The only familiar section was the one-story schoolroom, tacked onto the right side of the building like a frumpy Quaker lady on the arm of a green-lapeled city slicker. Windows open to the spring sunshine, the drone and response of teacher and students carried all the way out to the road.
Once past the Inn, James spotted the island’s two big trees, towering over a thin line of scrub forest. Strange to see them from enough distance that the branches of his Norfolk pine and Joe’s sturdy oak interlaced into one canopy; usually he walked to Joe’s along the north side of the island, passing close enough to smell pine sap. They’d been planted forty years ago, either side of the old dividing path that separated the cottages and commerce of the white folks from the wilderness of West Brenton and the Narragansett tribe. Now that path was overgrown—though the two peoples it divided still didn’t mingle much at all.
Their trees would outlive Joe, James realized.
He filled his lungs with salt air and kept moving forward. West Brenton was wide open, a random mix of low-growing native shrubs and stiff tufted grass; the Narragansetts had never thought their half of the island needed “improving.”
He wasn’t ready to put on a brave face for Joe quite yet, so instead of following the foot path down to West Harbor he headed out to the Monument on the island’s southwest tip. Maybe those solid stones and that ocean view would provide some perspective.
As soon as he stepped onto Monument Point, the crash of breaking waves grew more insistent. Steep bluffs fell away on either side; to his right was the calming blue oval of West Harbor, a narrow beach, and smoke rising from Joe’s chimney. Over the even steeper drop-off to his left were white ocean waves breaking against black rocks.
Nobody knew why Joe’s ancestors had chiseled granite blocks and piled them into a square-edged ten-foot tower. It had already stood up to a hundred years of hurricanes and winter gales—as well as all the kids, both native and white, who’d tried to climb it. James leaned against the outside face, where he’d be hidden from any passersby. Not that too many people came down this way, now that the island’s tribe had dwindled to three. He could breathe here, think things through. . .
But before he could find any answers, a woman’s voice interrupted.
“Thought I’d find you here,” Anna Crosby said.
Startled, his eyes swiveled around and dropped to the open neck of her blouse—no longer hidden under the black coat she’d worn on the ferry. And those wedge heels had been replaced by orange flip-flops, so she must’ve stopped in at her house before following him up here. If he’d looked over his shoulder even once he would’ve spotted her, but he’d been too focused on escape. “Class cancelled?” he asked, dragging his eyes back to the neutrality of open ocean.
“Class? Oh—well. . . I just didn’t feel much like painting today.” The careful diction still hinted at her years running a London art gallery. “I came back on the morning boat instead. Which was quite strange. . .”
He swallowed hard, trying not to think about that girl gripping the Homer’s wooden wheel—and then Anna touched the frayed cuff of his sweatshirt.
“I spoke with the new captain,” she began. “She seems nice enough—”
“That damn girl couldn’t even come into the dock right!”
“She’s a woman,” Anna replied, removing her hand.
“Whatever.” James slid both fists into the safety of his sweatshirt pouch. “She’s driving my boat, working with my deckhand. Trained him myself.”
“Billy, trainable?”
He didn’t bother to match her smile.
“Whatever happened between you and Lloyd,” Anna said, “it’s not the new captain’s fault.”
She didn’t have any idea what had happened yesterday afternoon! Probably devoured every tasty tidbit of Mayor Frank’s story, just like everyone else. James tightened his fists, torn between conflicting wants: a return to solitude, or distraction from his own swirling confusion.
“Why aren’t you having lunch with Barb?” she asked next.
James leaned down to pick up a small stone, which he side-armed off the edge of the bluff. “She threw me out last night. Doesn’t want to date a guy who deals drugs.”
“After two years together in that tired double bed, you still call it dating?”
He blushed. How many private details had Barb shared during all those winter tea breaks with Anna? Women.
“She does tend to over-react,” Anna said. “And then she holds a grudge. One of my trips ashore last winter, she asked me to bring back some of that fancy tea she drinks. I forgot. She didn’t speak to me for an entire week.”
