The familiar words, the welcoming smile, all drew Mich.e.l.le closer.

"Not bad, considering."

"You're limping less."

"It's early. I turn into a leg-dragging monster around three. Unless I have physical therapy-then it happens before noon."

"Pull up a stool. You can keep me company."

Mich.e.l.le poured herself a cup of coffee, then did as requested. She knew where to sit so that she was close enough to talk, but still out of the way. She'd done it hundreds of times as a teenager. Hanging out with Damaris had always been safe. Unlike Brenda, whose emotions were as unpredictable as the shapes of the clouds racing across the sky, Damaris was constant.

"You sleeping?" Damaris asked, not looking up from the stove.

Mich.e.l.le cradled her mug of coffee. "No."

"Shouldn't you be?"

"I should be doing a lot of things."

During their tour of the island, Mango had once again brought up the fact that he wanted Mich.e.l.le to be in a support group. He'd reminded her that adjusting to civilian life was difficult after even a single tour in a war zone. She'd had three.

"Why aren't you?"

"Maybe I like being stubborn."

Damaris smiled. "One of your best qualities. I like that shirt. You're too skinny, but you look nice."

Mich.e.l.le glanced down at the rayon blouse she'd bought for about fourteen dollars. Various shades of green swirled together. "You don't think it's too girly?"

"You are a girl and it makes your eyes darker."

"Maybe."

Damaris smiled, unmoved by her sulky tone. "Glad to be back at the inn?"

"Yeah. That's good." At least most of it. "I wish my mom hadn't been so stupid with the money. Sure, a new roof makes sense, but the rest of it? If she was going to remodel anything, why not put in new bathrooms for the guests? Did we really need a gift shop?"

"You're talking to the wrong person."

"I know. Ignore me."

"Never." Damaris handed her a plate. It held her favorite French toast with a side of bacon. "Eat."

"Yes, ma'am."

The other woman touched her cheek. "I'm glad to have you back, child. Let me know how I can help."

"Thanks, but I'm doing okay."

She took a couple of bites and chewed. Damaris continued to prepare eggs and pancakes, place sausages on plates and call that orders were up.

The room was warm, heat from the stove rising to join the steam from the dishwasher. Pans clattered, coffee perked, toast popped. A restaurant kitchen was far from quiet, but the sounds were easy. Safe. No explosions here.

By the time she'd eaten her way through the large serving, she felt better. Food and caffeine were a happy combination, she thought, setting her plate by the dishwasher and refilling her mug. The orders slowed enough that Damaris had time to pull up a stool for herself.

"You have something to tell me," the other woman said, holding a cup of coffee. "What is it?"

"We're going to have to stop serving dinner. It's too expensive."

Damaris raised her free hand. "Hallelujah. Finally."

"You're not upset?"

"I never wanted to add that meal. It was your mother's idea. She was going to get a liquor license, at least until she found out how much work it was. There's too much compet.i.tion with the restaurants in town and keeping staff for a few customers is a waste."

"I thought you'd be upset."

"No. Easier for me, too. Even though I wasn't on, they'd call me a couple times a week with a question. Idiots." Her eyes danced behind her gla.s.ses. "You're making good choices."

"I appreciate the support. I'm letting everyone know today."

"There's a server, Cammie. See if she wants to work days. She's good."

Mich.e.l.le made a note of the name. "Thanks."

"Anything for you."

They hugged briefly, then Mich.e.l.le made her way back to the inn. As she walked toward the reception area, she glanced out toward the rear yard. The sun fought against the morning cloud cover and it wasn't clear who would win. Rain and light both danced across the gra.s.s. But what caught her attention was Gabby standing in the center of the lawn turning and turning, her arms outstretched, her face raised to the sky.

Her feet were bare, Mich.e.l.le thought with a smile. The ultimate symbol of summer. Barefoot children-like she and Carly used to be.

She could remember the two of them running across the gra.s.s, carefree. So incredibly young, unaware of what life would hold and thrilled with the possibilities.

"I can feel the joy from here."

Mich.e.l.le turned toward the speaker, not recognizing the tall, well-dressed woman. She had blond hair and an air of quiet confidence.

"Pauline Farley," the woman said, holding out her hand. "My husband, Seth, and I are the therapists who will be having the retreats here."

"Yes, of course. Mich.e.l.le Sanderson."

They shook hands.

"We've been working with Carly on getting the rooms reserved and working out a schedule," Pauline said. "Everything has gone better than we'd dared hope. Thank you for that."

