Barefoot Season Part 6

"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 s.p.a.ce 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.

Mich.e.l.le 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 d.a.m.ned 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 f.u.c.ked-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 Mich.e.l.le 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 her mother's actions were the result of circ.u.mstance and how many came from a sucky personality.

Mich.e.l.le couldn't remember when she first learned that her parents had "had" to get married. She'd been born seven months after the wedding. While Mich.e.l.le and her father had loved the inn, loved the island, Brenda had resented being trapped here. There were no trips to Europe-the inn couldn't be left for that long. No summer vacations-that was the busiest time. No weekends anywhere. The inn came first.

Mich.e.l.le remembered her mother screaming that she and her father were so selfish. At seven, Mich.e.l.le had been a small but determined opponent. "If we're so selfish, why do you always get your way?"

A question for which her mother never had an answer.

Brenda had resented her husband's abandonment more than she had mourned his absence. He'd left them both-devastating Mich.e.l.le. The desertion had not only proved he didn't love her best, it had left her at the mercy of her mother.

At the time, Mich.e.l.le had wondered if she would leave, too, but Brenda didn't. Instead, Mich.e.l.le had been the one to go away. Looking now at the financial math that was her family's legacy, she thought that Brenda had won in subtle ways. A bad decision here, a foolish purchase there. Individually they were inconsequential. Taken in total, they were a disaster.

She studied the payroll reports. Boeing didn't need this many people working for them. The inn only had thirty rooms, but seven maids. And what the h.e.l.l was a reception greeter? Just as confusing, some people seemed overpaid while others didn't make enough. Damaris hadn't had a raise in six years. That was bad enough, but Carly's financial situation was worse.

Mich.e.l.le stared at the biweekly paycheck amount. Even taking into consideration the fact that she got free living quarters and a couple of meals a day, she wasn't making close to minimum wage. She had a kid. The medical insurance sucked. There had to be out-of-pocket expenses for that, not to mention clothes and shoes and whatever else children needed.

While she was aware she should probably be happy that the other woman was practically living in poverty, she mostly felt embarra.s.sed and maybe a little guilty.

Mich.e.l.le wanted to put all the blame on her mother. The inn had been left to her in trust. She was supposed to take care of it. But Mich.e.l.le knew she was the one responsible. She'd been the one to leave, the one who hadn't come back, the one who had never asked. Now she had two mortgages, a pending foreclosure and a list of rules and demands that made her skin crawl.

Someone knocked on the door.

"Come in," she barked without looking up.

"You sound like you're still in the army."

She saw Damaris step into the office. The cook had a tray in one hand.

"I brought you lunch. I didn't think you'd eat on your own."

Mich.e.l.le glanced at the clock and was surprised to see it was nearly three. "Do you always work this late?"

"Sometimes yes. Sometimes no." The cook put the tray on the desk, then sat in the empty chair. "I had to order my meat and produce."

"What time do you usually get out of here?"

Damaris shrugged. "Two. Two-thirty."

Mich.e.l.le did the math in her head. She knew Damaris got to the restaurant sometime around six. They opened at seven and she worked through lunch.

"You haven't had a raise since I left."

"Tell me something I don't know."

Mich.e.l.le wanted to ask if her mother had been doing this on purpose. If her goal had been to destroy the inn. She doubted her friend would have an answer.

"I'm giving you a raise now. Retroactive three months." She named an hourly salary. "Better?"

Damaris nodded. "You've always been a good girl. None of this is your fault."

"What have you figured out? About the inn?"

"I hear things. People don't get paid. Checks bounce. No one blames you."

Mich.e.l.le glanced at the tray. Damaris had made her a roast-beef sandwich. Her favorite. There were chips and a small salad and a chocolate milk shake.

She reached for the gla.s.s and scooped out a spoonful of whipped cream. "Thanks."

"Someone has to take care of you. You're too skinny. How will you ever get a man?"

For the first time since arriving home, Mich.e.l.le laughed. "I don't think getting a man is my biggest problem right now."

"A man would help."

Mich.e.l.le thought getting through the night without having nightmares and waking up in a cold sweat was probably a better first step, but she didn't say that. The information would only frighten Damaris.

The other woman poked at the papers on the desk. "Is it bad?"

