Barefoot Season

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. Although it wasn’t as new as the one she’d used in Afghanistan.

Behind her, built-in bookcases covered the wall from floor to ceiling. Old ledgers dating back decades gathered dust. The smell of aging leather and musty pages comforted her. Here, with a watercolor of the inn as it used to be, with the familiar fading braided rug underfoot, she at last felt at home.

In the 1950s her newly married grandparents had inherited an unexpected windfall and had impulsively purchased the inn. Michelle’s father had been born and raised here, as had she. Three generations of Sandersons had left their mark on the halls and floors of the old building. Michelle had never imagined living anywhere else.

Ten years ago circumstances—okay, guilt—had caused her to join the army. Within eleven months she’d been sent overseas, eventually ending up in Iraq. Working in the supply office had kept her busy. Knowing that she was making a difference had caused her to request two more deployments.

She’d spent her leave time in Europe, had wandered through Australia for nearly three weeks, had seen the Great Wall. As far as she was concerned, she was ready for the Been There, Done That T-shirt. If she had her way, she would never leave the island again.

She turned her attention to the screen and clicked on the icon for the inn. A box came up, demanding a password. The computer might be new, but the software had obviously been transferred from the one before. She entered her old password and screens flashed in front of her. She navigated easily through reservations, then to the computer version of a check register.

The dates there made her frown. All the entries abruptly ended three months ago. What had—?

Her mother’s death, she realized. Brenda had taken care of the bookkeeping for the inn. She would have been the one using the computer. Carly hadn’t, which meant what? That none of the bills had been paid? She remembered Carly having many flaws, but being irresponsible wasn’t one of them.

She turned her attention to the paperwork stacked on the desk. She looked for a pile of bills but instead found a pad of paper with a neat, handwritten list.

“April 17. Blackberry Island Water. $237.18.”

The entries went back the three months and included two mortgage payments each month for different amounts. Michelle studied the list, recognizing the writing as Carly’s. So she had been paying bills, but by hand. She wasn’t sure if the other woman hadn’t used the computer because she didn’t know how or didn’t think she was supposed to.

Michelle dug in the drawers and found the checkbook. Her mother’s writing jumped out at her, a rambling scrawl that contrasted with Carly’s smaller, neater entries. Michelle stared at the numbers, seeing the actual form of them rather than the amounts. She drew in a breath and braced herself for the inevitable.

Inhale, exhale, and there it was.

The subtle slam of a car hitting the side of a mountain. Guilt. It hit her from every direction, making her writhe in her seat as her breakfast turned from comfort food to something heavy in her stomach.

Self-reproach mingled with shame, but the emotions were elusive. Because she and her mother hadn’t gotten along, because the other woman had blamed her for things that a teenager could never be responsible for, Michelle knew deep down inside she’d been glad she hadn’t been here at the end. And that being glad was wrong.

It wasn’t that Brenda had been alone. Carly had been there, or as Brenda had referred to her in her infrequent emails, “the true daughter of my heart.” But Carly wasn’t family.

Knowing in her head that ambivalence was the cause of the guilt didn’t make it any easier to endure.

“Focus,” she told herself. The hangover had faded enough that the headache was nothing more than dull background noise. After ten years, who knew what kind of financial turmoil the inn had experienced. She would dig into the numbers and come up with a plan. The army had taught her to excel at logistics.

She reached for the mouse, only to have the phone ring. The sharp sound cutting through silence caused her to jump. Her heart raced and a cold sweat instantly coated her body. Fear joined the ache in her hip and made her want to duck under the desk. Instead, she picked up the receiver.

“Sanderson,” she said from long habit, then unclenched her teeth.

“There’s a call for you on line one. Ellen Snow from Island Savings and Loan.”

Carly’s voice was calm. Had Michelle only imagined the thrill of firing her the previous night?

“You’re still here?”

“So it seems. Did you want to take the call?”

By way of answering, Michelle pushed the flashing button, disconnecting Carly and connecting the other call.

“This is Michelle Sanderson. How can I help you?”

“Michelle, how great to talk to you. I’m Ellen Snow from the bank. I don’t know if you remember me.”

Michelle leaned back in her chair. “We went to school together.”

Ellen laughed. “That’s right. I was a year behind you and my brother, Miles, was a year ahead.”

The images were vague. Blond, she thought. Nordic. Miles had been popular, Ellen less so.

“I remember,” Michelle said, going for polite rather than accurate.

“I just want to say I think what you did is wonderful. Serving our country that way. This probably sounds strange, but thank you.”

Michelle opened her mouth, then closed it.

What was she supposed to say in return? Her reasons for joining had been far from altruistic, and now that she was back she wanted to slip into normal, to pretend it had never happened. Hardly actions worthy of thanks.

“Ah, you’re welcome.”

“Now that you’re home, I’m assuming you’re going to be taking over the inn?”

“Yes.”

“Good. As you may know, the bank has two notes on the property. A first and a second mortgage.” Ellen’s tone had shifted from friendly to business. “We should talk about them as soon as possible. Is ten-thirty good for you?”

A second mortgage? When had that happened? At least it explained the second monthly payment, but why?

She closed her eyes and saw the new roof, the larger restaurant, then swore silently. Her mother had been in charge—it was the gift that kept on giving.

“Ten-thirty this morning?”

“Yes. I have some time then.”

It wasn’t as if Michelle had anything else to do. “I’ll be there.”

“I look forward to it.”

* * *

Island Savings and Loan stood in the center of town. The once-thriving business district had been taken over by stores and restaurants that catered to tourists rather than locals. Most of the companies that served locals had been eased toward the outskirts of town, but the Savings and Loan stood where it had for nearly a hundred years.

Michelle parked in front, then walked through the glass doors—one of the few concessions to modern times. The rest of the building was brick, with hardwood floors and a mural completed in the 1940s.

There was no security guard, and if she ignored the high-tech cameras mounted on the walls, she could almost pretend she was a kid again, going to the bank with her dad.