James tossed another stone over the edge.
“Probably makes you want to just sail out to sea,” she mused, “not talk to anyone at all. . .”
James turned toward her again—though this time, he managed to keep his eyes focused on her face. “How’d you know that?”
“Because I feel exactly the same way,” she said, boldly holding his gaze.
He looked away, tossed yet another stone. “Brenton’s too small for a city girl like you.”
“I’m not much of a city girl these days,” she replied. “If I moved back to London, I’d probably show up right on time for gallery openings. Around here, ‘fashionably late’ is impolite. And this blouse is at least five years old—quite provincial.”
His lips tugged sideways into a half-smile. Anna’s clothes were far more upscale than the usual island attire—despite today’s flip-flops and unpainted toenails. Of course, retiring so young—she was only six years older than James—meant she could dress however she wanted.
“Besides, I’d miss this view.” She waved her hand out at the gray-green humps of Block Island and Point Judith. The mainland stretched north, completely unconcerned with who was running the Brenton ferry or how outdated Anna’s blouse really was.
James crossed his arms over his chest. Even the waves surging far below seemed to be taunting him: “No job! No girlfriend! No life!” Between him and the sea an osprey circled, looking for food and chirping at its mate. So sure of its place in the—
“Why don’t you join us for dinner tonight?” Anna asked. “I’m making Nathaniel’s favorite—steak, and jacket potatoes.” Her live-in nephew had somehow managed to finish high school without either leaving the island or setting foot inside the schoolroom. “Might even manage a salad, if Prime’s has any decent lettuce.”
Nathaniel was a great kid—but James should say no. The flirty pressure of her fingers told him this invitation was for more than just a meal. But then he remembered the gaping whiteness of his own empty fridge, and stopped looking for a polite way out.
“What time?” he asked instead, looking over at her again, reaching for a smile. “Wouldn’t wanna be fashionably late.”
Courtney
HER SECOND LANDING on the Brenton pier went smoothly, and as Courtney carried her backpack and small duffle bag up the ramp onto the pier, she decided her first day could be called a success. Now she could finally move into her new digs, which Billy had described as “Just before Prime’s Grocery—can’t miss it!”
The Bean’s outside deck—which seemed to be the island’s welcome center, as well as post office and coffee shop—was empty at this hour. Any night life out here? After such a stressful day, she could really use a beer. Unpacking her running sneakers and connecting her laptop to the island’s wireless sure wouldn’t fill the evening.
At the top of the rise, dirt and gravel ferry landing teed into gray pavement shiny with mica. Across the road, an art gallery (closed) and some sort of tiny museum (also closed) were surrounded by a marsh full of cattails. To her left, a hundred yards away, she spotted Prime’s Grocery—on a prime piece of real estate, looking down over the harbor, its breakwater, and that Bird-shit island. The cottages she’d eyed motoring into the harbor must be farther up the road, beyond the curve to the right.
The only building before Prime’s was a building so narr
ow, it looked more like her dad’s bait shack than living quarters. Okay then. She’d only slept about four hours since Mr. Wainwright’s surprising call yesterday afternoon—and that was shivering in the back of her car, near the Newport docks, after a ten-hour drive. She’d just be grateful for a real bed tonight.
The screen door stuck, but she managed to wrench it open without pulling it off the hinges. The wood door screeched in just enough to slither through. Didn’t smell like her dad’s bait shack—just mildew and neglect. Must be the first time this place had been opened up in quite some time.
The left wall had no windows. On her right was a kitchen decorated with mouse droppings and dead flies; the bathroom’s decor would be similar, no doubt. She dropped her bags on a sagging couch and glanced out through the filthy sliding glass door; a small deck gave a great view of the pier and ferry.
After checking that the ladder to the loft would take her weight, she climbed up to inspect her new bedroom. It was warmer than the first floor, at least, with a square dormer window overlooking the harbor. The mattress on the floor was bare except for two pillows, and when she smacked them together, she coughed. Did the window open? Yup, a bit of pressure against paint-peeling frame let in a rush of fresh air. Fresh chilly air. She closed it again, not sure what she had for heat.
