Carly nodded.

"Did you talk?" he asked.

"Not really. She was tired."

Or so Carly had a.s.sumed. She wasn't going to admit what Mich.e.l.le had said. Wasn't even going to think about it until she had to. Then she would make plans.

The panic returned, but she ignored it. Time enough to lose it later, she told herself. When she was alone. To give in to the fear now, to worry in front of Robert, was to invite something she didn't want.

He looked enough like Allen to be both intriguing and to make her want to bolt. Medium height, dark hair and eyes, with broad shoulders. Allen, younger by nearly six years, had the allure and easy smile of a man who lived on charm. Him leaving was as inevitable as the tide that lapped against the rocky sh.o.r.e of the island.

Robert was nearly as good-looking, but without the destructive bent. He owned an auto shop on the far edge of town. He was a good man who wanted to take care of her and Gabby, and she'd let him. Because it was easy. Because he didn't demand a real relationship and she didn't want one.

But she was starting to wonder if easy had a higher price than she'd realized. If they were using each other to avoid having to find what they really wanted with someone else. Of course, if Mich.e.l.le really did fire her, it would be less of an issue. She had a feeling that being homeless would make her less attractive on the dating scene.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"I knew she was coming, but it was still a shock to see her."

"I'm sorry. About all of this."

"Stop saying that. It was never your fault."

"He's my brother."

"I'm the one who married him. I knew what he was and I married him, anyway."

Married him after finding him with her best friend two days before the wedding. It didn't matter that Allen had blamed Mich.e.l.le, had claimed she'd seduced him and it wasn't his fault.

Carly remembered everything about the moment. She'd finally bought a topper for the cake. She'd found it in an antiques store in Aberdeen. The porcelain was delicate, the couple a little old-fashioned. But there had been something about the way they'd faced each other, the tiny hands clasping, that had called out to her. She'd bought it and brought it to her small house and had cleaned it so carefully. Then she'd taken it over to show Mich.e.l.le.

There were so many things she remembered about that afternoon. The cranes had been everywhere. They were loudest in spring, no doubt dealing with bird hormones and nest-building. She remembered it had been sunny-a rare event in the Pacific Northwest.

She'd walked into the inn, still feeling strange about being there. She and Mich.e.l.le had only recently reconciled. Their friendship, solid for so many years, had been tentative. She'd walked into the owner's apartment, her eyes slow to adjust to the sudden shadows, and she'd stumbled as she'd made her way through the living room and into Mich.e.l.le's bedroom. She'd entered without thinking, without knocking. They'd still been in bed, both naked, in a tangle of arms and legs.

At first she hadn't believed what she was seeing. She'd stood there, holding the cake topper in her hands, feeling as if something was terribly wrong but unable to figure out what. Like a dream, where chairs were on the ceiling.

The out-of-focus blurring had sharpened as she'd realized what had happened. That the person she should have been able to trust more than anyone had betrayed her. With Mich.e.l.le-the woman already responsible for destroying most of what she had.

Allen had jumped to his feet and run to her. He was still hard from the lovemaking, his p.e.n.i.s damp, his hair mussed.

"Carly, please. It was an accident."

She was sure he'd said more, pleaded, begged. Blamed Mich.e.l.le, who had sat in the bed, her eyes as blank as her face. Carly had waited-not for Allen to convince her but for Mich.e.l.le to say something. Eventually she had.

"You should go now."

That was it. Four words. No explanation, no apology. Just "you should go now."

Carly had run.

Two days later, she'd walked down the aisle and married Allen. Because it had been easier than facing the truth. Because she'd been afraid of being alone. Funny how she'd ended up alone, anyway.

"You'll figure it out," Robert told her. "You and Mich.e.l.le were friends. Once you talk, you'll be friends again."

She nodded because it was easier than telling the truth. That while Carly was the injured party, Mich.e.l.le seemed to be the one who had come home looking for revenge.

Mich.e.l.le stepped into the kitchen at the inn and breathed deeply. The fragrance of cinnamon mingled with bacon and coffee. Her mouth watered and for the first time in months she was hungry.

The room was different-bigger, with longer counters and more windows, but the heart was the same. Damaris still ruled from her eight-burner stove, and servers and helpers jumped when she barked their names.

Mich.e.l.le watched as the cook flavored eggs with her secret spices and flipped pancakes. Diced vegetables and cheese were added to omelets, blackberries added as a side to everything. Toast popped, the juicer whirred and the ever-present slap of plates was accompanied by the call of "order up."

Her head hurt nearly as much as her hip. A testament to the aftereffects of too much vodka and too little food. But as she watched Damaris, the pain faded to the background. Here, in the chaos, she was finally home.

"Last order," Damaris called, slapping down another plate.

Mich.e.l.le glanced at the clock. It was nearly nine. This time of year the breakfast crowd faded early with most of the customers heading off to work. Midweek inn visitors were usually purposeful, with plans and itineraries to be followed.

"Morning," she said as Damaris turned off burners.

The cook spun and pressed a hand to her heart. "When did you get here?"

"A few minutes ago."

Damaris hurried toward her, wiping her hands on her white ap.r.o.n. "It's so good to see you," she said, pulling Mich.e.l.le close and hugging her. "You're hungry." Damaris released her. "You must be. I'll make your favorite."

"You don't have to."

Dark eyebrows rose over the frame of her gla.s.ses. "You think I don't know that? Sit."

Mich.e.l.le limped over to the stools by the counter and sat. Damaris poured her coffee and pa.s.sed it over, then studied the ingredients on the counter.

