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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.
“Good. I beat Brittany on two puzzles on Wheel of Fortune.”
The teenager grinned. “See. All that spelling homework is helping.”
Gabby wrinkled her nose. “I’d rather do math.”
“Dinner was great,” Brittany said, coming to her feet. “Thanks.”
Carly had delivered the chicken Marsala pasta for them at five-thirty. She worked in the restaurant two nights a week, but at least was able to bring home dinner during her shift.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“We did,” Gabby said.
Brittany had already shrugged into her coat.
“Meeting Michael?” Carly asked, standing before walking the teen to the door.
The teenager smiled. “Yes. We’re going bowling with friends.”
“I should hear on the summer camp in the next couple of weeks,” Carly said, catching her daughter’s soft snort. Gabby wasn’t a fan of summer camp, mostly because it involved getting outside and doing things like hiking and kayaking. Her daughter preferred to read or play on her computer.
“My summer classes are from eight to twelve.” Brittany pulled her long, red braid out from her jacket. “So afternoons are good.” She hesitated, then lowered her voice. “That was her? Michelle?”
Carly nodded.
“She’s nothing like I expected. I didn’t think she would be scary. Not that she did anything. It’s just, I don’t know…”
Carly’s first instinct was to defend, which only went to prove one never outgrew being an idiot.
“She’s not so bad,” she said by way of compromise. Which was pretty big of her, considering she’d been fired.
“Okay. Have a good night.”
Brittany left and Carly settled on the sofa. Her daughter curled up next to her, her head on Carly’s shoulder.
“I don’t like her,” Gabby whispered. “Does she have to stay?”
Carly wanted to say she didn’t like Michelle, either, but knew that would be a mistake. Doing the right thing was a pain in the ass, she thought, stroking her daughter’s hair.
“Let’s see how it goes before we make any judgments,” she said lightly, ignoring a sense of impending doom.
“You always do that, Mom,” Gabby said with a sigh. “Look at both sides. Sometimes don’t you want to just be mad?”
“More than you’d think.”
The reality was Michelle needed her. At least in the short term. Someone had to run the inn and, with Brenda gone, that left Carly. Michelle would need time to recover, to remember what it was like to work here. The firing had been impulsive. Words, not intentions.
It was like whistling in the dark, she thought, pulling her daughter close. Or not believing in ghosts, evidence be damned.
* * *
An hour and a half later, Carly kissed her daughter’s forehead. “Sleep well,” she murmured. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, Mom.”
The words were spoken in a sleepy tone. Gabby’s eyes were already drifting closed. Even though her daughter had stopped asking for a good-night story years ago, she still liked being tucked in. She was nine, would be ten in the fall. How much longer until she started thinking of her mother as more of an annoyance than a friend?
Carly couldn’t remember the age when she’d found everything her parents did either foolish or embarrassing. At seventeen, she’d been desperate to be free of them. Funny how it had taken her mother running off for her to realize how much she needed her around. But it had been too late to say that, to find out the rest of what she needed to grow to be a woman.
She kissed Gabby again, silently promising never to abandon her child, no matter what, then stood. A night-light guided her along the familiar steps. For all Gabby’s claims of growing independence, her daughter still preferred the soft glow while she slept.
At the doorway, Carly paused and looked back at the now-sleeping child, then at her room. She’d made the curtains herself and put up the shelves. Paint was cheap and she haunted the Blackberry Island Thrift Store for bargains, like the cheerful quilt still in its store plastic wrap. She kept a big jar at the bottom of her closet and put all her loose change into it. That was the fund for her daughter’s birthday and Christmas. Despite the lack of money, they’d made it.
All that would change if she got fired. She wouldn’t just lose her job; she would lose her home.
For a moment, she stood in the half darkness and remembered when this room had belonged to Michelle. Most weekends they spent their nights together, usually here, because it was better. Safer. When they’d been Gabby’s age, they’d made daisy chains to wear and offer to guests. They’d run down to the beach and thrown rocks into the Sound. Michelle would wade into the cold water, but Carly kept to the shore. She’d always been afraid of the water. She had no explanation, no early trauma. The phobia simply existed. Unfortunately, she’d passed it on to her daughter.
On her good days, she told herself she’d more than made up for that with love and caring and a stable home life. Their world was orderly and predictable. They were happy. No matter what it took, Carly had to make sure that didn’t change.
* * *
The motel room could have been on any one of a thousand roadsides. The bed was small and hard, the sheets rough, the carpet stained. The dark drapes didn’t quite meet in the middle. Car lights swept across the window, creating a pattern on the opposite wall. There was a steady drip from the faucet in the bathroom.
Michelle supposed she could have found a nicer place, but she hadn’t had enough interest. This place would do for the night. It had the added advantage of being close to the main highway into town and a favorite stop for truckers. She was unlikely to run into anyone she knew. Right now being anonymous was a win.
She ran water in the shower until steam filled the small bathroom. After stripping down, she stepped into the spray and let the hot water wash over her. She used the soap, rubbing the tiny bar into her hair, then rinsing.
Despite the heat, she shivered, eventually turning the taps off and drying with the small, thin towel provided. She couldn’t see herself in the mirror, which was fine. It wasn’t as if she was going to put on makeup. Her lone concession to her skin while deployed had been sunscreen. Now that she was back in the Northwest, she didn’t even have to bother with that.
As she dressed, she avoided looking at the still-healing scars on her hip. She was sure the surgeon had done his best to tidy up the injury, to mitigate the blast marks from the gunshot, but he hadn’t had much to work with.
In her head she knew she was lucky. She was all in one piece. A partial hip replacement was barely a footnote compared to what others had suffered. She’d survived, meeting every soldier’s goal of not getting dead. The rest would take care of itself.
She left the small bathroom. A stack of take-out menus sat on the narrow desk in the corner. Food was probably a good idea. She was still on antibiotics and pain meds. Having something in her stomach would make them go down easier. Or she could avoid them completely, solving the problem in another way.
The paper bag stood on the nightstand. She crossed to it and removed the bottle of vodka.
“Hello, you,” she murmured, undoing the top. “I’m not looking for anything long term. How about just spending the night together?”
The counselor at the hospital had warned her that using humor as a defense mechanism would get in the way of her healing fully. She’d told him she could live with the flaw.
The night was quiet. The steady rumble of cars was practically a lullaby compared to what she’d heard just a few months ago. There was no threat of explosions, no roar of heavy equipment, no jets overhead. The night was cool instead of warm, the sky cloudy instead of clear.
Decisions would have to be made. She couldn’t avoid the inn. She belonged there, or she had. There was also the issue of Carly. Saying she was fired had felt good. Maybe she should keep her around so she could fire her over and over again. A little gift to herself.
“That’s bad, even for you,” she told herself, still staring at the vodka.
Exhaustion pulled at her, making her want to lie down, to close her eyes. She resisted, despite the need to heal. Because sleep came at a price. Sleep brought dreams and the dreams were a new level of hell.