Downstairs, the slider to the outside deck only opened four inches before jamming on its track, so she wrestled it closed again. Never mind the view, or that tempting Adirondack chair; a quick clean and then food were the top priorities. She hadn’t eaten anything all day, except two stale ginger cookies—all the Bean had been able to provide, with the local baker out sick.
The fridge door had been propped open with a rock-hard sponge. It was empty and clean, so she closed the door and plugged it in. The tap water only ran cold, but a bucket and the dampened sponge removed mouse droppings and dead flies from stove, counters, and sink. All that scrubbing warmed her up enough to remove her jacket for the first time all day. But when she pushed open the screen door to toss the filthy water outside, her blood chilled again at the sight of a figure striding out of Prime’s Grocery: Captain James Malloy.
Shee-it, this island was way too small! Billy had told her that James lived in his family’s house on the opposite side of the harbor, though that seemed like a recent change; something about a fight with his girlfriend. Now he was heading up the hill, with what looked like a bottle of wine under his arm. Peace offering, maybe?
She didn’t want him to think she was spying on him, so she waited until he’d disappeared around the bend in the road before pulling on her jacket again and easing out the door.
A bunch of thorny bushes divided the cottage from Prime’s, so Courtney walked all the way out to the road and then back across the clamshell parking lot. Outside the door stood the green golf cart she’d seen on the dock that morning, and inside it the portly driver leaned on a broom. “Two minutes past seven—we’re closed.” His apron was spotless.
“Mr. Prime?” She stuck out her right hand. “Courtney Farris, the new ferry captain. And your new neighbor.”
“Captain’s cottage? Nobody’s lived there in years. I guess you’ve been cleaning.” His frown made her realize how grubby she was.
“Sorry I’m here after hours. Got anything for supper that doesn’t involve cooking?”
“How ‘bout a seafood pie?” he asked, leading her down a narrow aisle. “I’ve got two sizes, so if your husband’s—”
“No husband,” she clarified. “Just me.” Would he have asked about a spouse if she’d been a guy? Courtney didn’t think so.
“Just as well, in that place.” He disappeared behind the deli case. “You’ll want the single pie then—good thing I held one back. Something told me. . .” He paused to touch the side of his nose, before removing the smallest of the pot pies and placing it into a box.
Courtney was pretty sure she’d never actually said yes to seafood pie. But after hours, she shouldn’t be too picky.
“Anything else?” he asked. “I’ve got—”
“Can I just take a quick look around?”
“Oh sure—I don’t really need to knock off on time.” She took him at his word, too tired and hungry to care if his words were as sarcastic as they sounded.
Three minutes later, she approached the counter with a quart of milk, the smallest box of Cheerios she’d ever seen, and three green bananas. The checkout girl had a toothy smile and a shiny name tag that said Kathy.
“I’m Courtney—the new ferry captain. I didn’t see—”
“So you’re the lady who took Captain James’s job!” the girl’s smile didn’t falter. “Is it, like, hard, running a ferry?”
“Um, not really—”
“Kathy!” Mr. Prime was frowning again. “Just ring her up, please.”
“It’s fine—I live in a small town.” Courtney smiled at the girl. “I’m used to personal questions.”
“Where d’you live?”
“Bellevue, Maryland. Eastern shore of the Chesapeake.”
“Oh, wow, far away!” Kathy’s eyes widened. “Is it an island too?”
“Not even close.” When her parents sold the St. Michaels house and bought a place in Bellevue, they’d been trying to recapture the solitude of her childhood. Instead new cottages had followed them across the peninsula, as if developers had scattered house seeds over all those open fields. Even after ten years, that creeping sprawl still made her spitting mad every time she drove home.
Mr. Prime came over to place her groceries into a paper bag. “My wife and I vacationed in Oxford last October.”
“Right across the river! Did you ride the ferry?”
