Island Promises

by Connell, Joy

  “Geez, did it get hot all of a sudden.” Riley mopped at her forehead with one of the napkins. “You guys don’t know Mildred.” Her voice might have been louder than she realized because a worker on the dock and a charter captain on a boat two down stopped and turned in their direction. “She would not just fall in love.”

  “So she’s fallen into strong like.” Mitchell said, being catty. “Whatever it is, it looks damn good on her.”

  “I feel sick.” Riley lurched for the side where she threw up.

  On the dock, a couple of tourists passing by made noises of disgust. One of the marina workers turned and ran back the way he had come.

  It was Mitchell who handed her a towel, who insisted she stand under the deck shower in her clothes, holding her at arm’s length to avoid soiling his own clothes. He was also the one who waited outside the cabin door while she donned a dry T-shirt and shorts and was the last person she saw as he spread the covers over her and let her sleep the afternoon away.

  Chapter 8

  A few days later, Riley noted how the men seemed to be busy in other places. They were rarely on Reprieve. Mitchell was pulling shifts at the hospital, picking up extra income and keeping up his skills. He kept an apartment on the other side of the island and that’s where he and Anthony spent their time on this long layover. Anthony was scouting that side of the island, searching for boats that could be purchased cheaply, refitted, and either sold or integrated into the chartering business. Until now, Riley had had no idea that the business they ran encompassed more than just Reprieve.

  Joe was spending his time helping to train the island’s version of the Coast Guard. Most days he left early in the morning, while the sun was just rising and came home at dusk. Those were good nights. They’d share some wine, raid the pantry for food, or heat up one of the dinners Mitchell had stored in the freezer locker, then fall into the bunk. Most nights, they reveled in being together, in enjoying each other’s bodies, in finding all those sweet, secret spots that only intimate lovers could know. Other nights, Joe was so physically exhausted he fell asleep while she was babbling on about how she had spent her day.

  How she spent her days was becoming a concern. The first few days, she had been quite content to hang out on Reprieve, lie on the deck soaking up the sun, read some of the books she had borrowed from the small island library. When she got bored or needed companionship, she walked up the hill to Rosalee’s, had lunch, and visited with the staff and, of course, Rosa, Stanley, Mildred, and Henri. It had only been a short while since Mildred had set foot on the island but she had become a fixture at Rosalee’s, wiping tables, serving food, learning to mix drinks behind the bar.

  The days were long and lazy, just what she’d needed when she’d first left Chicago. But, now, with nothing much to do and all her friends otherwise occupied, she found herself bored and restless. There were only so many hours she could work on her tan, only so many colors she could paint her toenails, before her spirit cried out for some meaningful, engaging work.

  Joe was the one who suggested she write about the islands. Under the stars one night, his arm wrapped around her, the only light in the marina the lone single bulb mounted on a pole over the offices and restrooms.

  “What would I write about?” she asked.

  “Hell, I don’t know. You’re the one who does that, not me.” He took a swig out of the bottle of beer.

  “If I did, what would I write on? Not too many people take handwritten articles these days.”

  “Use my computer.”

  “Wow, I’m so honored, sir.” She got up and performed a dramatic curtsey. “You’re entrusting me with an actual piece of equipment from the precious and irreplaceable Reprieve. To what do I owe this honor? And me just your humble servant.”

  He pulled her back down next to him. “Cut it out. I guard the equipment on Reprieve for a good reason. She could save our lives one day and she needs to be in top condition to do it. Having untrained people messing with it could cost a life.”

  Chastised, Riley said nothing but cuddled into his chest. She knew she should tell him she’d already hacked into his computer but she didn’t want to spoil the moment. As the night deepened, the stars were becoming brighter and more of them were blanketing the night sky.

  “Here’s the way I figure it,” Joe went on. “Computers are something you know. You worked with them in Chicago. There’s not too much you can do to screw it up. And if you do, Henri’s pretty good at making them work again.”

  “I don’t have anything to write about.” Riley pouted.

  “Place like this, you ought to be able to find something. How about the chartering business or how great the island is for tourists?”

  “Maybe.” But Riley didn’t like either idea. She could write a nice, light piece on the haven this island could be. She could go on for paragraphs describing how beautiful the flowers were, all the colors of the rainbow, set against the green of the forest and the deep blue of the sea. Perhaps she could do a business piece on the chartering business, how the clientele was diverse, how much profit or loss they made last year, how much influence the weather had on the bottom line. Problem was she wasn’t a travel writer and she wasn’t a business writer. She was an investigative reporter. That’s what she did. That’s what she loved. There was nothing like it when she was on the scent of a story, the adrenaline was pumping and her mind was obsessed with the details. In that mode she forgot to sleep, to eat, to pay her phone bills.

  Joe’s fingers rubbed up and down her arm in a mindless way that made her feel protected and content. To be sitting here with him, knowing he felt comfortable enough with her to be distracted, to have his thoughts hours and miles away on what had happened today when they jumped out of helicopters and staged a training rescue of a swimmer in the water, was somehow reassuring.

