Barefoot Season Part 20

Once it was in place, Carly found she enjoyed working in the store a few hours a week, but that didn't mean it was a good business decision.

Mich.e.l.le leaned against the checkout table and sighed. "She lied. G.o.d, I'm getting so tired of saying that. Can I get it out of my system now? Whatever we talk about in the future, whatever happens, if it involved my mother, she lied. She lied and I'm sorry."

Carly blinked. "That was good. Sincere and honest, with a hint of whine. I think you're getting better."

Mich.e.l.le narrowed her gaze. "Are you mocking my PTSD?"

"No. Just you. I have respect for your PTSD."

As Mich.e.l.le studied her, Carly braced herself. The moment could go either way. Mich.e.l.le could laugh and they could take one more baby step toward being friends, or she could start throwing blackberry-covered stoneware.

"Kiss my a.s.s," Mich.e.l.le said with a grin.

"We were never that close." Carly let out the breath she'd been holding. "Okay. Gift-shop reality check. Based on the lack of rent paid by the gift shop, I'm guessing there aren't a separate set of books and it's not its own corporation?"

"No such luck."

"Any way to change that?" Carly held up her hand. "I guess the more important question is, would it help or hurt? Or maybe not be worth the trouble if we're going to shut it down. For what it's worth, I think we can make something here."

Mich.e.l.le glanced around. "You're right-simply closing the doors is stupid. From what I can tell, we're making a little money off the place and I don't want to leave the square footage sitting empty. But there's a ton of inventory that isn't moving."

Carly s.h.i.+fted the printouts on the counter. "I've gone over the lists and marked what seems to be selling well and what's a disaster."

"Is there a column for what's ugly? Because there's plenty of ugly here."

"Let me guess. You hate everything with daisies on them."

"That's a start. At least the blackberries support the island."

"Daisies are pretty."

"You can eat a blackberry."

"Things only have value if they're edible? That puts a somewhat icky spin on the local baseball team."

Mich.e.l.le laughed. "A couple of the players are cute enough to be delicious. Does that count?"

"It should." Carly turned her attention back to the printout. "The dolls are the first concern." She moved toward that part of the store and Mich.e.l.le followed.

"They're a specialty item," Carly continued. "The average tourist isn't interested and the serious collectors don't know that they're here."

"You don't like them?"

"No. I think they're creepy. Those little hands. I worry they're going to come alive at night, get into my room and scoop out my brains."

Mich.e.l.le tilted her head. "Really?"

"No, but I'm not a doll person. I've made a few calls and there's a doll store up in Bellingham. The owner is interested in our inventory. She would come and get them, paying us what we paid. We wouldn't make any money on the transaction, but we wouldn't lose any, either."

"I wish there was a way to make money on them."

"Me, too, but we haven't sold a single doll in two months. Most of the inventory is over a year old."

"They were a stupid purchase." Mich.e.l.le sighed. "Let me guess... My mother's idea?"

"Yes, but I picked everything with daisies."

"Spreading the blame around?"

Carly fluttered her eyelids. "Some of the daisy items are our bestsellers."

Mich.e.l.le pointed to the china collection in a daisy pattern. There were a few dishes, but most of the shelves held serving pieces, salt and pepper shakers, along with napkin holders and cake plates.

"Like those?"

"They sell really well, so yes, we could expand that. Carry even more."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"A little." Carly patted her arm. "Just tell yourself people are freaks. You'll feel better."

"It's going to take more than that."

Carly thought about pointing out she owned a few of the pieces herself, but she figured she'd teased Mich.e.l.le enough. She liked that they were able to talk like colleagues instead of enemies and she appreciated that her boss had taken her advice with the clothes and was even wearing a little mascara. She was still painfully thin, but that would probably get better when her hip stopped hurting so much.

Mich.e.l.le sighed. "Okay, fine. We'll keep the ugly dishes. What else?"

