She scooped up another armful of the dead flowers and carried them to the can.

So much hard work for nothing, she thought, remembering the hours she'd spent looking at nurseries online, finding the exact daisies she wanted and ordering them. The garden had been a part of what she loved about her job. The flowers had brightened her mood every single day, providing color and pleasure. Now there was nothing but raw dirt and a sense that Mich.e.l.le had attacked her personally.

"You okay?" Leonard asked, pushing up his gla.s.ses.

"I'm sad this happened."

"I can help you plant some more. It won't be the same, but maybe it will still be pretty."

She forced herself to smile. "That's sweet. Thank you. I don't know when I'll get to replacing these, but when that happens, I'll let you know."

"What did Gabby say when she saw what had happened?"

"She didn't." Carly had gotten her off to school out the front of the inn. When her daughter got home, she would need some kind of an explanation, but had no idea what it should be.

"Whoever did this was seriously p.i.s.sed. Or drunk." Leonard glanced around. "Or both."

Mich.e.l.le hadn't been that drunk, Carly thought. But she was always angry. Carly knew she was the most obvious target, although given their past, shouldn't she be the one with the temper?

"You okay?" Leonard asked.

"I will be. I have a busy day and that helps."

He stood there, looking awkward, as if he wanted to say more or do more. Carly patted his arm.

"Thanks for helping me. You need to get to your cranes. Without you around to supervise, who knows what kind of trouble they could get up to?"

"I could stay."

She shook her head. "No. I'm okay." Or she would be. If nothing else, life had taught her how to survive tough times. This wasn't close to the worst she'd been through.

Leonard left. Carly wheeled the trash can back in place, then went inside and showered.

She spent the morning in the gift shop, helping customers and checking inventory. New merchandise would have to be ordered to replace that which had sold. It was a great time to shift focus.

She'd brought her laptop along and used the downtime to type up her thoughts, then emailed them to Mich.e.l.le. After lunch, she went upstairs to check the cleaned rooms before new guests were checked in. As she entered the first one, she saw something outside in the yard. She crossed to the window and looked out.

Mich.e.l.le knelt on the lawn, surrounded by flats of daisies. There were dozens of plants, maybe hundreds. Not the different types Carly had discovered over the years, but still bright and colorful. Mich.e.l.le had a small shovel in one hand and was carefully setting each one in the ground.

Carly leaned against the window frame, watching. Her headache faded a little, as did the tension in her body. She'd been wondering if Mich.e.l.le would apologize, but in some ways, this was better. Actions rather than words.

She didn't know why Mich.e.l.le had ripped out the daisies in the first place and maybe she didn't have to. Maybe replacing them was enough.

Mich.e.l.le counted the receipts after breakfast and didn't like the result. Despite the fact that she'd told Isabella to log in server tickets, a.s.signing them in sequential numbers, it hadn't happened. The numbers were randomly a.s.signed, tickets were missing and there were fewer receipts than she thought there should be. Something was going on.

She remembered her work at the inn being easier than this, she thought as she walked through the now-empty dining room and headed for the kitchen. As a teenager, she hadn't had to deal with a gift shop and the restaurant had been tiny. It wasn't that there had been less to do; it's that everything had been more straightforward. Now there were complications. Personalities. Drama.

She walked into the kitchen. Damaris looked up from the garlic she was chopping and held up her hands.

"What?" the cook demanded, grinning as she spoke. "You're here to toss my pots and pans in the trash?"

"Very funny."

"I'm still impressed with what you did with the daisies. Too bad you put them back."

She hadn't exactly put them back. The ones she'd ripped out had been beyond saving. Instead, she'd bought new and had planted them. That had set her hip back a few days. Mango had yelled at her, telling her gardening wasn't helping her healing. She hadn't bothered explaining it had been a onetime event.

"Don't be impressed," Mich.e.l.le told her. "I snapped. That's nothing to be proud of." She still wasn't sure why she'd done it.

If only she could sleep, she thought, wondering how long it would take for the dreams to fade. Or get drunk enough to forget. Or stop jumping at loud noises or looking up from what she was doing and not being sure of where she was.

"Have a cinnamon roll," Damaris told her.

Despite everything, Mich.e.l.le grinned. "Food doesn't solve all problems."

"It should."

She picked up a small plate and slid a blackberry cinnamon roll onto it. The icing was thick and gooey cinnamon-flavored glaze coated her fingers. She took a bite.

"They're amazing," she said.

"Secret recipe. Admit it. You'd be lost without me."

Her words echoed Mich.e.l.le's joke with Carly. Carly, whom she'd hurt for no reason she could define and whose greatest sin was taking care of the inn.

"Receipts are missing from the restaurant," Mich.e.l.le said. "I asked Isabella to keep the tickets in order and she didn't. She also didn't log them all in, so I have no way of knowing which server had what tickets."

Damaris went to work on a half-dozen onions. "So?"

"So, there's money missing."

Damaris kept her eyes on the cutting board. "Are you sure? Isabella's a good girl. I trust her. Maybe it's one of the servers. Or Carly. She's in and out of here."

"When? I never see her in the restaurant unless she's filling in for Isabella."

"She could do it." Damaris looked up. "You worry too much. We're making money, the customers are happy. Go run the inn and leave the restaurant to me. I'm on your side, Mich.e.l.le."

"I know."

