“So maybe you’re the reason.” Hunter spun his empty glass between two palms. “The guy must be pushing eighty—he really should retire, but I’m not sure how that would work.”
“Wouldn’t you just hold an election?”
“Maybe. Frank’s the only mayor we’ve ever had—I think he just appointed himself. I’ll ask our schoolteacher, who also runs the historical—ah, thank you, Sylvia!” He toasted the bartender, smiling. She smiled back. Were they dating, or just flirting?
An older couple approached the bar. The white-haired lady clutching her purse looked familiar—the souse from Courtney’s first day! Which already seemed like months ago.
“Heard about Parker’s free drinks for locals,” the husband said. “I brought my driver’s license, just in case.”
“Two for one deal,” Hunter corrected. “And it’s only on weeknights.”
“Friday’s a week—”
“Courtney, have you met Doc Emerald and his wife? Doc and Dorothy, this is our ferry captain.”
Shaking hands, Courtney felt a warm glow lace through her belly. Not just from the beers, but because Hunter hadn’t added either “new” or “female” to his introduction—another first.
Doc Emerald turned to Hunter. “Patty just fired me as her doctor, says she wants Mavis the Indian instead. You gotta talk to her! It’s risky enough, giving birth out here away from a hospital. . .”
Such a strange and remote rocky island—no wonder so many of the Homer’s previous captains had lost their marbles, trying to maintain a lifeline to normality. Swallowing a large sip of her beer, Courtney vowed to leave just as soon as her two weeks were up— while she still had a grip on her own sanity.
Three days down, eleven to go. Until then, this was the perfect place to gain some real experience.
Mavis
WEST HARBOR WAS Mavis’s favorite place to be, and dawn her favorite time of day. Sand cool and damp underfoot, water rimming the beach like the blue edge of a quahog shell. A walk along that edge wouldn’t heal her dying brother, but it might erase the bitter residue of yesterday’s visitor.
Lord, please damn your servant Pierce. Mavis didn’t normally swear, even inside her own head, but her other brother’s oily words and perfect teeth had made her want to spit. And Mémé, all smiles and “do you want another piece of strawberry pie?” even as her evil middle child calmly discussed his plans to move back into the Sachem’s cottage once her oldest “finally went.” Right in front of Joe!
Gumbo, Mavis’s sheepdog, ran to the edge of the water to sniff at a pile of seaweed before looking back at her, white-tipped ear flopping. She tossed him a piece of driftwood. The laundry was folded, she couldn’t start cleaning rooms at the inn before nine on Saturdays, and their mother would get Joe’s breakfast today—not that he’d eat anything. If Mavis ignored the dull ache in her left knee, she could make it to the harbor entrance and back before the sun popped over the big hill. Take an hour off from grief, anger, and juggling six jobs.
You only have three jobs, Mémé said, inside Mavis’s head. Laundry, cleaning, and helping the white doctor deliver babies.
On Joe’s bad days, taking care of him felt like multiple jobs all by itself. And Patty from the Bean said she didn’t want old Doc Emerald anywhere near her when she dropped her baby—only a few weeks to go now.
Joe had enough goodness for two brothers—but yesterday, Pierce’s evil had broken something inside him; he’d been sleeping since their brother left. Mémé’s extra-bent back meant she’d seen the change too. He would rally again when James came to visit, but he was gradually fading away.
Mavis hadn’t prayed much since she’d come home to Brenton, but last night she’d asked God to take Joe quick, once he was no longer aware of his surroundings. She should find out soon if he had a plan—Joe, that was. If not, she’d have to work up the words and the courage to ask the white doctor for help.
Brushing away her tears, she looked up at the monument, already lit up in the morning sun and tall enough to reach right up to heaven. Her best childhood days had included a climb up that steep bluff, following Joe as he jumped from one huge rock to another. If they landed on the grass in between, he’d told her, they’d damage the roots that held the sand in place, and then one of the big rocks might roll right down the hill and up the beach and smash their house to bits. Big brother bunkum, but she’d believed every word.
Just like she’d believed Pierce, the first few times he’d said that snake of a husband hadn’t meant to hurt her.
Joe had called it rock-hopping. Even though she’d struggled to keep up with those long legs, Mavis had loved it—and now her bare feet itched for another go.
What if I fall and hit my head and turn into a vegetable? Who will fight off Pierce, and make sure Joe doesn’t suffer?
Her thoughts had always led back to Joe, even during those awful years ashore. Did she marry just because Joe did, compounding one mistake with another? He’d told her not to—the first and only time she didn’t listen to him.
The first rock was just ahead. Gumbo stopped beside it, doggie-smiling back at her.
You’re all right, Mavis. Joe’s voice. Enjoy it enough for both of us.
Her knee still ached from scrubbing the mayor’s porch floor yesterday. She really should save her energy for today’s cleaning up at the Inn.
But maybe Joe was watching her out that big window. She was going to have to learn to do this—and so many other things—alone.
Mavis clambered up onto the big rock at the edge of the beach. I’ll take it slow, she promised her mother, but I’m doing this for Joe. Gumbo, barking, darted back and forth; the rock was too tall for him. Ah well, the beach and its dead fish would keep him entertained.
