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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 Michelle entered. She wore a pink blouse tucked into black trousers. Her hair had been pulled back into a ponytail.
“Isabella, come. This is Michelle. Michelle, my daughter-in-law. Isabella is married to Eric.”
Michelle smiled. “I can’t believe he finally got married.”
“Four years ago,” Isabella said.
Michelle 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 penis. 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.”
An awkward silence filled the room.
“Okay. Well, it was lovely to meet you.” Isabella turned to her mother-in-law. “The last of the customers left. I’m closing up the dining room. I’ll be back at eleven-fifteen.”
“See you then.”
“Bye,” Isabella said, and left.
“She’s a hostess here. She works breakfast and lunch,” Damaris said. “The schedule is convenient for her. She can make some money and be home with the baby.”
“Good.”
Michelle knew she should ask more questions, get involved. She was back now. But dealing with people, the easiest part of the job, suddenly seemed impossible. She wanted to retreat to a small space where she would feel safe. Somewhere familiar.
She rose and reached for her dishes.
“Leave those,” Damaris told her. “I’ll take care of them.”
Michelle walked around the table and embraced the woman who had always taken care of her.
“Thank you,” she whispered, kissing Damaris on the top of the head.
“Welcome home, Michelle. I’m glad you’re back.”
“Me, too.” Sort of.
She limped to the door leading to the dining room. From there she would enter the inn and figure out what was next.
“Michelle?”
She paused and glanced back.
Damaris smiled. “I’m proud of you.”
Michelle felt her throat tighten. “Thank you.”

Five
     
H er mother’s office, her office now, was one of the few places that wasn’t different. Michelle settled on the old wooden chair and grinned when she heard the familiar squeal of protest. The chair was older than her, dug up from some office furniture sale years and years ago. Like the desk, it was scarred and old-fashioned, but serviceable.
The computer had been replaced, probably more than once in the past ten years, she thought as she pushed the power button on the tower. Although it wasn’t as new as the one she’d used in Afghanistan.
Behind her, built-in bookcases covered the wall from floor to ceiling. Old ledgers dating back decades gathered dust. The smell of aging leather and musty pages comforted her. Here, with a watercolor of the inn as it used to be, with the familiar fading braided rug underfoot, she at last felt at home.
In the 1950s her newly married grandparents had inherited an unexpected windfall and had impulsively purchased the inn. Michelle’s father had been born and raised here, as had she. Three generations of Sandersons had left their mark on the halls and floors of the old building. Michelle had never imagined living anywhere else.
Ten years ago circumstances—okay, guilt—had caused her to join the army. Within eleven months she’d been sent overseas, eventually ending up in Iraq. Working in the supply office had kept her busy. Knowing that she was making a difference had caused her to request two more deployments.
She’d spent her leave time in Europe, had wandered through Australia for nearly three weeks, had seen the Great Wall. As far as she was