Barefoot Season

At first she hadn’t believed what she was seeing. She’d stood there, holding the cake topper in her hands, feeling as if something was terribly wrong but unable to figure out what. Like a dream, where chairs were on the ceiling.

The out-of-focus blurring had sharpened as she’d realized what had happened. That the person she should have been able to trust more than anyone had betrayed her. With Michelle—the woman already responsible for destroying most of what she had.

Allen had jumped to his feet and run to her. He was still hard from the lovemaking, his penis damp, his hair mussed.

“Carly, please. It was an accident.”

She was sure he’d said more, pleaded, begged. Blamed Michelle, who had sat in the bed, her eyes as blank as her face. Carly had waited—not for Allen to convince her but for Michelle to say something. Eventually she had.

“You should go now.”

That was it. Four words. No explanation, no apology. Just “you should go now.”

Carly had run.

Two days later, she’d walked down the aisle and married Allen. Because it had been easier than facing the truth. Because she’d been afraid of being alone. Funny how she’d ended up alone, anyway.

“You’ll figure it out,” Robert told her. “You and Michelle were friends. Once you talk, you’ll be friends again.”

She nodded because it was easier than telling the truth. That while Carly was the injured party, Michelle seemed to be the one who had come home looking for revenge.

* * *

Michelle stepped into the kitchen at the inn and breathed deeply. The fragrance of cinnamon mingled with bacon and coffee. Her mouth watered and for the first time in months she was hungry.

The room was different—bigger, with longer counters and more windows, but the heart was the same. Damaris still ruled from her eight-burner stove, and servers and helpers jumped when she barked their names.

Michelle watched as the cook flavored eggs with her secret spices and flipped pancakes. Diced vegetables and cheese were added to omelets, blackberries added as a side to everything. Toast popped, the juicer whirred and the ever-present slap of plates was accompanied by the call of “order up.”

Her head hurt nearly as much as her hip. A testament to the aftereffects of too much vodka and too little food. But as she watched Damaris, the pain faded to the background. Here, in the chaos, she was finally home.

“Last order,” Damaris called, slapping down another plate.

Michelle glanced at the clock. It was nearly nine. This time of year the breakfast crowd faded early with most of the customers heading off to work. Midweek inn visitors were usually purposeful, with plans and itineraries to be followed.

“Morning,” she said as Damaris turned off burners.

The cook spun and pressed a hand to her heart. “When did you get here?”

“A few minutes ago.”

Damaris hurried toward her, wiping her hands on her white apron. “It’s so good to see you,” she said, pulling Michelle close and hugging her. “You’re hungry.” Damaris released her. “You must be. I’ll make your favorite.”

“You don’t have to.”

Dark eyebrows rose over the frame of her glasses. “You think I don’t know that? Sit.”

Michelle limped over to the stools by the counter and sat. Damaris poured her coffee and passed it over, then studied the ingredients on the counter.

“You didn’t stay here last night,” she said, slicing cinnamon bread. “I asked.”

“I didn’t want to.” An almost-truth. “It’s strange being back.”

“That’s because you waited too long. What were you thinking? Ten years? In all that time you couldn’t come back once to see me?”

Michelle didn’t answer. Her reasons for not visiting had nothing to do with Damaris and everything to do with Carly and Brenda.

“What do you think of the changes?” Damaris kept her attention on the eggs she whipped.

“That they’re more than you said. The whole inn is different.”

“I didn’t want to upset you. Carly suggested the remodel, but then your mother ran with it. The contractor was from Seattle. God forbid Brenda should hire local. I think she was sleeping with him.”

“My mother?”

“He took advantage of her, if you ask me. The new roof and kitchen remodel became what you see. I almost felt sorry for her. He left when he was done and never came back. Such bad luck with men.” She looked over her glasses. “Like I said, I almost felt sorry for her.”

Michelle couldn’t summon even that much compassion. “She should have known better. The inn didn’t need to be different. It wasn’t hers. She didn’t have the right.”

“Did you think that would have stopped her?”

“No.”

The pounding was back in her head. The hip ache had never gone away. She supposed she could take one of the pain pills the doctors had given her but she didn’t like how they made her feel. Loopy.

Talk about irony. She had no problem washing away her life with vodka but resisted pain medication. Of course, in the scheme of things, that contradiction wasn’t even a footnote 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.