“Yeah—but that was way back in the 1920s. This is dated 1978.”
“I’m getting to that. It’s complicated.” He sipped, closed his eyes.
Closing the folder, James reached for his forgotten coffee. Lukewarm.
When Joe opened his eyes again, the brown irises were clear and bright once more. “Pierce has designs on West Harbor, and this house. That deed is completely worthless without a lot of hard work— starting with a refresh of Mrs. Allen’s island history lessons.”
James’s scar began to throb.
“Pa told me the whole story,” Joe said. “Right before his last fishing trip. Like somehow he knew he wasn’t coming back. Not like your dad—fading away, without a word to any. . .” The coughing overcame him again. “Give me a minute. . .”
When Mémé ghosted in and placed a hand on her son’s shoulder, James knew there would be no history lesson today.
“Thank Mavis for me,” he told them both, scooping up his clean shirts before letting himself out the front door. On this side of the cottage the mist had mostly burned away, leaving behind only wispy tendrils of moisture that led up the path over the bluffs. His own internal fog? Just as thick as ever.
Courtney
FRIDAY AFTERNOON, DAY three of fourteen. Eight minutes before the afternoon commuter run was due to leave Newport, a truck arrived with thirty bags of topsoil for the Inn. Since the driver didn’t recognize Courtney, he wouldn’t start loading until Billy showed up. Courtney backed away from the dock fifteen minutes late.
Between unreliable deckhands and the variables of an open water crossing, it seemed like the islanders would be used to delays. But yesterday afternoon, the mayor had thumped his golf cart down the Brenton pier just to hand-deliver a copy of his book, The History of Brenton Island. “Read chapter thirty-five. When James took over as captain, I started setting this—” he tapped his watch “—by the ferry’s arrival. We’re all depending on you to continue that tradition.”
Captain Punctual had obviously found a way to get this rust bucket full of commuters home at exactly five-ten every afternoon. So she’d figure it out too—though reading through the ferry’s history hadn’t given her any ideas.
Just past the stubby lighthouse that marked the entrance to Narragansett Bay, the Homer’s bow plowed into the biggest wave Courtney had ever seen. Instinctively she pulled the throttles back halfway, spreading her feet side to side to brace against the boat’s pitch. Another white-topped wave followed—followed by another, and then another. Swallowing hard, she gripped the wheel, feeling for that dimple on the king spoke—and trying not to think about what would happen if the engines crapped out, or the chartplotter stopped working, or—
The wheelhouse door scraped open and Billy stepped inside, bringing with him a shiver of damp. He smelled faintly of cheap gum and—pot. She was about to glare at him when her gaze was caught by the next wave. Shee-it, that’s a steep one. . .
Green water exploded over the bow and splashed against the wheelhouse windows. Courtney’s eyes shut on their own; when she opened them, water streamed down the outside of the glass, erasing everything beyond it.
Billy pulled out a stainless knob next to the wheel and two wipers stuttered across the windshield, bringing the waves ahead back into focus. “Ebb current against sea breeze—waves are always the worst right here.”
“Didn’t I tell you to stay aft?” she muttered.
“Days like this I get seasick back there.” Rubber squeaked against dry glass, so Billy turned off the wipers. “No air moving, you can’t see forward. Thanks to this stupid wall.” Without taking eyes off the horizon or fingers off the counter’s wood edge, he nodded back at the plywood bulkhead behind the settee. “Want to know why that was installed?”
She’d read all about it, last night—the crazy captain who’d demanded the privacy of a sealed-off wheelhouse, and the ferry owner-father who’d built it for him. Which hadn’t kept the captain from eventually going off the deep end. . . a common happening around here. “Why not find work ashore then?” she asked Billy.
“Because this was the best paying job I could find and still sleep at home—most nights, anyway.”
That attitude again. Like the Homer existed to serve him, rather than—
Another huge wave exploded against the windshield. Billy activated the wipers, and Courtney, heart pounding, slowed down another knot. Getting there in one piece mattered more than punctuality.
