Island Promises

by Connell, Joy

  “Here he comes again. Is he the only person who works in this godforsaken place?”

  “Where is everyone?” Riley asked when Henri set down the silverware, taking longer than needed to make sure Mildred’s place setting was just right.

  “Rosa and Stanley went over to the university for a poetry reading,” Henri said to Riley. Then he turned to Mildred. “Another thing we do around here, expose the islanders to words that rhyme. Anything to broaden their horizons.”

  “No one else is working?” Riley hoped to see another waiter, even a bus boy, who was willing to serve them. Hell, she’d do it herself, even though she didn’t officially work here anymore. Anything to avoid this tension between the two of them.

  “I’d like the pleasure of serving you myself,” Henri said. “After all, how often do we get visitors who might teach us something about the big world out there?” He filled the water glasses, taking extra care to drop the ice cubes in one by one.

  “At least they train them in service,” said Mildred after Henri left the table, “since it seems he doesn’t have much of a chance in any other career.”

  Riley started to tell her about Henri’s MBA from Harvard, about the offers he’d gotten from big corporations but had turned down when he made the choice to come home and run the business. She wanted to explain about Rosa and her doctorate in philosophy, but they were interrupted by the arrival of Joe, Anthony, and Mitchell.

  Lunch never got any better. Mildred and Henri sparred through most of it. Riley could see other wait staff—she waved to those she knew—and several times she suggested to Henri that they would be fine with a younger, inexperienced waitress, that she could fetch the coffee herself and refill the rolls. But he put a hand on her shoulder to stop her from getting up and smiled falsely, aiming his words at Mildred. No, he wouldn’t hear of anyone else waiting on them. He would do it himself just to absorb the atmosphere of the outside world that Mildred introduced, just so he could learn something new, poor, sheltered, island boy that he was.

  For her part, Mildred ordered him around like he was her personal assistant. On the scent of a big story or up against a deadline, Mildred could be brisk, commanding. That’s what her job demanded. But Riley had never known her to treat waiters in Chicago the way she was treating Henri.

  Riley ate very little. The three men ate as quickly as they could and then found an excuse to leave. Mitchell had tried to start a conversation, complimenting Mildred on her designer handbag but it went nowhere.

  Before they left, they agreed to drop Mildred’s luggage at the hotel. She was going to stay there tonight while Reprieve was still being provisioned and cleaned since she had shown up a day early. Done eating, Mildred clicked her fingers for Henri, who took his time reaching the table. “Will you see that my bags are sent directly to my room when they arrive?”

  “I will handle it personally. Although I can’t make any guarantees. That is, unless you’ve attached a picture of yourself to the outside. You know how hard it is for us poor islanders to make out all those big words on the tags like ‘Chicago’ and ‘United States.’ But we plug along.”

  “Mildred.” Riley frowned. She was going to try and get through to Mildred about Henri. Not just about him, but about all of them here, how they were no different than the people in the rarified news world in Chicago. In fact, they were probably better. More honest, more caring, less willing to crush people to make their own ambitions come true.

  Once again she was interrupted, this time by Henri. “Your room is ready,” he said in a clearly subservient, mocking tone.

  Mildred immediately got up, gave Riley an air kiss, and followed Henri out of the dining room.

  The sun was only a faint shadow when Riley stretched and yawned. Half asleep, she reached for Joe but his side of the berth was empty. She had grown accustomed to his hours, left over from his days in the Navy. He was up before the sun, on deck and working, sipping coffee. When Reprieve was at sea, he slept in four-hour increments, when he was off-watch.

  She marveled at his ability to fall asleep quickly and come fully awake just as quickly. He was so in-tune with the boat. Noise on deck or in the galley never woke him but a shift in the wind, a slight tilt from Reprieve, indicating a sail change was needed, and he was out on deck within minutes.

  Now that she was awake, she knew she wouldn’t fall back to sleep. Instead, she went in search of the coffee. Taking her mug on deck, she sat and watched the marina come alive. Sailors all seemed to rise early and on other boats she could see them moving about the decks, coiling ropes, gathering sails. On the powerboats, they were mopping the decks, checking their fenders. A note stuck to the compass said Anthony and Joe had gone for supplies and would be back mid-morning.

  Riley made her way to the navigation station and turned on the computer. Her cell phone might still be working only intermittently but she had discovered this computer and e-mail. There was a brief message from RK saying how busy he was, how hectic the newsroom was, how much he missed her.

  She drew a blanket around her shoulders and stared at the screen. The words seemed so distant, so cold. This was the man she had planned her life with, the man she had pictured as her partner in the news business and on the home front. Yet here she was reveling in tropical nights with a man she’d known only a short time. Was this just a fling? Once she was back in Chicago, would she forget all about Joe and Reprieve? Would she plunge right back into reporting and someday look back on this period of her life with a mixture of joy and shame?

  Those were questions she wasn’t prepared to answer. Instead, she called up the page she’d been looking at the last time she’d had access to this computer. Joe had said it was off-limits, that it was to be used only for navigation and official boat business. He wasn’t a dummy when it came to technology, far from it, but he didn’t have the “time nor the inclination to waste surfing the web when the world was right here at their fingertips.”

