in the corner. Food was probably a good idea. She was still on antibiotics and pain meds. Having something in her stomach would make them go down easier. Or she could avoid them completely, solving the problem in another way.
The paper bag stood on the nightstand. She crossed to it and removed the bottle of vodka.
“Hello, you,” she murmured, undoing the top. “I’m not looking for anything long term. How about just spending the night together?”
The counselor at the hospital had warned her that using humor as a defense mechanism would get in the way of her healing fully. She’d told him she could live with the flaw.
The night was quiet. The steady rumble of cars was practically a lullaby compared to what she’d heard just a few months ago. There was no threat of explosions, no roar of heavy equipment, no jets overhead. The night was cool instead of warm, the sky cloudy instead of clear.
Decisions would have to be made. She couldn’t avoid the inn. She belonged there, or she had. There was also the issue of Carly. Saying she was fired had felt good. Maybe she should keep her around so she could fire her over and over again. A little gift to herself.
“That’s bad, even for you,” she told herself, still staring at the vodka.
Exhaustion pulled at her, making her want to lie down, to close her eyes. She resisted, despite the need to heal. Because sleep came at a price. Sleep brought dreams and the dreams were a new level of hell.
“Not with you,” she said, lifting the bottle. “With you, there’s just a real good time.”
She drank deeply, letting the liquor burn down her throat and swirl into her empty belly. She drank until she was sure there wouldn’t be dreams, until she was sure that for one more night she got to forget.
Four
The knock on the back door of the kitchen had Gabby scrambling out of her chair and racing toward the sound.
“I’ll get it! I’ll get it!” she yelled.
There was no point in telling her to be quiet, Carly thought. Gabby was a morning person. Most days Carly didn’t mind, but after a night of tossing and turning, her daughter’s high-pitched voice pierced her brain like glass.
Gabby fumbled with the lock, then threw open the door.
“Uncle Robert!”
She flung herself toward the man in the doorway, arms open, her entire being expectant. Robert caught her and swung her high in the air.
“How’s my best girl?” he asked before kissing her cheek.
“Good. We’re having blackberries on our pancakes.”
Robert chuckled. “And that’s news why?”
They laughed together, then he lowered her to the ground. Gabby returned to the table and Robert closed the door.
“How was it?” he asked, walking into the kitchen.
Carly knew what he meant and didn’t know how to answer. She shrugged, then busied herself getting him coffee. Robert took his usual seat—he was a regular at their breakfast table, joining them a couple of times a week.
“Thanks,” he said, taking the cup of coffee. He turned to Gabby. “Ready for school?”
She nodded eagerly, her blond hair bouncing with the movement. Gabby adored school, both the classes and her friends. At least there she was happily social.
“So what are you studying this week?” he asked. “Calculus? You’re in college, right?”
Gabby giggled. “Uncle Robert, I’m nine.”
“Really? You look older. I would have thought you were twenty.”
The conversation was familiar. Gabby adored her uncle and the feelings between them ran deep. Family was good, Carly told herself. Although it had taken having Gabby to convince herself of that. Her daughter was a blessing she wasn’t sure she deserved, but the rest of the familial relationships were iffy at best.
Robert had been more than kind, more than giving with his time and attention. Some of his actions were fueled by guilt, she knew. Robert was a good man, someone who took commitments seriously. Someone who expected the same of others. His brother, Allen, hadn’t shared Robert’s sense of obligation, walking out on Carly long before Gabby was born.
The leaving had been shocking enough, but having him clean out her bank account, taking every penny she had, had been worse.
Robert had stepped in, offering to let Carly live with him. She’d refused and instead had come to work at the inn. Robert had tracked his brother down, but Allen had refused to return and he’d already blown all the money. Their divorce had followed. He’d never paid child support, but he’d signed away his rights to his daughter. While Carly could use the money, she figured having him gone was a good exchange. He was one of those men who created trouble, then walked away without bothering to think about the shattered lives in his wake.
Gabby finished her breakfast and carried her bowl to the counter. She set it in place.
“I’m going to brush my teeth,” she announced before dashing from the room.
Robert’s gaze followed her. “I can’t believe how big she’s getting.”
“She’ll be ten soon.” Collecting her own coffee, Carly sat at the table.
“You saw her yesterday?” he asked.
There was no reason to ask who “she” was. Carly had confessed her concerns about Michelle’s return to Robert. He’d also been witness to the trouble between them ten years ago.
“Yes,” she admitted. “Briefly. She’s…different. Thinner. She walks with a limp, which isn’t a surprise.”
“She was shot in the hip, right? That’s what I heard.”
Carly nodded.
“Did you talk?” he asked.
“Not really. She was tired.”
Or so Carly had assumed. She wasn’t going to admit what Michelle had said. Wasn’t even going to think about it until she had to. Then she would make plans.
The panic returned, but she ignored it. Time enough to lose it later, she told herself. When she was alone. To give in to the fear now, to worry in front