A trickle of water ran down the inside of the windshield and dripped onto the counter. How much more of this could the old ferry take?
“Where’d you get off to between runs?” she asked him, partly to distract herself. Not his favorite café; Courtney had stopped in there for an extra dose of caffeine, since last night’s dinner—a tired piece of Prime’s lasagna—had gurgled a sleepless hole in her gut.
“My buddy works on a fishing boat that’s tied up on the dock next to ours,” Billy replied. “I went over for a—visit.” He reached over to slide open the door, but instead of leaving he spit out a chewed-off fingernail. Which probably blew back onto the side deck, long before he closed the door again. “So, you got a boyfriend back home?”
She snorted. “None of your business!”
“That’s a no, then.”
Something about this kid made her skin crawl, and it wasn’t the smoky odor or the unlaced high-top sneakers. She didn’t care if her deckhand smoked a little weed between runs—she knew how boring the job could be. She just wanted him to show up on time. He didn’t even seem to have a real good reason for being late.
As soon as the waves grew more regular again, Billy disappeared aft. Except for the two islands dead ahead, which from here looked like one solid land mass, the horizon was an empty gray.
When she reached their lee, the waves flattened out—until she rounded Bird Island, and found herself broadside to breaking waves. Yikes! The Homer rolled side to side, while to starboard, white water pounded against a lee shore of black rocks. No need to find the damned nun—she’d just steer clear of that frothy mass of swirling water. Passengers better be holding on tight.
Once she weathered the rocks, she was able to arc around to a downwind course parallel to the breakwater—but then the waves dared this heavy beast of a boat to surf. Courtney wrestled with the wheel until she reached the harbor entrance. Inside was smooth water—a very welcome sight.
Spring-bright green grass and trees softened the island’s profile above the high tide mark, but the harbor’s edge was just as uninviting as ever. The first time she’d come in here, all the rocks had blended together; now, she could pick out variations in both color and texture. Gray to black; wrinkled as her grandmother’s face to smooth and shiny as the painted counter either side of the Homer’s compass. Zigzags of white stitched diagonal seams right through some of the blackest rocks. Too bad she hadn’t paid more attention in geology class.
The docking drill was old hat now, but she still couldn’t do it distracted—as Captain Punctual surely could. So she dragged her gaze away from the shoreline; maybe she’d do a little research on rocks after work.
“Don’t forget there’s an extra run tonight,” Billy said, just before he headed ashore. “Friday. Biggest drink sales of the week!”
Three round trips in one day. How did James run this ferry for sixteen years without a relief captain and not go crazy? Though he had lost it, just last week—which is why she had this job.
The last commuter to pass the wheelhouse doorway was the best dressed by far: three piece suit, shiny shoes. Extra chin penned in by a tight collar, held together by one of those thin gold bars.
“Thanks for getting us home safe,” the man said with a smile.
“That’s my job,” Courtney replied. For another eleven days.
“You settling in all right?” he asked. “If not, feel free to stop by. I’d love to show you my garden.”
Like she knew where he lived.
“Have a good eveni
ng.” She waved him toward the gangway, anxious to leave herself.
“See you Monday, Captain Courtney!”
She planned to ask Billy who the guy was on the way back to Newport, but her deckhand didn’t come into the wheelhouse. And on the evening run back to the island he was kept busy serving drinks, as predicted. By the time Courtney got back to her cottage, she was in desperate need of a beer. So after wolfing down a sandwich she’d picked up in Newport, she headed up to the Inn. More upscale than she preferred, but the only place on this godforsaken island that served drinks.
Her morning wind sprints had already taught her to respect the big hill, but she’d never seen sunset from the top before. Red and gold lit sky, water, and open fields. Almost as beautiful as home. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Courtney crunched up the Inn’s gravel drive. At an arrowed sign pointing left that said “Welcome Guests,” she curved around to the right instead. She didn’t want to check in—she just wanted a drink.