  A picture of Scully, with a scruffy beard, his forehead wrinkled nearly squeezing his eyes shut and his mouth set in a hard, straight line, hiding the gold tooth, filled the screen. He still gave her shivers but she huddled into the blanket, which no matter how many times it was washed and air-dried, smelled of the sea, and plunged on. Details of his life were sketchy but he had been mentioned in several news articles as someone wanted for questioning in connection with piracy, theft, and the disappearance of a reporter.

  One of the major Sunday news magazines had done a feature on pirates in the islands and Scully’s picture, along with his two cohorts, was used. In the picture they were silhouetted against the sunset so their faces weren’t visible but there was no doubt it was Scully, Mikah with his square body, and Candy, skinny and hunched.

  Riley typed in some notes, which she had been e-mailing to Mildred for safekeeping. She didn’t want to keep them on Joe’s computer, in case he accidentally stumbled over them. He remained adamant about her not investigating this story. What he didn’t understand was that reporting was a big part of who she was and she could no more leave this alone than he could tie Reprieve to the dock and never sail again.

  “Hey, Miss Sunshine.” Mitchell stood in the galley, hair ruffled. He blinked into the morning sun, which had risen fast and bright. But Mitchell being Mitchell, he wore designer pajama pants in a light silk material. “If Joe sees you using his computer, they’ll be hell to pay.”

  “He won’t see me.” Riley logged off and turned in the swivel chair. “And you won’t tell him.”

  “Why would I keep my mouth shut about that?”

  “Because we’re friends. Because friends keep secrets for each other. And because if you do tell Joe, I’ll let him know you’re using his precious hot water to wash your hair on the boat when he’s not here. Not only that but conditioning it, too.”

  Instinctively, Mitchell ran a hand throug
h his hair. In port, the rules were that the crew showered at the marina facilities, not on the boat, to save water. At sea, the crew used cold water or seawater to save the hot for guests.

  “All right,” he said reluctantly, “deal.”

  “Now why don’t you grab one of those showers and come with me to get Mildred at Rosalee’s.”

  “What do you mean, she’s not here?” Riley felt panic rising. Where could her friend have gone? People just didn’t disappear.

  “She’s not in her room, Riley.” Sahara, the desk clerk, had just finished whispering with the bellboy. Sahara was tall, lithe, with beautiful light brown skin. She had been a world traveler, as were her parents, who’d named her for the desert where she was born. She was passing through the islands, working at Rosalee’s to make money.

  “Sahara, I’m supposed to meet her here. Mildred is always on time. She never skips out on a meeting.” Riley was trying to paint a picture of the Mildred she knew, the producer who lived and died by the clock and the timing of a piece; the newshound who never stood up a source or blew past a scheduled interview; the pulled-together woman who always kept her appointments. “You have to check her room.”

  Sahara had another whispered conversation with the bellhop. “We did check. She left, Riley, early this morning, with a man. That’s all we know.”

  “My God.” Riley turned to Mitchell, gripped his hand so tightly he winced. “Someone’s taken her.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.” Mitchell unwound his fingers, flexing them. “Thanks, Sahara, we’ll be in touch.” Mitchell steered a shell-shocked Riley outside.

  “You have to listen to me.” Riley grabbed for him again but this time Mitchell was ready and he dodged the grip that was headed his way. “Mildred just wouldn’t disappear for a lark. She’d never up and leave just because she felt like taking a break. I’ve worked with this woman for almost five years. She’s as tough as nails, more focused than anyone I’ve ever encountered.”

  “The island does strange things to people. Look at you.”

  “Not Mildred.” Riley was adamant. “Something’s happened to her.” She scanned the surrounding hills and the contour to the sea as though her friend might be spotted at any moment. “I think Scully might have her.”

  “Now you’re really off the deep end, letting your imagination get the better of you. Why would he want her? Good God, she has the worst fashion sense in the world.”

  “This is not about fashion. Have you seen what Scully wears?”

  “Actually, I don’t think it’s as bad as everyone says. He has kind of a defiant, scruffy pirate thing going on.”

  “Enough about the fashion.” Riley paced. “If he took her, it was to warn me off the story. I should have been more careful, taken more precautions. I should have listened to Joe.”

  “Don’t say that where he can hear it or you’ll never live it down.”

  “We need help. We need to go to the authorities.”

  “Are you forgetting where you are?” Mitchell smoothed out his hair. “The authorities here will probably throw us in jail just so they don’t have to listen to us.”

  “Then what will we do?” She hated that she sounded so desperate, hated the sense of weakness and uncertainty that it implied. In Chicago, she was decisive, in charge, on top of things. Here, she had turned into a mushy, clingy woman she wouldn’t have given the time of day to in her old world.

  “Let’s head to the boat. Maybe Anthony and Joe will be back. We need to start with them.”

  Reluctantly, Riley let Mitchell lead her away from Rosalee’s, toward the dock and Reprieve.

