Island Promises

by Connell, Joy

  “What can I do for you, Riley? We’ve got a deadline here, probably a distant memory for you in the land where time doesn’t matter.”

  Riley couldn’t help but smile to herself. Of all the things he hated, to be shown up, especially in front of the new, young reporters who still thought he was a legend in the business, was at the top of the list.

  “The pirate story. I wanted to tell you we got some terrific footage. It should wrap the end of this week and be on its way to you.”

  “Pirate story?” Pirate story? I don’t have any pirate story on the budget.”

  Papers rustled. Voices conferred. Funny how clear the connection could be when you least expected it. Riley took the phone away from her ear momentarily to shake out her hand and readjust her grip on the rigging.

  “It’s not on the budget. You don’t have it yet.” She was drawing out every word to try and get through to him. It wasn’t static on the line but the static in his brain that was making the conversation difficult. “I’m still editing. But, RK, let me tell you, I think it’s some of the best work I’ve ever done. I’m really proud of it—”

  “Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah. I remember now. Something that ties in with the movie and the craze that’s going on right now. Are there any modern day pirates and are they as sexy as that guy in the movies?” There was more giggling that came down the wire from chilly Chicago.

  “No, it’s about real pirates. Who rob and aren’t at all romantic—”

  “Hold on a minute.”

  She could hear him talking about how to cut a piece, his voice strong and authoritative, spiced with mild expletives just to show he was manly enough and passionate enough about his work to swear.

  “OK, where were we then?”

  “The pirate story. I was telling you I’d have it. I also need to know what’s going on with the congress—”

  “Sorry, baby. It’s the governor’s office on the other line. I’ve got to take this. It’s the quote we’ve been waiting for and he’ll only speak to me. But you send that story up here and I’ll take a look at it. Let you know what I think.” With that he hung up.

  Furious and frustrated, Riley gripped the phone hard, staring at it as though it were the phone’s fault RK was such a jerk, both personally and professionally. How could she have not noticed that before? How could she not have seen what an egotistical, infuriating, irritating son of a you-know-what he could be?

  Deciding she needed a tension release, she turned into the wind and screamed. It was really more of a low, angry growl. Stepping onto the safety of the deck, she jumped up and down on the bow, hanging onto the halyard for support.

  Out of breath and feeling foolish, panting for air, she stopped jumping and screaming and looked out to sea. There was a little wind, just ruffling and surface of the bay, just enough to make interesting wave patterns in the water. Very high, very white clouds skittered along, not at all threatening. Beyond the harbor entrance a huge cruise ship passed by, heading for its dock on the other side of the island. The sun was hot and strong but had its usual island friendly face on.

  “To hell with him.” She would send her story straight to the network and bypass RK. And she would make sure that the people who had stood by her when she needed help were a part of it. Picking up her phone again and praying the reception would be good enough and the battery wouldn’t die from too much humidity and salt water, she put in a call to some of her contacts at the network in New York.

  “Tell me again how I cook this stupid thing.” Riley stood in the galley eyeing a large silvery fish she swore was eyeing her back.

  Mitchell slapped his forehead. “Girlfriend, if you want to eat tonight, you’d better haul it on up to Rosalee’s. Because there is no way you’re cooking this baby.” He looked TV-ready cute. Since she’d last seen him, he’d put highlights in his hair and obviously had a facial because his skin was glowing. He wore pressed white pants, an electric blue shirt untucked with ¾ sleeves and scuffed boat shoes.

  As always, he made Riley feel dumpy standing there in a pair of gym shorts, way too big cinched with a piece of rope, and a stained T-shirt that said ‘Sailors Do It In Ebbs and Flows.’ Riley had chopped off the darker ends of her hair which left her with a nearly white shoulder-length halo that had a wild, free mind of its own and waved like an ex-beauty queen.