Carly pointed to the bolts of fabric. "Boston Flemming is a local textile artist. She hand paints fabric. Very exclusive, very pricey. Our store is the only place you can buy her work retail. When she's not creating directly for clients, she plays around with new ideas and we get to sell the results."

"Nice," Mich.e.l.le said. "Looks expensive."

"About a hundred dollars a yard."

Mich.e.l.le blinked. "I'm less interested in having a sofa re-covered right now."

They worked their way through the rest of the inventory list. They agreed on keeping the books and adding more local artists, and disagreed on the touristy items like magnets and pens. Mich.e.l.le wanted them gone.

"We're a tourist destination. Grandma wants to take home something for the grandkids," Carly said. "They make money."

"Fine," Mich.e.l.le grumbled. "You're right."

"Hearing that never gets old."

Mich.e.l.le opened her mouth to respond, then her gaze s.h.i.+fted. Her eyes widened and her mouth curled into a surprised and happy smile.

Before Carly could figure out what had happened, Mich.e.l.le went hurrying past, nearly running, her arms open.

Carly turned and saw her fling herself at a tall, dark-haired man who had just walked into the gift shop.

"I ignored the closed sign," he said, catching her as she flung herself at him.

"You're here!" Mich.e.l.le said happily. "I can't believe you're here."

"I came to see you. Just like I promised."

They both laughed and the man spun Mich.e.l.le in a circle. Carly could feel the affection between them, the pleasure at being back together.

So Mich.e.l.le had a man in her life, she thought, turning and quietly walking out to give them privacy. A hunky man with smiling eyes. Some women had all the luck.

Eighteen.

"I can't believe you're here," Mich.e.l.le said, hugging Sam again. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"

"I just did."

His easy grin, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, were all familiar. "It's good to see you."

"You, too."

She led him out of the gift shop and down the hall to the restaurant. It wasn't open for lunch yet, but she motioned him to a table, then went to grab a warming carafe of coffee.

"You sit," he said, coming up behind her. "I can get the coffee."

"That bad, huh?"

"You're limping. I don't like to see you hurt."

Words designed to make her feel safe and protected. Emotions that were hard to find these days.

"When did you get here?" she asked when he returned. "On the morning ferry?"

"I've been here a couple of days," he said as he sat across from her.

"What? And you didn't call me?"

"I wanted to look around. Check things out." He pushed the sugar toward her. "You talked about this place so much, I needed to make sure infamous Blackberry Island was as great as you promised."

"And?"

"I like it."

"You couldn't come see me first? You had to approve of my hometown?"

"I'm applying for a job here. That's why I was checking it out. You okay with that?"

His dark blue eyes met hers as he waited for his answer. She knew he would leave the island if she told him to. That he wouldn't do anything to hurt or upset her. He'd always been one of the good guys.

"What kind of job?"

The grin returned. "You have to ask?"

"Sheriff."

"Deputy. I'll get to sheriff soon enough."

"They must have been thrilled by your resume."

"They were impressed."

Sam had been in the army twenty years, and he'd spent nearly all of them in the military police. He had the training and experience any town sheriff could want.

"Need a character reference?" she asked.

"Not yet."

"You still could have told me you were here."

"I wanted to surprise you by saying I was applying for the job, so I waited until I was sure." He reached across the table and took her hand. "How are you?"

"Fine."

His dark eyes stared into hers and the smile faded.

"Ugh." She pulled her fingers free. "I mean it. I'm fine. How are you? You ready to be a full-time civilian?"

He rubbed his hair, still regulation. "Some things will take getting used to. You sleeping?"

"Why are we talking about me? I'm not that interesting."

"You are to me. Are you?"

"No. Sometimes." She cupped her hands around the mug. "I have nightmares. It sucks."

"You in a group?"

She groaned. "Not you, too."

"That's a no."

She glanced at him from under her lashes. "Did I say I was happy to see you? I spoke too soon."