  Riley knew she was babbling, she couldn’t help herself. For the past hour, she had been pacing the deck, and when that got too small, the dock. Visions of Mildred and Scully filled her brain, no matter how hard she tried to squelch them. She pictured her friend in trouble, needing her, crying out for her, and being unable to help. About every 10 minutes, she stalked below and insisted to Mitchell they go to the authorities.

  He would calm her down by putting his hands on her shoulders or rubbing her back. We decided, he would remind her, that we’d wait for Joe and Anthony.

  Page them, call them, e-mail them, she demanded, stamping her foot.

  They don’t have a pager or a cell phone on them, Mitchell explained. The first few times he was very patient but by the fourth time, he barked “No!” when Riley set foot on the ladder, then he went back to turning the pages of the medical journal he was reading.

  Riley was so involved in her thoughts and plots that she didn’t see Joe and Anthony coming down the dock. Only when Reprieve rocked with their weight did she turn from her place gazing out the entrance to the harbor. As fast as she could, she went to him, dodging coiled ropes and cushions piled high to air out. She was in his arms, blathering out the story and crying when a motorcycle roared down the dock and stopped at the entrance to Reprieve. It was so noisy that they had to stop talking and wait until the driver turned off the engine. Riley was annoyed at the interruption until she saw the passenger on the back take off her helmet and shake out her long, dark hair.

  Mitchell was staring open-mouthed and Joe was staring at her. That left Anthony to unhook the lifeline and invite Henri and Mildred aboard.

  Uptight, button-down Mildred bounded onto the boat laughing. Her signature black was gone. She wore a splashy pair of flowered crop pants, a loose gauze island shirt over a bright pink camisole, and what could only be described as cute canvas shoes. She was laughing and gesturing, touching Henri’s arm or his shoulder about every two seconds.

  Feeling for the settee behind her, Riley sat down hard and reminded herself to close her mouth and keep it that way. Mitchell recovered enough to grab a bottle of rum, some fresh fruit juice and glasses from below. Mildred plopped down next to Riley and began to talk about her morning, how they had watched the sun rise, and then had breakfast in a little place Henri knew that was right on the beach.

  “How beautiful this island is,” Mildred said, “especially the back parts that aren’t accessible by car.”

  Joe sat down on her other side, poured her a glass heavy with rum and light on juice, and handed the drink to her. She took a healthy swig.

  “Riley was looking for you this morning,” Joe finally said as Riley drained the rest of the glass.

  “Oh.” Mildred did something Riley had never seen her do in all the years she’d known her. She blushed. It wasn’t sun and it wasn’t the rum. It was the good old-fashioned blush of someone who was embarrassed and proud at the same time. “Sorry, Riley. Henri and I talked into the night. Actually, until just before dawn. He wanted to show me the sunrise, and we were both starving, so we just took off.”

  “It’s okay.” Riley waved her hand. She was on her second rum punch and it wasn’t even lunchtime. She hoped her words weren’t slurring but she wouldn’t bet on it. “We can get together this afternoon. No problem. On island time now.”

  “Well . . .” Incredibly, Mildred blushed again. “Henri and I were going to the other side of the island this afternoon. The part tourists never see. He says there’s an incredible beach there.”

  Riley stared. Who was this person? She looked like Mildred, but what had happened to her friend? In such a short time? She wanted to ask this version of Mildred where the original had gone and what alien life form had possessed her body. She wanted to rise up and shake her friend until the loose strands of hair coiled themselves back into the bun she had never been without in Chicago. The rum and the strain had dulled her senses and she couldn’t get the words out or make her limbs move to take action.

  “Millie, we should go if we want to have lunch on the beach.” Henri stood, relaxed, leaning against the cabin, his hands in the pockets of his white canvas pants. He looked like an advertisement for the islands, tan, with
a hint of exoticness to his features, strong and confident, his skin shining, his smile white and sparkling.

  Mildred did another surprising thing. She reached over and threw her arms around Riley. Then she took Henri’s arm and they were off on the motorcycle. Riley was left to sit in the cockpit and gaze out after them as they roared back down the dock, Mildred’s hair flying out from beneath the helmet.

  Riley held up her glass to be refilled but Joe took it away from her.

  “Millie,” she said. “Did you hear that? He called her Millie? And she let him.”

  Three pairs of male eyes were watching her.

  “What? What is it?” she demanded of them. “Don’t I have a right to wonder? He’s cast a spell on her. That’s what it is. How else can you explain this?”

  “It’s called love,” Mitchell said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Riley stood up, a little too fast. “Sure are some swells in this harbor today,” she said and grabbed for the boom to steady herself. “Mildred doesn’t fall in love. She’s dedicated. She’s professional. The newsroom is her life. She lives and breathes a good story. She’s the best in the business.”

  “Darlin’, the best in the business is on the back of a motorbike heading for an isolated beach with one of the most eligible hunks on the island,” Mitchell said.

  “It’s a fling. They barely know each other. Less than a day ago they couldn’t stand each other.”

  “Sometimes it happens that way,” Anthony said and they all looked at him. He spoke so rarely that when he did it was an event. “Two people feel a connection but they fight it because it’s so strong it scares them.”

  “Whatever it is, your friend seems happy.” Joe was hovering near her, watching her sway.