"I haven't figured that out yet." She stuck a straw in the milk shake. "Do you think my mother screwed up on purpose?"

"I don't know. She wasn't the type to have a plan. I think maybe it just happened."

"What about Carly? Did she help or hurt the inn?"

Damaris shrugged. "I don't like her very much, but I don't think she did anything wrong."

Not exactly what Mich.e.l.le wanted to hear. Carly's low salary made her suspicious and their past made her want to show her the door. The deal with the bank was a problem, but more than that was the fact that Carly didn't even know how to work the computer system. Her carefully handwritten notes proved that.

If Carly wasn't stealing, then it was all Brenda.

"How long has Carly worked here?" Mich.e.l.le asked.

"Practically since you left. One day she was here. Pregnant. Brenda gave her one of the rooms. After Gabby was born, she moved into the owner's suite and Brenda took the two bedrooms on the second floor."

Mich.e.l.le wanted to ask what had happened to Allen. If Carly had been alone and pregnant, he'd obviously left. But why?

"The customers like her," Damaris said grudgingly. "She's good with them, but she's not the boss of me."

That made Mich.e.l.le grin. "What are you? Five?"

Damaris chuckled. Then her humor faded. "Are you going to fire her?"

If wishes were horses, Mich.e.l.le thought. "Not today."

"Soon?"

"That eager for her to be gone?"

"It goes back to the 'boss of me' thing."

"I'm the boss of you now."

"Good. I like that." Damaris stood and walked around the desk. "Give me a hug. I'm going home."

Mich.e.l.le stood, then winced as the fire surged through her and she nearly lost her balance.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. My hip."

"Don't you have something you can take?"

"I'd rather not." She'd rather drink.

Damaris put her hands on her hips. "You were always stubborn. You must get that from your dad. Take something. I'll wait."

Determination gleamed from behind her gla.s.ses, telling Mich.e.l.le this wasn't a battle of wills she was going to win. Besides, by the time she got back to her motel room, the pill would have worn off and she would be able to drink as much as she wanted.

"Fine," she grumbled, then reached for her backpack. She fished out the prescription bottle and swallowed a pill. "Happy?"

"Always."

Mich.e.l.le kept Carly waiting for two days. Despite the fact that they were spending their workdays in the same building, they seemed to be skilled at avoiding each other.

Carly spent her time alternating between wondering if she should start packing up and praying she didn't have to go. She was able to fake it enough with Gabby that her daughter didn't seem to notice anything was wrong.

Ann had asked to come in late, so Carly was in the gift shop at lunch on Thursday. Several customers were browsing the book section while a teenage girl and her mother sighed over the dolls. Carly rang up a teapot, then wrapped it.

"I hope your friend loves it," she said as she handed over the package. "It's beautiful."

"I think so, too," the middle-aged tourist said. "Have a nice day."

Carly gave her a friendly wave, then turned and nearly ran into Mich.e.l.le, who had apparently crept silently into the store. Carly had to jump back and steady herself on the counter.

"You have a minute?" Mich.e.l.le asked.

Carly glanced toward the customers. "I shouldn't leave them."

Mich.e.l.le eyed the few people looking around. She pointed to the alcove by the rear storage room. "What about there?"

Carly nodded. She could see the cash register and know if anyone was ready to check out.

She crossed to the doorway. Mich.e.l.le followed more slowly, her gait uneven, her hip obviously troubling her. Carly wanted to ask how she was, but held the words inside. For all she knew, she was about to be fired. Again. Showing compa.s.sion in the face of that seemed to be giving away the grain of power she had left.

She hadn't decided if she was going to plead her case or accept her fate with dignity. Two nights of sweating her bank balance had done nothing to improve her lack of a bottom line and going through the Seattle paper hadn't given her much in the way of job options.

As Carly leaned against the door frame, she saw that Mich.e.l.le looked more tired than she had when she'd first arrived. Lines of weariness and pain pulled at her mouth. Dark smudges shadowed her eyes and there was a gray cast to her skin. Her long hair hung limp, and if she lost any more weight, her cargo pants were going to slip off her skinny hips.

Mich.e.l.le braced herself against the wall.

"Do you need to sit?" Carly asked, then wanted to smack herself for asking.

Mich.e.l.le shook her head. "I'm fine."