But the only door on the single-storied section was closed, and its many windows were dark. White paint flaked away from the trim. The bar entrance must be back around the south side after all—this part looked almost abandoned.
Before she retraced her steps, Courtney’s eye was caught by the necklace lights of the Newport Bridge. Twilight illuminated her entire ferry run like a living chart; leave the island’s cozy harbor, round Bird Island, cross four miles of open water, and head straight up Narragansett Bay into Newport. What a view!
A shingled portico reminded her of that huge new hotel at home, except this entrance was filled with golf carts instead of valet-parked SUVs. Ahead was a concrete patio; glasses clinked, garlic wafted, diners laughed. Sunset over wilderness from a linen-covered table— no wonder that chatty woman on the afternoon run had driven all the way up from Philadelphia, just for the weekend.
Every piece of trim shone bright green, and cedar shingles glowed as if freshly washed—was that even possible? Courtney stood back to let a waitress carry her tray out through the double doors. Inside, beyond the tables, was a varnished L-shaped bar. She could already taste the first sip of a cold draft.
The only barfly was wearing a carefully pressed black shirt and black pants.
“Join you?” Courtney asked.
“Only if I’m buying.” When he smiled, the right half of a pale mustache lifted.
“Even better.” She sat down on the stool to his left. “Courtney Farris.”
“Hunter Moody.” They shook hands, and then he raised one finger at the bare-armed bartender. “Choose your poison ahead of time,” he suggested. “Sylvia gets a bit wound up when it’s this busy.”
“Busy?” The six seats to her left and the two along the short leg to Hunter’s right were all empty.
“Thirsty dinner crowd.”
“One bartender, for all these tables? On a Friday night?” That explained why two white-shirted waitresses were waiting at the other end of the bar.
“She works best by herself,” Hunter replied, still smiling.
Sylvia shook a martini, slid the finished drink across to the first waitress, topped up a white wine, popped open two beers, and turned toward Courtney, raising one dark eyebrow.
“Um—Summer Ale, please.”
“On my tab,” Hunter called. “Courtney’s our ticket off the island, until I close a deal on that powerboat.”
“You’re the new ferry captain?” Sylvia managed to fit in a nod even as her gaze swept the room, all while pulling down a tap with one hand and lining up the glass underneath it with the other. “I’m heading ashore Monday. First day off this month.” She rolled her eyes. “Boss wants it all done yesterday.”
“Short season,” Hunter said.
“Not short enough.” Sylvia placed the beer in front of Courtney, along with a close-up of her right bicep and its wriggling snake tattoo. Eww.
Sylvia nodded at Hunter’s glass.
“Thanks.” His eyes stayed on the bartender, until she delivered his fresh beer and returned to the busy waitress station.
Hunter clinked his glass into Courtney’s. “Slainté.”
Ahh. Cold, crisp, fizzy—just what she needed.
“Weren’t you on the morning ferry?” she asked him, setting down her glass. It wouldn’t do to down it all in one gulp; she was a captain now.
“We needed a spare belt for the town generator.”
“Generator? The mayor told me the new windmill takes care of all the island’s electricity.”
“In the winter,” Hunter replied. “It’ll only cover about half the summer usage.” Winking, he added, “There’s a power cable to the mainland, too. We like to think we’re completely self-sufficient out—”
“Hey—can I ask you a weird question? Why’s Billy always sneaking gas cans on and off the ferry?”
Hunter licked the beer foam off the ends of his mustache. “He’s probably got a side deal going with the Inn. . . I wondered how they were fueling up that obnoxious new tractor.”
“So, there’s no regular cars out here at all?”
“Fire truck’s the only one allowed. Where do you hail from?”
Courtney told him about the Chesapeake’s Eastern Shore, trying to keep it all positive and not start ranting about sprawl. . . and then he asked what she thought about a few different brands of powerboats.
“What do you need a boat for?” she asked. “Seems like you’ve got everything you need right here. And the ferry runs twice a day.”