"You didn't stay here last night," she said, slicing cinnamon bread. "I asked."

"I didn't want to." An almost-truth. "It's strange being back."

"That's because you waited too long. What were you thinking? Ten years? In all that time you couldn't come back once to see me?"

Mich.e.l.le didn't answer. Her reasons for not visiting had nothing to do with Damaris and everything to do with Carly and Brenda.

"What do you think of the changes?" Damaris kept her attention on the eggs she whipped.

"That they're more than you said. The whole inn is different."

"I didn't want to upset you. Carly suggested the remodel, but then your mother ran with it. The contractor was from Seattle. G.o.d forbid Brenda should hire local. I think she was sleeping with him."

"My mother?"

"He took advantage of her, if you ask me. The new roof and kitchen remodel became what you see. I almost felt sorry for her. He left when he was done and never came back. Such bad luck with men." She looked over her gla.s.ses. "Like I said, I almost felt sorry for her."

Mich.e.l.le couldn't summon even that much compa.s.sion. "She should have known better. The inn didn't need to be different. It wasn't hers. She didn't have the right."

"Did you think that would have stopped her?"

"No."

The pounding was back in her head. The hip ache had never gone away. She supposed she could take one of the pain pills the doctors had given her but she didn't like how they made her feel. Loopy.

Talk about irony. She had no problem washing away her life with vodka but resisted pain medication. Of course, in the scheme of things, that contradiction wasn't even a footnote when compared with the rest of the jumble in her head. She had a feeling she was one step away from being a case study in some medical magazine. Or maybe she was giving herself too much credit.

Damaris set a plate in front of her. Cinnamon French toast with sausage. And blackberries on the side.

"Really?" she asked, nudging one of the berries until it threatened to roll off her plate. "Even with me?"

Damaris grinned. "Habit."

Because all food was served with blackberries here on Blackberry Island. When she was little, her dad had teased that they should be grateful they didn't live on Broccoli Island or Spinach Inlet. She remembered laughing and laughing, then drew in a breath and tried to remember the last time she'd found anything remotely funny.

She sliced off a small piece of the French toast. The edges were crispy, the cinnamon visible through the layer of egg. Once on her tongue, the flavors mingled, sweetened by the maple syrup. The bread itself, light yet substantial, had what those in the business called "mouth feel."

Most people believed that scent memory was the most powerful but for Mich.e.l.le it was taste. She could remember this breakfast from what felt like a thousand years ago. Could remember where she'd been sitting, what the conversation had been about. Damaris had made this exact meal for her on her first morning working for the inn.

"G.o.d, you're good."

Damaris laughed. "At least that's the same."

She poured herself coffee and pulled up a stool, watching as Mich.e.l.le devoured the food.

Mich.e.l.le finished the French toast, then went to work on the sausage. It was exactly as she recalled, made locally by organic farmers at the north end of the island. She ended with the blackberries.

"Are they from Chile?" she asked. It was way too early in the season for them to be local.

Damaris's eyes widened. "Shhh. That's practically blasphemy. Everything we serve is local."

"You're such a liar. Is that what we're saying now?"

"No, but people a.s.sume."

"It's fifty degrees outside and the first week of May. No one thinks these are local."

Damaris sniffed. "There's a greenhouse on the far side of the island."

"It's the size of a toaster. They could plant maybe two bushes in there."

"Still." Damaris reached for her own cup of coffee. "What happens now?"

Mich.e.l.le had a feeling the cook wasn't asking if she planned to take her plate over to the sink or not. The question, and answer, was more complicated than that.

"I return to my regularly scheduled life. Run the inn, like I did before."

"You can't do it by yourself."

Mich.e.l.le glanced at her, wondering if she'd heard about what had happened with Carly the previous night.

"It's bigger now," the cook continued. "Thirty rooms. The summer's coming. You know what that means."

Crowds, tourists and a houseful of guests.

I fired Carly.

Mich.e.l.le thought the words, testing them, enjoying the sense of satisfaction they produced.

Reality would be different, she thought, gripping her coffee. Reality was hard work and long hours. With her hip and the physical therapy that would require, not to mention the fact that stairs were going to be a nightmare, Damaris was right. She couldn't do it on her own.

This close to the summer season, finding a replacement for someone who knew the inn would be difficult. While the words had come from her heart, she knew letting Carly go would be stupid.

"You're saying I have to keep her."

No need to say who "she" was.

Damaris shrugged. "For now. She won't want to go. She has her daughter. Gabby. A sweet girl, considering."

Damaris had always been an ally. Impulsively, Mich.e.l.le stretched her arm across the stainless counter and squeezed her friend's hand.

"I missed you."

"I missed you, too."

The door to the dining room swung open and a dark-haired woman a little younger than Mich.e.l.le entered. She wore a pink blouse tucked into black trousers. Her hair had been pulled back into a ponytail.

"Isabella, come. This is Mich.e.l.le. Mich.e.l.le, my daughter-in-law. Isabella is married to Eric."

Mich.e.l.le smiled. "I can't believe he finally got married."

"Four years ago," Isabella said.

Mich.e.l.le remembered Eric being the kind who didn't see the point in having a girlfriend. Why limit yourself to just one? He'd hit on her a couple of times, once even flashing her his p.e.n.i.s. It was the first one she'd ever seen and her unplanned "Really? Is that what all the fuss is about?" had not only deflated him but insured he didn't bother her again.

"Congratulations," she now told Isabella, hoping Eric was a better husband than his past behavior implied.

"Thank you."

"They have a baby. A little girl."

"That's nice."