  “If we don’t watch it, we’re going to become an old, staid, set-in-our-ways couple,” she teased him.

  Deliberately, Joe set his beer bottle down, turned to her, took her face in his hands and kissed her hard. “Let’s go to bed,” he said huskily, nuzzling her ear. “I’ll show you who’s staid and set in their ways.”

  Sometime in the night, after Joe had fallen asleep, with the moonlight shining through the skylights and the soft night breeze sweeping across the portholes, it came to Riley what she should write about. Not just write but, shoot. There would be logistical problems to work out. Who would man the camera? Who would do the sound? And how would she edit it? But with a computer and a credit card, she could get all the equipment she needed. Fortunately, she still remembered the number for the credit card the station had issued her. The cameraman was a problem, though. She’d have to work on that. Some of it she could shoot herself.

  She tried to sleep, Joe snoring beside her, but she couldn’t. The old juices were coming back, the urge to track down a story and present it. The competitive drive to get the news before anyone else and to get it right.

  The story she chose wouldn’t make Joe happy but she didn’t need to tell him. They weren’t joined at the hip. In fact, in reality they’d only known each other a short time. And although what she felt was so overwhelming, so encompassing that she couldn’t imagine feeling this for anyone else, including RK; she needed her own pursuits, her own life. Just as he had his. He didn’t ask if she thought it was a good idea he shoot guns and jump out of helicopters into the sea, so why should she check every idea with him?

  The rest of the night, Riley lay there in the bunk and planned her story and just how she would make it work.

  Now that she had official permission to use it, she found Joe’s computer was surprisingly new, fast, and well connected. By lunchtime the next day, Riley had ordered the camera and editing equipment she’d need. It was coming overnight express. Which in this part of the world meant it could arrive anytime between tomorrow and next Ch
ristmas. All she needed now was a cameraperson and a producer, if she could find one. The cameraperson would be tough but not insurmountable. Good videographers were worth their weight in gold. They made it look so easy to lug that heavy equipment, focus it just right, and grab good shots when everything around them was moving.

  However, if she kept the shots very simple and used a tripod as much as possible to steady the camera, she could probably work it out.

  She spent the rest of the afternoon working out a plan of action. When she was done, she felt a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment. As much as she was growing to love Reprieve and care about her skipper, she needed to work, to have something in her life that was hers and hers alone.

  By some miracle, within a week, Riley had a notice from the island postal service that her camera equipment had arrived. It was supposed to be delivered directly to her residence on Reprieve but that was obviously asking way too much. She walked up the hill to town and stopped in at Rosalee’s for a quick lunch. The restaurant was a cool oasis after the heat and the physical exertion.

  As she entered, the bamboo floors and the native woods rich and gleaming, the breezes blowing in from the open French doors stirred to coolness by the overhead fans and the soft noises of people eating and enjoying themselves, Riley felt a sudden and abrupt peace settle over her. She belonged here. These people cared as much about her as she did about them. She hadn’t even thought about Chicago in quite a while.

  Just as she was finishing up, Millie and Henri came in, hand-in-hand, smiling at each other, laughing softly. Riley was grudgingly getting used to calling her “Millie.” No one in Chicago would have ever dared use the nickname in the producer’s presence and lived to tell about it. But “Mildred” was too formal for this new person who had come to life on the island.

  Millie’s cheeks were brushed pink with sunlight. Her dark hair fell around her face like a veil, waving and curling in the humidity. The arms and legs that poked out of the sleeveless shirt and the shorts were still shockingly white but they were at least being exposed to fresh air and sunlight which someday might turn them from cadaver white into off white. As Riley watched, she and Henri parted company with a brief kiss.

  Henri disappeared into the offices most likely to look over the books and Millie, after kissing Rosa on the cheek, took up a tray and began clearing away the luncheon dishes from the tables. She was humming as she worked and her thoughts seemed far away. She appeared surprised when she looked up and saw Riley sitting, sipping the last of her rum drink.

  “Just the person I was hoping to see,” Riley said. “Can you sit for a minute?”

  “Of course.” Millie put the tray down and slid out the chair opposite Riley. Except for one table in the back corner, the dining room had cleared out after the lunch rush. “This is so nice.” Millie leaned back in the chair. “I have work to do. I have to clear all these tables and set up for dinner. But it’s expected that I’ll take time out for a friend. That I won’t feel overwhelmed and pressured. That I won’t sell my soul for a job. So much different than Chicago.”

  “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Riley leaned forward. “I ordered some camera equipment, some editing stuff. I want to do a story.”

  Millie’s eyes had clouded. She folded her arms over her chest and straightened up. The word “story” had done it, the old Chicago Mildred, ever vigilant, ever wary, was coming back to life right before her eyes.

  “Good for you.” Millie was giving nothing away.

  “On the pirates. The ones who tried to snatch me off the beach. Turns out they have quite an operation going. They’re making millions and no one seems to want to stop them.”

  “Sounds interesting. I’m sure you’ll do a great job on it. You always do.” Millie rose and took her tray from the table next to them.