“Twice. How come you’re not driving that one, instead of our little Homer?”
Courtney sighed. “It’s a long—”
“Eighteen ninety-five,” Kathy said.
“You’ll need this to light that oven.” Mr. Prime tossed a grill lighter into the bag. “On the house.”
With such inflated prices, he could afford to be generous. Courtney pulled out a twenty, and then hesitated.
“Coffee! Can you tell me where—”
“I don’t sell coffee,” Mr. Prime told her, “and Ruby don’t sell groceries.”
“Ruby?”
“She owns the Brenton Bean,” Kathy explained, pointing out the window toward the ferry landing. “Patty’s mom? Open at six am!” Maybe that smile was painted on.
“Ah, okay.” She’d grab what she needed in Newport tomorrow— no way was she gonna wait until six for that first cuppa.
Mr. Prime handed Courtney a card with his home number on it, in case she needed anything else (now that he was “finally going home”), and swept her out the door.
Back inside the cottage, she realized she’d forgotten to pick up anything to drink besides milk. Damn, too late now.
There was no microwave, so she lit the oven with her new lighter and set the pie on the top rack, tempted to leave the door open to take off the chill but knowing that would slow down dinner even more. To distract from her stomach’s growling, she pulled open the drawer next to the fridge, expecting silverware or kitchen utensils. Instead she found pens, tools, a roll of black tape—and toward the back, a stack of photos. The top one featured a younger and skinnier James, standing in front of the Homer, arm in arm with a dark-skinned man in a suit and thick braid.
James must’ve been the last one to live here. He was handsome, in a rugged way. Good thing she didn’t date ferry captains, or she might find herself attracted to her new island enemy.
Courtney set the first snapshot down on the counter, nervous about putting them back in the same order. The second framed an older couple, smiling up from a wooden picnic table. Must be James’s parents—his old man had the same spiky eyebrows.
Then a rubber-banded group of engine room shots: corroded bronze valve. Glass dome with fuel above cloudy water. Two engines under an opening—was that the hatch in the floor of the Homer’s passen
ger area? Tomorrow, she’d take a more careful look—even if she didn’t understand any of it.
When she tried to return the photos to the drawer, they wouldn’t slide back—because there was one more. Palm trees towered over a bikini blonde, who held up a grouper almost as long as her legs. Blue eyes, intimate smile. James hadn’t held onto this picture to remember the fish. On the back was scrawled, “Charlie 1990.” Weird name for a girl.
But he had gotten off this tiny island, at least once. No excuse, then, for being such an isolationist.
Though Courtney hadn’t exactly rolled out the welcome mat for the unknown captain who’d taken over the Oxford Ferry eight months ago, when her dad was forced to retire. New owners wouldn’t even consider Courtney—no experience, they’d said. When what they’d really meant was no Y chromosome.
That had stung. She’d been working on the ferry since college graduation—ten years ago. Five years ago, she’d pointed to a small sailboat in the middle of the river that Dad was heading right for, because he hadn’t seen it. That’s when she realized his eyes were really going. A few days later, he’d given her this lucky shell, shined up nice and hung on a leather thong, as a thank you. Dad wasn’t long on words or hugs, but that was just fine.
After that she’d gradually taken on more and more responsibility, until she was basically running the ferry on her own except for the paperwork—but the only way to prove that to their new boss was to rat out Dad’s handicap.
She’d sat for her license over the winter; now, working for Mr. Wainwright would prove that someone other than her own father valued her expertise. She’d take that reference back home—not impulsive and rude this time but calm and cool, with three rational reasons for hiring her back. Every night for the past year, she’d drifted off to sleep polishing her sales pitch like a genie’s lamp: As a third-generation captain, she provided a living link to the ferry’s history. Hiring a woman captain would be distinctive. (She hated to play the girl card, but what the hell—it worked.) And last but certainly not least, they wouldn’t have to pay her as much, because she could live rent-free above her parents’ garage.
Ferry to Cooperation Island Page 3