Barefoot Season. Сьюзен Мэллери

       With the inn’s financial trouble, she couldn’t stay there and use one of the rooms they could be renting out every night. Plus, she didn’t want to be that close to Carly. An apartment was more than she needed right now. She planned on working long hours for the next few months. A room was plenty. The trick would be getting one that wasn’t too far away. She was willing to drive, but anything farther than forty minutes would be too much.

       She’d nearly given up when she saw a small index card listing a room for rent on Blackberry Island. The address was only a couple of miles from the inn. The dirt-cheap price made her wonder if she would be sharing the space with anything that crawled, but she made the call, anyway, punching in the number on her cell phone.

       “Tenly.”

       “Hi. I’m calling about the room for rent. I saw the card at the VA hospital.”

       The man on the other end paused. “Is the room for you?”

       “Yes.”

       “It’s a mother-in-law suite. No private entrance, but it’s off the kitchen, at the other end of the house. You familiar with the island?”

       “I grew up there. Michelle Sanderson.”

       “From the inn.”

       She wasn’t surprised he knew. The island was small enough that most people knew one another. There was only one school—a K through 8—where all the kids went. After that, they were bused off island to the nearest high school.

       “Jared Tenly.”

       She recognized the name but couldn’t put a face to it. If she had to guess, she would say he was a few years older than her.

       “When’d you get back?” he asked.

       “A few months ago. I got to the island last week.”

       “You’re at the VA hospital, so you were injured.” He paused. “Okay, you can see the room when you want.”

       “How about now?”

       “Now works.”

       “Give me half an hour to get there.”

       “I’ll be waiting.”

      * * *

       Michelle slung her backpack over her shoulder, then slid down from her truck, doing her best to take the brunt of her weight with her good leg. Even so, the jolt made her gasp and gag. Thinking about throwing up reminded her of Mango, which made her want to laugh. The combination had her choking and coughing, as if she’d swallowed wrong.

       When she got control of herself, she eyed the walkway to the house. It was only about fifteen or twenty feet. She shook her head and reached for her cane. Dancing wasn’t in her future anytime soon, she thought. At this point she would be thrilled to walk around without causing people to point and stare. At least the house was a single story. She couldn’t imagine having to deal with stairs at the end of the day. Bad enough she would have to go up and down them at the inn.

       Leaning heavily on the cane, she walked around the truck and went up the driveway rather than stepping on the curb. The house looked to have been built in the late forties, with a wide porch and decorative dormers. The paint—a soft blue—had faded with time to something closer to gray. The windows were clean enough not to be scary but not so bright that she had to worry that Jared Tenly was one of those weird men obsessed with washing everything in sight.