  “No. Don’t go.” She grabbed his arm. “Mitchell, you’re my last hope. Without you, I can’t cook this.” He put one hand on his hip, cocked his head, and gave her a look. “Tell you what,” she rushed on while she still had his attention. “We’ll trade. You cook it and I’ll . . . let me think . . . I’ll wash your clothes.”

  He blew on his fingernails and hummed.

  “All right then,” she said. “I’ll sort out all your stuff in your bunk, have it nice and neat so when you get here you don’t have to do a thing.”

  “Already done,” he said in a singsong voice. “Besides, I’ve seen how you organize. I’m not letting you anywhere near my stuff.”

  “Damn. All right. I give. What do you want?”

  “Now that you mention it.” Mitchell came alive. “I want you to hook me up.”

  “Mitchell,” she said in a sharp tone. “I am a real fan of Anthony’s. I won’t be any part of hooking you up with someone else.”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, Riley. I’m talking about hooking me up with Chef Jorgege of Chicago’s famed Jorgege Bistro. I want to be at his cooking show.”

  “You’ve been out in the sun too long, boy. Chicago’s a long, cold, expensive way away.”

  “No. Chef Jorgege is coming here.” Mitchell’s face was an animated as a boy’s on Christmas morning. “He’s doing seminars on a cruise ship and they’re stopping in the harbor here while he demonstrates how to use some of the local delicacies. It will be part of his series on the Yummy Food Channel. But it’s been sold out for months.”

  “So, let me get this straight. If I get you tickets to this cooking show, you’ll cook this fish? And maybe some side dishes.”

  “That’s it.”

  “And pretend like I cooked it?”

  “You didn’t cook it with your own little hands? That’s news to me.”

  “What makes you think I can get those tickets?”

  “Big City Chicago reporter. Big City Chicago Chef. It’s a no-brainer.”

  Riley considered. She picked up the nail polish bottle closest to her—Emperor Red—and pried at the label with her thumbnail. Later, she was planning to paint her nails this showy color. The bottle said it glowed in the dark. That could be interesting if what she planned after dinner came together.

  “Deal,” she said.

  Half an hour later, she had showered, again breaking the rule and using Reprieve’s water supply. She was sitting on the bunk, painting her nails and listening to Mitchell hum old Rock ‘n Roll songs in the galley while the smells of exotic spices and grilled fish filled the cabin. She had already sent an e-mail to Chef Jorgege’s people asking for a press pass for Mitchell. She’d fudged quite a lot in the text, never coming out and saying Mitchell was a reporter but putting his name out there, along with her name and the station’s. So what if at the last minute she couldn’t go and Mitchell went alone? Big names were used to promises of publicity that never came true.

  When Mitchell called out he was leaving, she nestled back on the pillows, peering up through the open hatch at the Easter egg blue sky, and fell asleep.

  Riley watched Joe stride down the dock, the duffel thrown over his shoulder, his lean, hard frame roiling effortlessly with the motion of the old, unsteady boards. The moon was high and clear tonight outlining him against the dark jungle. Joe walked with confidence and purpose, a man who knew what he was about the where he was headed.

  Reaching Reprieve, he tossed the duffle into the cockpit and t
hen hoisted one leg, the muscle strong and tense under the sun-faded knee-length canvas shorts, over the lifeline. As supple as a cat he boarded Reprieve and stood for a moment, his gaze going from stern to bow and up each halyard in his automatic check of equipment.

  Only then did he bend to pick up the duffle and only then did he see her huddled in the back corner of the cockpit, wrapped in a blanket. In the dark, she watched a smile split his sunburned face. He let the duffle drop and stepped over it to sit next to her. She reached down to the wine bucket on the cockpit floor and handed him a beer in a bottle. After taking a long swig, he wiped his mouth, settled his feet on the opposite settee, and dropped his head against the cabin wall.

  “All done?” she asked.

  “Yep.”

  “You do this every year?”

  “Yep.”

  “Sounds like you’re trying out for a spaghetti Western.” He rubbed the cold, dripping bottle against her arm and she yelped.