"You should be thanking Carly."

"I will, but as you own the inn, I wanted to tell you how much we appreciate her. It's never easy to be gone from home, so knowing someone competent was back here taking care of things must have been a comfort."

Mich.e.l.le tilted her head. "That was very smooth."

Pauline looked more amused than chagrined. "The transition to subtle probing? I'm glad you liked it."

"Did someone ask you to talk to me or was my body language betraying me and you couldn't help yourself?"

"The latter," Pauline admitted. "My uncle was in Vietnam. When he came back, he got into drugs and was in and out of rehab for years. I was a kid, but it stayed with me."

"Is that why you became a therapist?"

"Some. I'm a good listener and I enjoy being around people. I have some specialized training in PTSD, if you're interested."

"I'm not."

Pauline's eyes crinkled with amus.e.m.e.nt. "As long as you're not ambivalent. For what it's worth, I'll be here. I'm not trying to be pushy."

"Yes, you are."

"All right. A little. I have this need to nurture."

Having someone take care of her was both the best and worst thing that could happen, Mich.e.l.le thought. She wanted to surrender everything to someone else, and yet couldn't bring herself to trust another person that much.

Despite that, she found she liked Pauline. "If I change my mind, I'll let you know."

"Good."

They both turned back to Gabby, who had spun until she dropped. She lay on the gra.s.s, arms wide, the sound of her laughter drifting in through the open window.

"I envy her sense of self and freedom," Pauline admitted. "To be that uninhibited again."

"Me, too," Mich.e.l.le admitted.

The road to normal had seemed shrouded and difficult to navigate. For the first time in what felt like years, she began to wonder if maybe there was a way back. Maybe not to the place where Gabby lived, but she would take getting within throwing distance, if that was possible.

Fourteen.

Mich.e.l.le knew she should probably apologize. Snapping at Carly, while excellent sport, wasn't fair. But the idea of forming the words, of then saying them, made her cringe.

At exactly ten, Carly stepped through her open door. She had a folder in her hands.

"Have a seat," Mich.e.l.le said by way of greeting.

Carly settled opposite her.

Mich.e.l.le tried to figure out how to get to the S word. Saying "I'm sorry" had never been her favorite, and these days, it was more difficult.

"The weather seems to be improving," she began.

Carly raised her eyebrows, obviously surprised by the small talk. "Yes. It's good for the daisies."

Mich.e.l.le sank back in her chair and rolled her eyes. "Tell me the daisies were my mother's idea. They're everywhere. The garden is fine. I can accept that. But inside? The curtains, the cushions and those d.a.m.ned murals. Talk about ugly. Every time I see them, I wince."

Carly sat stiffly in her chair. Color stained her cheeks as her chin went up slightly. "I love the daisies and I picked out the daisy motif for the inn. I also painted the murals. Myself. By hand. It took weeks."

s.h.i.t. s.h.i.t and double s.h.i.t.

Mich.e.l.le held in a groan. "I'm sorry," she blurted. "I was trying to apologize and..." She paused. "You really like them?"

"Of course. They're cheerful."

"Aren't they a little excessive?"

"This is you apologizing?"

"What? Oh, right. Sorry. The daisies are great."

Carly relaxed a little. "That was sincere."

"I mean it. Love the daisies. Don't change a thing."

Carly smiled reluctantly. "I'm glad you agree."

They stared at each other. Mich.e.l.le felt the beginnings of a truce. This was the Carly who had always known her better than anyone.

"Work," she said. "We should talk about work."

"I'm ready."

Mich.e.l.le nodded. "I spoke with Damaris this morning and told her about the dinner service being canceled. I'll talk to the evening restaurant staff tonight and tell them Friday is their last day."

Carly opened her folder and pulled out a piece of paper. As she handed over the sheet, the light caught the movement of her charm bracelet. Make that Brenda's charm bracelet.

Mich.e.l.le couldn't figure out how she could dislike her mother and still be annoyed that Carly had her charm bracelet. She ignored the tightness in her chest and took the paper Carly offered.

"What's this?" she asked.

"I've spoken to several of the restaurant managers in town and listed the openings they have. I explained why the staff was being let go and gave recommendations. Obviously it will help the people being let go, but it helps the inn, too. With the unemployment insurance."

"Thank you," Mich.e.l.le mumbled, realizing she should have thought of that herself. She really was having to relearn her job. Not surprising after being gone for so long.

She studied the carefully handwritten names and numbers. "Damaris mentioned we should ask Cammie if she wants to stay on."