Barefoot Season. Сьюзен Мэллери
she would be happy about what happened?”
Damaris stood and crossed to Carly. The cook was about five inches shorter, but much broader and more willing to be aggressive.
“Don’t you tell me my job, missy. I was cooking before you were born. She’s back now. How long do you think before she fires you?”
Less time than Damaris knew, Carly thought, knowing she had no power, no position of strength.
“You were wrong and you know you were wrong. Not just because it’s bad customer service, but because it was rude. Whatever you think of me, saying things like that won’t help the business. You claim to care about Michelle but your actions are hurting her.”
Damaris smiled. “Uh-huh? And who do you think is going to be here at the end of the day? Me or you?”
A question Carly didn’t want to answer. She turned and left the kitchen.
Frustration gnawed at her. Anger made her want to lash out. Maybe she should go ahead and leave. Start over somewhere else. Have a real life that wasn’t dependent on forces she couldn’t control and people who lied. People like Brenda.
She stopped in the hallway, needing a second to get control of herself and calm down.
“Why did you do this?” she asked out loud, knowing there wasn’t going to be an answer. Carly wasn’t a big believer in the dead coming back and having a conversation, and even if they could, she doubted Brenda would bother.
She’d been used by Brenda. At times the other woman had been sympathetic, even kind. But in the end, she’d only cared about herself. Now Carly had nothing. Her carefully hoarded emergency fund held all of sixteen hundred dollars. Barely enough to cover a deposit on a small apartment, let alone rent. Not to mention living expenses while she looked for work. She doubted Michelle would fire her and then give her a recommendation, which meant getting a decent job would be beyond difficult.
Which left what? Being homeless? Public assistance?
Her eyes burned. She sucked in a breath and told herself she wasn’t going to give in to tears. Not yet. Not when there could be a bigger crisis brewing.
She squared her shoulders; she would get through this. She’d gotten through plenty. She was strong and a hard worker and she had Gabby. Besides, ice cream had been on sale so she’d bought a quart. If necessary, she could have a sugar-based pity party later.
She walked into the main room of the inn and found an older couple standing by the window. They weren’t guests, so she wondered if they were hoping to get a room. She had three available, at least for tonight. The biggest of them had a balcony and a view.
“Hello,” she said, smiling automatically. “Can I help you?”
The couple was casually but expensively dressed. More island chic than big-city vacationers. He was tall, she shorter, both fit with blond hair and tans.
They turned to her.
“Seth Farley,” the man said. “This is my wife, Pauline. Do you have a moment? Could we talk somewhere private?”
They didn’t look like salespeople or vendors. She’d been careful to pay all the inn’s bills, so they weren’t after money. Lawyers seemed unlikely.
“Sure. Let’s go in here.”
The “here” was a small conference room set aside for business guests.
When they were seated around the large table, she offered them coffee.
“No, thanks,” Seth told her. “I’ll get right to the point. My wife and I are psychologists. We’ve been in practice together for nearly twenty-five years. We have a program for married couples interested in working on their relationships. I won’t go into all the details, but we get together with two or three couples at a time for three days. We’ve been holding our retreats in Seattle, but we think that getting out of the city might help couples more fully immerse in their therapy. We’ve investigated several places and are interested in your inn.”
“Oh.” Carly brightened. Returning guests were always welcome. “This is our only meeting room, though. We don’t have conference rooms like traditional hotels.”
“We don’t need a space for the seminars themselves,” Pauline told her. “We have that taken care of. We’re looking for housing for our clients. Three rooms Tuesday through Thursday from the middle of May through late September.”
Summer was their busiest time, she thought. While the weekends were always full, there were usually rooms available midweek. Having guaranteed bookings for that many weeks would be great.
“I would have to check our availability,” she said, then remembered there was more. “And talk to the owner.”
Seth drew his eyebrows together. “I thought you were one of them.”
So did I.
“No,” she said brightly. “But I’ve worked here for ten years, so I’m confident your clients would enjoy their stay. Let me get the dates from you along with your card. I’ll check the reservations and speak with the owner, then get back to you by the end of the week. How’s that?”
“Perfect.”
Seven
Michelle sat with her fingers on the keyboard. It wasn’t that she didn’t know how to open the programs; it was that she didn’t want to.
Reality was damned unpleasant. Sometimes she wondered what it would be like to be one of those people who could simply drift away. To be on another mental plane and not care about this world. Only not caring wouldn’t fix the problem. This was her inn. The one thing that had kept her going while she’d been away. The thought of coming home. If home was fucked-up, she was going to have to fix it herself.
She typed purposefully, focusing only on gathering information. She was used to spreadsheets and charts and graphs. Her time in the army had been spent in and around supplies. Deciding what to order. Getting them where they needed to go. Getting the inn back on its financial feet was nothing compared with the logistics of housing, feeding and caring for thousands of soldiers on the other side of the world.
She quickly sorted through the previous year’s tax returns, wincing when she saw the loss. Sure, avoiding taxes in every legal way possible was great fun, but seeing the amount of money the inn had lost made her heart sink. The only bright spot was that losses meant there weren’t overdue taxes.
She printed out the tax return, then started printing out other reports. The checkbook register. Accounts Receivable and Accounts Payable. She found that her mother had purchased not one, not two, but three new cars in the ten years Michelle had been gone. The last one, a BMW convertible with the price tag well over $70,000, had been repossessed.
She sorted through desk drawers and found unpaid bills under boxes of paper clips and staples. Then she added Carly’s neat list of deposits and bills paid.
After opening a new spreadsheet, she began to enter the information. What came in and what went out. She balanced the checkbook, then did it again because the number couldn’t be right. She looked at reservations and saw there were many weeks when they weren’t even close to the number required by the bank.
Two hours later, she stood and limped slowly around the room. Blood circulated, pouring into her hip and causing pain. She was stiff and sore. But the worst of it was on the inside.
Growing up, she’d always been her father’s favorite. Even as a little kid, she’d known her dad preferred her to Brenda. She’d accepted his love, his devotion, and had known that he was the one who stood between her and her mother. Brenda had been indifferent at best, and critical and hurtful at worst.
Sometimes she wondered if her father’s favoritism had hurt Brenda. If, in return, Brenda had taken that out on her daughter. There was no way to know how much of