  “Don’t make fun,” he said.

  “You must be hungry and exhausted,” she said. “I have dinner and fresh sheets on the bunk.”

  He was so tired he didn’t react to the fact that she had cooked.

  She studied him. His hair had grown longer, falling straight to the bottom of his ears where it curled slightly. A brown beard covered the lower part of his face, a concession to lack of time and protection against days in the hot sun. Even in the coolness of the evening, heat radiated from his skin where the sun had burned down on it hour after hour.

  “Sounds good,” he said.

  Hugging the blanket tightly, she rose. “I’ll just get the fish out of the oven and toss the salad.” She began to step over his outstretched legs when he stopped her, a hand on either hip, his legs firm against her thighs.

  “The oven on warm?” he asked.

  “Yes, I didn’t know exactly when you’d be back.”

  “Let’s eat a little later.” He pulled her toward him until she stood inches from him, his legs open wide, his hands maneuvering her hips until they connected, sending electric shocks through her.

  He put his hands on her shoulder blades and bent her forward, kissing her and ruffling her freshly washed hair. His hands slipped down her neck and under the blanket to her shoulders. His eyes opened in surprise and he laughed, low and eager.

  “Aren’t you cold with no clothes on?”

  “I’ve got this blanket.”

  He laughed again, lying back on the cushions of the settee and lowering her on top of him, wrapping them both in the blanket, which had the musty old smell of the sea. If there were other cruisers docked, they paid no attention. If boats came and went, they never heard them. Sometime in the deepest part of the night, they moved inside. She paused long enough to turn off the oven and stick the fish in the cooling locker. She gave a silent apology to Mitchell. He had worked so hard on it, but right now there were more important things on her mind. Such as the beautiful man who made her heart race, her palms sweat, and her legs tremble. Mitchell would understand. Well, actually he’d probably be mad as hell. She’d find some way to make it up to him.

  When the sun began to rise, they warmed the fish in the microwave while they ate the salad. They washed it all down with juice followed by strong coffee. Riley thought they might rise then and begin the never-ending list of chores on Reprieve—cleaning the decks, checking the stores, waxing the sides. But Joe stretched out on the bunk and motioned for her to join him.

  Riley crawled into bed beside him, nestling her head in the crock of his arm, reveling in the feel and the smell of him. Only much later, when the sun was high in the sky and the day had taken on that lazy, drowsy feeling did they finally leave the bunk. They made half-hearted efforts at boat keeping, but it wasn’t long before they were in the cockpit, under the shade of the canvas awning, napping on opposite settees. Before she gave in to sleep, Riley looked across at Joe, his sandy hair brushing the top of his eyebrows, one strong, tanned arm hanging off the cushions and dragging on the floorboards, his chest rising slightly with his breath.

  No matter what happened with the pirate story, no matter how competitive and ambitious she might be, she wouldn’t trade any of it for these last few hours she’d spent with Joe.

  In such a short time she had come to truly care about him. Even more important, she respected him. He didn’t hide, didn’t play games, didn’t manipulate. He was the man people counted on when everyone else paid lip service and didn’t come through. She never realized how valuable that was until she saw those qualities in Joe. With him, she felt safe and loved and appreciated.

  They didn’t always agree. In fact, they rarely agreed but she never felt he would walk away because she’d made him mad or because he didn’t like what she said. She’d thought she had that in Chicago with RK but that was a lie. Now that she saw the real thing she recognized that she’d constantly been on edge with RK, constantly afraid she would turn him off and he would walk.

  Who knew where the pirate story might lead her? But wherever it was, she didn’t want to go if this man weren’t part of it.

  “So, RK called me.” Millie was more sprawled than sitting in the chair. The patio of Rosalee’s was filled with tourists. No matter how old or what size, they wore pretty much the same style, almost a uniform consisting of light-colored pants or shorts, either khaki or white, outlandishly colored synthetic shirts, straw hats, and sunglasses. Many of them had money clips or fanny packs hanging around their waists creating bulk where they least needed it. Yet they always seemed surprised when islanders could pick them out as tourists.

