Barefoot Season. Сьюзен Мэллери
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when compared with the rest of the jumble in her head. She had a feeling she was one step away from being a case study in some medical magazine. Or maybe she was giving herself too much credit.
Damaris set a plate in front of her. Cinnamon French toast with sausage. And blackberries on the side.
“Really?” she asked, nudging one of the berries until it threatened to roll off her plate. “Even with me?”
Damaris grinned. “Habit.”
Because all food was served with blackberries here on Blackberry Island. When she was little, her dad had teased that they should be grateful they didn’t live on Broccoli Island or Spinach Inlet. She remembered laughing and laughing, then drew in a breath and tried to remember the last time she’d found anything remotely funny.
She sliced off a small piece of the French toast. The edges were crispy, the cinnamon visible through the layer of egg. Once on her tongue, the flavors mingled, sweetened by the maple syrup. The bread itself, light yet substantial, had what those in the business called “mouth feel.”
Most people believed that scent memory was the most powerful but for Michelle it was taste. She could remember this breakfast from what felt like a thousand years ago. Could remember where she’d been sitting, what the conversation had been about. Damaris had made this exact meal for her on her first morning working for the inn.
“God, you’re good.”
Damaris laughed. “At least that’s the same.”
She poured herself coffee and pulled up a stool, watching as Michelle devoured the food.
Michelle finished the French toast, then went to work on the sausage. It was exactly as she recalled, made locally by organic farmers at the north end of the island. She ended with the blackberries.
“Are they from Chile?” she asked. It was way too early in the season for them to be local.
Damaris’s eyes widened. “Shhh. That’s practically blasphemy. Everything we serve is local.”
“You’re such a liar. Is that what we’re saying now?”
“No, but people assume.”
“It’s fifty degrees outside and the first week of May. No one thinks these are local.”
Damaris sniffed. “There’s a greenhouse on the far side of the island.”
“It’s the size of a toaster. They could plant maybe two bushes in there.”
“Still.” Damaris reached for her own cup of coffee. “What happens now?”
Michelle had a feeling the cook wasn’t asking if she planned to take her plate over to the sink or not. The question, and answer, was more complicated than that.
“I return to my regularly scheduled life. Run the inn, like I did before.”
“You can’t do it by yourself.”
Michelle glanced at her, wondering if she’d heard about what had happened with Carly the previous night.
“It’s bigger now,” the cook continued. “Thirty rooms. The summer’s coming. You know what that means.”
Crowds, tourists and a houseful of guests.
I fired Carly.
Michelle thought the words, testing them, enjoying the sense of satisfaction they produced.
Reality would be different, she thought, gripping her coffee. Reality was hard work and long hours. With her hip and the physical therapy that would require, not to mention the fact that stairs were going to be a nightmare, Damaris was right. She couldn’t do it on her own.
This close to the summer season, finding a replacement for someone who knew the inn would be difficult. While the words had come from her heart, she knew letting Carly go would be stupid.
“You’re saying I have to keep her.”
No need to say who “she” was.
Damaris shrugged. “For now. She won’t want to go. She has her daughter. Gabby. A sweet girl, considering.”
Damaris had always been an ally. Impulsively, Michelle stretched her arm across the stainless counter and squeezed her friend’s hand.
“I missed you.”
“I missed you, too.”
The door to the dining room swung open and a dark-haired woman a little younger than Michelle entered. She wore a pink blouse tucked into black trousers. Her hair had been pulled back into a ponytail.
“Isabella, come. This is Michelle. Michelle, my daughter-in-law. Isabella is married to Eric.”
Michelle smiled. “I can’t believe he finally got married.”
“Four years ago,” Isabella said.
Michelle remembered Eric being the kind who didn’t see the point in having a girlfriend. Why limit yourself to just one? He’d hit on her a couple of times, once even flashing her his penis. It was the first one she’d ever seen and her unplanned “Really? Is that what all the fuss is about?” had not only deflated him but insured he didn’t bother her again.
“Congratulations,” she now told Isabella, hoping Eric was a better husband than his past behavior implied.
“Thank you.”
“They have a baby. A little girl.”
“That’s nice.”
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.”
Michelle 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 space 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.”
Michelle 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, Michelle. 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.
“Michelle?”
She paused and glanced back.
Damaris smiled. “I’m proud of you.”
Michelle felt her throat tighten. “Thank you.”
Five
Her mother’s office, her office now, was one of the few places that wasn’t different. Michelle 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 button on the tower.