  “I need a producer.” Riley tossed the gauntlet.

  For a moment Riley thought her friend hadn’t heard. Millie kept piling glasses on the tray until there was no more room. Then she turned to answer, one hand on her hip. It was amazing she had become strong enough and skilled enough to balance the heavy tray with one arm. “Riley, I don’t want to do that anymore. I typed my letter of resignation yesterday. I’ve been carrying it around. All of that—all the pressure, all the work, making the station my whole life and nothing but my life—I don’t want it anymore. I can’t imagine not being here with Henri. I can’t imagine leaving this island. What would there be waiting for me in Chicago? A cold, empty apartment? Late nights with colleagues who talk nothing but work and, although they’re not bad people, know nothing about me or what I want?”

  Riley could think of nothing to say. Instead, she rose and hugged Millie hard, something she couldn’t recall doing for at least three years before they both wound up on this island. Maybe the last time in Chicago was the night they’d won the local Emmy for a piece they did on a city official who had no means of income beyond his paltry municipal salary but who lived in a $2 million home, took vacations to the Riviera, and whose children drove expensive, imported cars and attended pricey, upscale colleges. That had been a drunken colleague-to-colleague hug. This was a genuine person-to-person hug. There was a definite difference and Riley was glad to be learning it.

  “I can do the story myself,” Riley said. “All I need is a cameraperson. I understand exactly where you’re coming from.”

  “Oh, all right.” Millie slapped down the rag she’d been using to wipe a nearby table. “If you’re going to coerce me and twist my arm, I’ll help already. For old time’s sake, for friendship’s sake. But this is the last time, Riley, and I mean it.”

  They both stood there in the middle of the deserted restaurant grinning at each other. Glad to be back in the game, on their terms. “But it can’t interfere with my work here or with my relationship with Henri.”

  “Joe can’t know. He’ll blow a gasket.”

  Solemnly, they shook hands, sealing the deal.

  “We need a camera operator,” Riley said as Millie took the loaded tray to the bar and began to unload the dirty glasses.

  “I can do that,” Millie said.

  Stanley, taking a break from the bar, was out on the patio with Rosa enjoying a late lunch and the quiet before the next storm that would be dinner.

  “I need you to frame the shots, dig the facts, point me in the right direction. If you’re stuck behind the lens you won’t be getting the big picture.” Riley paused. “Suppose if we have to, we can use you in a pinch. But I’d really prefer to have you directing and producing.”

  “Videographers in this corner of the country are going to be few and far between. Who are you going to get who isn’t already working or if they are has some off time to go chasing down a story? Whoever it is will have to have a steady hand and steady nerves.”

  “Where did everyone go?” Emil stood at the end of the bar. “This is my time when there are no fares. My time to eat, relax, enjoy reading the paper.” He tapped the folded newspaper under his arm. Since her initial taxi ride with him, Riley had learned that Emil spoke much better English than he usually let on. His accent was generally for the tourists who found it charming and quaint and tended to tip more for the experience.

  Riley and Millie exchanged a look. Emil had slow times during the day. He also had a wife and what seemed like an endless number of children, godchildren, nieces and nephews he was responsible for supporting. He needed money. Always had some kind of a scheme to bring in more dollars.

  Millie’s slight nod was all the encouragement Riley needed. She took a surprised Emil by the arm, led him to the other end of the bar, even pulled out the stool for him.

  “So what is up with all this niceness?” Emil asked, clearly suspicious.

  Millie put a nonalcoholic drink in front of him and poured some nuts and dried fruit into a bowl.
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  Riley slapped a menu before him.

  “You are making my nerves hop,” he said.

  She flashed her widest smile. “We have a proposition for you.”

  Emil turned out to be a much better videographer than they could have hoped. He had a mechanical bent, which made him curious about all the buttons on the camera, how the tripod went together and what made the editing equipment work. The cab driver also had an artistic flair that was finally being given an outlet.

  In the beginning, he drove Riley crazy spending an hour framing a certain shot while she tapped her foot and murmured under her breath. She was used to the fast-paced world of Chicago reporting where you set it up, and unless there were planes flying overhead, bystanders performing lewd acts in the background, or the reporter swore, you went with the first take.

  They tried to shoot their background video on the warm, lazy afternoons when Joe had gone to work with the island National Guard, the tourists from the big cruise ships were already where they wanted to be, either sunning themselves on the decks of the ships or browsing the small shops on the other side of the island where the ships docked. Rosalee’s was over the lunch rush and not yet ready for the dinner onslaught.

  That left both Emil and Millie free. Both would return to their regular jobs in the late afternoon when Emil would catch the fares for the tourists ready to return to their ships and Millie would be helping set up the dining room at Rosalee’s for dinner. Riley would return to Reprieve and wait for Joe. Some days he didn’t arrive at the boat until after sunset. Those days, he would sit down heavily in the cockpit, stretch out his legs, eat whatever dinner she had burned or bought, drink whatever alcoholic beverage she supplied, and then fall into the bunk, snoring within a few minutes of his head hitting the pillow.