  Millie didn’t look like a tourist. As white as Riley’s hair had become, Millie’s had become dark. The pulled-back, no-nonsense style of Chicago was gone, replaced by rippling waves. The free-flowing cotton sundress showed off the color her skin was picking up from the sun. Her eyes were hidden behind chunky, dark glasses. She seemed calm, content, at peace. Her leg didn’t vibrate anymore; she didn’t click her teeth with a pencil. Even her words had slowed down.

  “That’s nice.” Riley feigned indifference.

  “Do you think maybe I should offer to help?” Mille gestured around the patio and to the restaurant inside the French doors. Every table was full and a half-dozen people waited at the bar, nursing their drinks, their stools turned around to face the diners as though their hungry gaze would hurry them along.

  “They can handle it.” The staff was moving between the tables, efficiently and smoothly, but in that non-hurried island way. “So what did RK want?” Her curiosity was spilling over.

  “It’s just I don’t want to not pull my weight since I’m living her pretty much rent-free.” Millie’s interest stayed with the lunch crowd.

  “Millie, what did he want?” Riley was barely able to keep from grabbing her friend.

  “Who?”

  “RK.” Riley’s voice was rising. “What did RK want?”

  “Thought you didn’t care.” A slow smile spread across Millie’s face.

  “OK,” Riley conceded, realizing her friend had been deliberately dragging this out to gauge her interest. “I do want to know.”

  “Professional or personal basis?”

  “Professional, of course. Purely professional. Nothing but professional.” To cover her embarrassment, Riley sipped at her drink, letting her wavy hair fall forward, shielding her face.

  “He wanted to make sure you saw this, for one.” Millie tossed her pages that appeared to have come from the Internet. It was the front page of the Chicago Trumpeter and the headline screamed, “Reporter Cleared in Love Scandal.”

  As the words sank in, Riley thought her reaction strange. She would have expected to feel more, feel triumphant, vindicated, ready to make plans to take the next plane out and resume her job at the TV station. But as she scanned the story, which basically
said what she already knew—that the charges had been made up to get her off the trail of the congressman’s true wrongdoing—she felt strangely empty. It didn’t seem to matter anymore. As she looked up at Millie, Riley’s eyes must have mirrored her feelings.

  “Things are good with Joe?” Even through the glasses, Riley could feel Millie’s stare. Her best friend hadn’t mentioned the fact she could now resume her career, forget this small island, and take back her life in the big time. It was as though Millie, too, was feeling that world fade from their consciousness.

  “They are.”

  “And the problem is?”

  “Come on, Millie. This is a fantasy. Beautiful tropical island. Friendly people. Hunky guys. It has to end sometime. It can’t go on forever.”

  For a moment Millie didn’t answer, just stared at her in that newfound calm, appraising way she had. It was downright disconcerting to see her without her usual jumpiness and panic attacks. “I believe,” Millie finally said. “That this can go on.” She gave a loud laugh. “Holy crap, now I sound like the soundtrack for a movie.”

  They both laughed.

  “Seriously.” Millie sipped on her drink, giving herself a moment. She shoved the sunglasses to the top of her head, letting Riley see the intensity and earnestness in her eyes. “Chicago, all that stuff about getting to the top, getting to the network, that’s what wasn’t real. That was the made-up fantasy world. Here . . .” She swept one arm, which while still pretty white by island standards was picking up hints of a tan, out toward the patio, the trees on the slope beyond and to the sea, which today was putting on a real show, sparkling for the tourists. “Here, people are real. They know what’s important. Hell, being on the 11:00 news every night, where does that get you? Maybe to a shot at anchor of the 6:00 news? In the end what difference does it make? It’s all about the people and the land. On this island I’ve found both. People I can really love and a land I can really care about.”