Barefoot Season. Сьюзен Мэллери

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      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.

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