“Good to have options.” He swiveled to look out the windows, which were still lit red with sunset. “Also, going ashore keeps island worries in perspective. And perspective helps my sermons.”
“Sermons—wait. Are you the Irreverend—with the guinea hens?”
“Guilty as charged! We all wear a lot of hats around here.” He winked. “When I first arrived, I was called ‘Minister’ and ‘Pastor’ and ‘Reverend’ and ‘Preacher’. . . even ‘Father.’ Soon as I got an island nickname, people got a lot friendlier.”
Before he could ask if she was a churchgoer, Courtney pointed to the black-and-white photo behind the bar. A white guy missing a few teeth stood awkwardly next to a Native American in an elaborate headdress; behind them was an open-sided wood structure. “Wampum building?” she guessed.
“Correct! You’ve been boning up on your island—”
“Before or after the fire?”
“After.” He pointed to the white man. “That’s Richie Clark, who first turned this place into an inn, back in the ’20s. And the Sachem, on the right.”
“So there wasn’t much damage then.”
“Nope—those beams were just too big to burn.”
“Mayor Frank’s book claims the fire was set by the Narragansetts to get rid of the whites. What do you think?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Set by a white man, blamed on the Narragansetts.”
“Any particular white man?”
“Will Wainwright—Lloyd’s grandfather.”
“Really! Why would he do that?”
“Because he wanted to expand his already colossal house. And because he didn’t think it was fair that the Wampum building had the best view of all. Poor guy drowned, right off the lighthouse. Sad.”
“Why did the Indians give up the building?”
“They couldn’t afford to rebuild it, after the fire. Richie was friends with the Sachem, and promised it would be open to all—which it was, at least in theory. In practice—”
“I get it now,” Courtney said. “I read online somewhere that this place is too small to be profitable but too big for the island. The original structure must’ve been too hard to tear down.”
“Exactly.”
“Narragansetts ever come in here?”
“Nope.” Hunter swiveled around to point toward the west wall, where a hand-painted sign reading “INDIANS ONLY” hung above a small door. “Would that make you feel welcome?”
“Whoo-ey. And Billy told me this place was nicknamed C
ooperation Island!”
“That’s more recent, all thanks to Joe Borba—and his father, though he was long gone by the time I—”
“That the Sachem Joe I keep hearing about? The guy who’s. . .”
“Such a waste.” Hunter shook his head. “Just turned forty, and one of the best lawyers in Boston. Once Joe’s gone, I’m not sure. . .” Sylvia was nodding toward the door, so Hunter swiveled his stool. “Mayor Frank! What’s he doing here?”
The wizened man limped across the room, watery blue eyes locked on Courtney.
“There you are, my dear!” Grabbing her right shoulder hard enough to jostle Courtney’s beer, the mayor winked at Hunter. “She likes to sneak up to Clark’s on Friday nights.” Then the smile faded, and the grip eased. “Or—she used to, before. . . Jeannie’s not with us anymore, is she?”
Hunter slid off his seat and took the mayor’s elbow. “Let me see you on home.”
By the time Hunter reclaimed his bar stool, Courtney’s glass was empty. He drained his own beer in one gulp and raised two fingers at Sylvia.
“I’ll get the next round,” Courtney said.
“Nonsense! On me.”
“Okay, thanks.” Groceries were more important than pride, and she wouldn’t get her first paycheck for another week.
One more beer, then bed. Saturday and Sunday were workdays now too. Seven days a week—ten hours a day. No wonder James had gone postal and attacked his boss. Maybe they called it “going Homer” around here?
“What’s so funny?” Hunter asked.
“Oh—nothing.” She wasn’t buzzed enough to think her silly joke would amuse this gentle preacher. Going Homer!
Hunter sighed. “Poor Mayor Frank.”
“Over-served?” Courtney asked, trying to throttle back her silly grin.
“Frank doesn’t drink. But he’s been having some memory issues— and I guess he thought his wife was still alive.”
“He told me I look like her.”
Ferry to Cooperation Island Page 6