Mich.e.l.le trusted Damaris, and Damaris trusted Isabella. Wasn't that some math thing? If A equals B, and B equals C, then A equals C. Which meant she should trust Isabella. Only she didn't.

Twenty-Four.

Mich.e.l.le watched Pauline and Seth shake hands with the last of the departing couples. The man and woman who had barely spoken a few days ago were smiling and laughing. They touched constantly. As Mich.e.l.le watched, the man's free hand slipped over his wife's b.u.t.t in one of those intimate, long-together-couple moves. There was intimacy in the moment, a connection, and watching them made her ache in ways that had nothing to do with her healing wounds and everything to do with a yearning much deeper than flesh and bone.

The couple got in their sports car and started down the drive. Seth said something to Pauline, then pulled out his cell phone and glanced at the screen. Although Mich.e.l.le was too far away to hear what he was saying, she read his expression. The one that said he had to take the call.

Acting on impulse, Mich.e.l.le stepped out of the inn and walked toward Pauline. The therapist saw her coming, smiled and waved, then met her on the porch.

"Another successful retreat?" Mich.e.l.le asked.

"Yes. Very. Most couples who come to us really want their relationship to work. Unfortunately, they're stuck in unproductive ruts and don't know how to get out. We have a few simple techniques that show them love is still there."

"And if it isn't?"

"Then they have to make some difficult choices." Pauline motioned to the chairs on the porch. "Seth will be a few minutes. If you have time to join me."

"I do."

They settled on the padded chairs. Mich.e.l.le stretched out her legs and felt a comfortable pulling in her hip. One that spoke of healing rather than pain.

"You're walking more easily," Pauline observed.

"I'm getting better. At least physically."

"What about the rest of it?"

"I'm not looking for therapy."

"Of course not."

"I'm being social. Polite. Nothing more."

"I can see that."

Mich.e.l.le studied the other woman, trying to figure out if she was being honest or slightly mocking. Pauline's gaze was steady, her blue eyes bright with interest but nothing else. d.a.m.ned professional headshrinkers, Mich.e.l.le thought glumly. A regular person didn't stand a chance.

"I dug out the daisies," she said, not expecting the words to pop out. "It was me."

"I'd wondered who'd ma.s.sacred the garden."

"I was p.i.s.sed and I hate the daisies."

"They can be annoying."

Mich.e.l.le sighed. "This is where you tell me I'm crazy."

"You're not. Is that disappointing to hear?"

Mich.e.l.le considered the question. "I can't decide."

Pauline smiled. "At least you're honest. Did your mother like the daisies?"

"She loved them. Not like Carly, but..." She paused, then swore. "How did you know about my mother?"

"I was fairly sure you weren't hatched." Pauline shrugged. "I sneak into the kitchen at off hours to steal Damaris's coffee cake. She likes to talk and I'm a good listener."

"What else did she tell you?"

"She thinks Isabella's baby isn't up to toilet training."

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, I do."

Mich.e.l.le waited, but Pauline didn't say any more. She drew in a breath. "I wanted to hurt Carly, so I dug up the daisies. I guess I wanted to hurt my mother, too. Get back at her for all the s.h.i.t she did to me."

She briefly outlined the financial disaster she'd come home to.

"There's no one left to blame," Mich.e.l.le said, winding down from the story. "Carly did her best."

"Which you resent. It leaves you without an enemy you can defeat. That's frustrating. You have all this energy and nowhere to put it. Then one night, there are the daisies, mocking you."

Mich.e.l.le grinned. "You've seen your share of mocking flowers, then?"

"I have, figuratively speaking." Pauline looked at her. "It's not wrong to have feelings. We all do. Where we start to cross the line is when we act inappropriately. You know that. You can feel it's not healthy or good for you. You're humiliated by the public display of what you see as the weakness of losing control. But look at it this way. You needed a wake-up call and you got it. So you'll figure out how to handle your emotions better. You replaced the daisies and you apologized. It's okay to screw up. It's what we do afterward that defines us."

For the first time since arriving back on Blackberry Island, Mich.e.l.le felt her eyes fill with tears. "Thank you," she whispered.

Pauline reached out and squeezed her arm. "Please, Mich.e.l.le, get some help. You're right on the edge. You can go either way. I think the world would be a better place if you found your way back. Don't become one of the lost souls. We already have too many."

Mich.e.l.le paced the length of the backyard of the inn, eyeing the daisies but knowing that digging them up a second time would move her from the "quirky" category to something closer to "mentally deranged." She appreciated Pauline's advice and had even planned to take it. Until now.

She had proof. Not the kind she could take to the police, but enough for her to know who was stealing the money and how.

Total receipts were down on the days Isabella worked. Mich.e.l.le had waited another week before coming to that conclusion. She'd checked the number of occupied tables every single day during breakfast. She knew how many got turned over and how many receipts there should be. Servers changed, the days of the weeks changed-the single constant was Isabella.

Firing her was the only option that made sense, but Mich.e.l.le couldn't imagine doing that to Damaris. Isabella was a member of her family. Of course Damaris would believe in her. There was going to be a huge fight and accusations, and honestly, she would rather go out on patrol than deal with all that.

"You're looking fierce," Sam said, coming around the corner of the inn. "I like it."

"Don't be charming. I'm not in the mood."

"There's always room for charm. It's like Jell-O." He tugged on the end of a strand of hair. "Come on, Mich.e.l.le. Tell Uncle Sam all about it."

"Ick," she said. "Don't say you're my uncle. It's creepy."