a bigger crisis brewing.
She squared her shoulders; she would get through this. She’d gotten through plenty. She was strong and a hard worker and she had Gabby. Besides, ice cream had been on sale so she’d bought a quart. If necessary, she could have a sugar-based pity party later.
She walked into the main room of the inn and found an older couple standing by the window. They weren’t guests, so she wondered if they were hoping to get a room. She had three available, at least for tonight. The biggest of them had a balcony and a view.
“Hello,” she said, smiling automatically. “Can I help you?”
The couple was casually but expensively dressed. More island chic than big-city vacationers. He was tall, she shorter, both fit with blond hair and tans.
They turned to her.
“Seth Farley,” the man said. “This is my wife, Pauline. Do you have a moment? Could we talk somewhere private?”
They didn’t look like salespeople or vendors. She’d been careful to pay all the inn’s bills, so they weren’t after money. Lawyers seemed unlikely.
“Sure. Let’s go in here.”
The “here” was a small conference room set aside for business guests.
When they were seated around the large table, she offered them coffee.
“No, thanks,” Seth told her. “I’ll get right to the point. My wife and I are psychologists. We’ve been in practice together for nearly twenty-five years. We have a program for married couples interested in working on their relationships. I won’t go into all the details, but we get together with two or three couples at a time for three days. We’ve been holding our retreats in Seattle, but we think that getting out of the city might help couples more fully immerse in their therapy. We’ve investigated several places and are interested in your inn.”
“Oh.” Carly brightened. Returning guests were always welcome. “This is our only meeting room, though. We don’t have conference rooms like traditional hotels.”
“We don’t need a space for the seminars themselves,” Pauline told her. “We have that taken care of. We’re looking for housing for our clients. Three rooms Tuesday through Thursday from the middle of May through late September.”
Summer was their busiest time, she thought. While the weekends were always full, there were usually rooms available midweek. Having guaranteed bookings for that many weeks would be great.
“I would have to check our availability,” she said, then remembered there was more. “And talk to the owner.”
Seth drew his eyebrows together. “I thought you were one of them.”
So did I.
“No,” she said brightly. “But I’ve worked here for ten years, so I’m confident your clients would enjoy their stay. Let me get the dates from you along with your card. I’ll check the reservations and speak with the owner, then get back to you by the end of the week. How’s that?”
“Perfect.”
Seven
M ichelle sat with her fingers on the keyboard. It wasn’t that she didn’t know how to open the programs; it was that she didn’t want to.
Reality was damned unpleasant. Sometimes she wondered what it would be like to be one of those people who could simply drift away. To be on another mental plane and not care about this world. Only not caring wouldn’t fix the problem. This was her inn. The one thing that had kept her going while she’d been away. The thought of coming home. If home was fucked-up, she was going to have to fix it herself.
She typed purposefully, focusing only on gathering information. She was used to spreadsheets and charts and graphs. Her time in the army had been spent in and around supplies. Deciding what to order. Getting them where they needed to go. Getting the inn back on its financial feet was nothing compared with the logistics of housing, feeding and caring for thousands of soldiers on the other side of the world.
She quickly sorted through the previous year’s tax returns, wincing when she saw the loss. Sure, avoiding
She squared her shoulders; she would get through this. She’d gotten through plenty. She was strong and a hard worker and she had Gabby. Besides, ice cream had been on sale so she’d bought a quart. If necessary, she could have a sugar-based pity party later.
She walked into the main room of the inn and found an older couple standing by the window. They weren’t guests, so she wondered if they were hoping to get a room. She had three available, at least for tonight. The biggest of them had a balcony and a view.
“Hello,” she said, smiling automatically. “Can I help you?”
The couple was casually but expensively dressed. More island chic than big-city vacationers. He was tall, she shorter, both fit with blond hair and tans.
They turned to her.
“Seth Farley,” the man said. “This is my wife, Pauline. Do you have a moment? Could we talk somewhere private?”
They didn’t look like salespeople or vendors. She’d been careful to pay all the inn’s bills, so they weren’t after money. Lawyers seemed unlikely.
“Sure. Let’s go in here.”
The “here” was a small conference room set aside for business guests.
When they were seated around the large table, she offered them coffee.
“No, thanks,” Seth told her. “I’ll get right to the point. My wife and I are psychologists. We’ve been in practice together for nearly twenty-five years. We have a program for married couples interested in working on their relationships. I won’t go into all the details, but we get together with two or three couples at a time for three days. We’ve been holding our retreats in Seattle, but we think that getting out of the city might help couples more fully immerse in their therapy. We’ve investigated several places and are interested in your inn.”
“Oh.” Carly brightened. Returning guests were always welcome. “This is our only meeting room, though. We don’t have conference rooms like traditional hotels.”
“We don’t need a space for the seminars themselves,” Pauline told her. “We have that taken care of. We’re looking for housing for our clients. Three rooms Tuesday through Thursday from the middle of May through late September.”
Summer was their busiest time, she thought. While the weekends were always full, there were usually rooms available midweek. Having guaranteed bookings for that many weeks would be great.
“I would have to check our availability,” she said, then remembered there was more. “And talk to the owner.”
Seth drew his eyebrows together. “I thought you were one of them.”
So did I.
“No,” she said brightly. “But I’ve worked here for ten years, so I’m confident your clients would enjoy their stay. Let me get the dates from you along with your card. I’ll check the reservations and speak with the owner, then get back to you by the end of the week. How’s that?”
“Perfect.”
Seven
M ichelle sat with her fingers on the keyboard. It wasn’t that she didn’t know how to open the programs; it was that she didn’t want to.
Reality was damned unpleasant. Sometimes she wondered what it would be like to be one of those people who could simply drift away. To be on another mental plane and not care about this world. Only not caring wouldn’t fix the problem. This was her inn. The one thing that had kept her going while she’d been away. The thought of coming home. If home was fucked-up, she was going to have to fix it herself.
She typed purposefully, focusing only on gathering information. She was used to spreadsheets and charts and graphs. Her time in the army had been spent in and around supplies. Deciding what to order. Getting them where they needed to go. Getting the inn back on its financial feet was nothing compared with the logistics of housing, feeding and caring for thousands of soldiers on the other side of the world.
She quickly sorted through the previous year’s tax returns, wincing when she saw the loss. Sure, avoiding
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