Barefoot Season

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, she couldn’t think, couldn’t worry, couldn’t panic.

She stepped into the bright, hot kitchen and found her salads were ready. She grabbed them and returned to the dining room.

The motions were easy, for which she was grateful. Scattered didn’t begin to describe how she felt. Terrified was probably closer.

Fired. She couldn’t be fired. This was home. She’d lived here for nearly ten years. She’d put her heart and soul into this place. She loved it. That had to count, right? Possession was nine-tenths of the law. Would gathering clichés help? Something had to. Michelle couldn’t simply walk back in and fire her.

Only she could.

Fighting tears, Carly ducked back into the butler’s pantry. The marble countertop was cool against her fingers. Marble she’d chosen, along with the cabinets, even the tables and chairs in the expanded restaurant.

She’d promised, Carly thought, hanging her head as her eyes burned. Brenda had promised that she would give Carly a share of the inn. Two percent a year until she owned half and they were equal partners. By rights Carly should now own nearly twenty percent of it. Only the inn hadn’t been Brenda’s to give.

All those years ago when Michelle had claimed her daddy had left the inn to her, Carly had assumed her friend was just saying what kids say. “This will be mine.” Because Michelle lived there and worked there. But Michelle had been telling the truth and Brenda had lied and Carly had nowhere else to go.

She wiped her face and forced a smile before returning to her customers.

It was nearly seven-thirty by the time she escaped back to the owner’s suite of the inn—the rooms where she and her daughter had lived since Gabby’s birth. Rooms she’d made her own, rooms with memories.

Gabby was watching TV, but looked up and smiled when Carly entered. Brittany, her regular babysitter, quickly set down her iPhone. Gabby scrambled off the sofa and rushed to her.

“Mom.”

She didn’t say anything else, just hung on.

Carly hugged her back, knowing that like nearly every other mother on the planet, she would do anything for her child. Including protecting her from the truth—that they might be evicted from their home.

“How was your evening?” she asked, smoothing Gabby’s blond hair off her face and staring into her blue eyes.