The first few jumps were easy, from one piece of flat-topped rock to the next. As soon as her bare toes landed her eyes leaped ahead, picking out the best route.
“Let your feet choose the smoothest path—don’t overthink it,” Joe had told her, back when her joints were limber and he was as tall and strong and durable as God.
That’s how Joe lived his life, she realized now. As brother, son, lawyer, and Sachem, he always leaped right over petty squabbles to land on the next solid rock of an idea. A big leather chair way up in that Boston skyscraper hadn’t distracted him from what really mattered; neither had the life-sucking drip, drip of chemo.
Pierce thrived on conflict—but that was enough thinking about him, until her feet were back on solid ground.
Her breath began to lag. When had she lost her wind? All that walking back and forth to the Inn, to the summer cottages scattered along the eastern shoreline—
Focus.
It grew steeper. Gripping with her toes, she scouted the next section. Right foot on pink smooth boulder. Left quick-step on a sharp gray rock, before her right foot could reach for a block blessedly big enough for two full steps.
When Pa hadn’t come home from that lightning-laced fishing trip, Joe had taken charge. Kissed her skinned knees, laughed away the visiting cousins’ taunts. And when Pierce told Mavis that Pa had been struck down by God himself for giving their half of the island away to the whites, Joe’d gathered her in for one of his bear hugs and whispered, “You’re all right, Mavis.”
Then he left for college. She wasn’t old enough or smart enough for Harvard, so a few years later she followed her cousins and Pierce ashore to Narragansett. It took almost a decade to realize that the bear hugs of most people—brown, white, black, didn’t matter—were more cage than comfort. Then she’d come home to Mémé.
Last August, Joe had come home too. To make the most of the time he—
A fragile edge of rock broke off under her right foot. For a moment Mavis thought she’d fall, straight down onto another sharp piece of ledge ten feet below. Instead, without thinking, she righted herself and kept climbing.
The next section was more vertical but also more regular, thanks to the rectangular blocks that had tumbled down
the hill. Leftovers from the monument, or left behind by God and His glacier? Either way, her feet appreciated their smooth faces.
She’d never thought to wonder why this path included such a variety of rocks or where they came from, but Joe probably knew. Why did God have to take her good brother so soon? He lived closer to the scriptures than anyone else—even if he didn’t believe in Pierce’s Christ or their mother’s native gods. Joe hadn’t ever needed anyone to teach him right from wrong.
The final section was so steep, Mavis dropped to all fours, panting like Gumbo. Joe would scoff. . . or maybe not, since he couldn’t even make it down to the beach anymore.
Too bad he hadn’t had any kids before that woman tired of his pity and walked out. Pierce was married to his stone church ashore, and Mavis wouldn’t leave the island again just to find a new husband.
Sperm bank?
Mémé would kill her.
Up and over the edge of the bluff at last. She collapsed onto the grass next to the monument, gasping for breath. Gumbo ran up, barking, to lick her face; he must’ve come up the path and around. She dug her fingers into his mottled coat, breathing in dog.
When her lungs finally recovered, she sat up to admire the harbor below. Still in the bluff’s shadow, water rippled and beach stretched white toward home. A thin ribbon of smoke rose from the chimney; Mémé must be trying to chase the cold from Joe’s bones.
She could just make out the roof of her mother’s smaller cottage. Maybe Mavis would move in there, when—
Better to move Mémé into the big house. Together, maybe they could stand up to Pierce.
Lord, how are we supposed to keep our home without Joe?
Across the island, chapel bells chimed: seven o’clock. Time to crawl back down the steep rocks, get ready for work.
That was for you, my brother.
James
ON A VERY rainy Monday, the start of his first full week ever without a job, James sat inside the Bean staring out the window. Every raindrop denting the harbor seemed like another nail in the coffin of his old life. He’d tried to sleep in, but the thought of hearing secondhand about the ferry’s arrival—how late would it be today?—had dug him out of bed and into his foul weather gear to walk down here.
He’d spent the weekend pacing the island’s familiar roads like a caged rat running an exercise wheel. Today he wouldn’t even have that luxury, though walking in driving rain would still be more pleasant and less claustrophobic than watching that new girl work her southern charm on Mayor Frank and the rest of the regulars— assuming she made it back out here again today.
It would be hard not to overhear their chitchat, today, with everyone jammed inside. In addition to the locals, the island’s only best-selling writer had settled into his table across from the Bean’s cash register, claiming he needed peace and quiet to finish his latest novel. With the storm door constantly slamming, wouldn’t there be more peace and quiet up at his cottage—or even back in New York City?
The owner of the art gallery eased the door shut quietly on his way out; Mack nodded appreciatively at that. The only regular who didn’t seem to notice all the noise was Chester, Mack’s dog; he hadn’t raised his head once. Patty was refilling mugs, pretending not to see his black fur coat sprawled under the table—a four-legged health code violation.
If James was still running the Homer, he’d be listening to the ear-splitting squeak of wipers dragging across the windshield. Rain tapping on top of the wheelhouse. Engines throbbing underfoot. Oh, to be forging a fresh path across open water right now, looking forward to his next pumpernickel bagel—a flavor that had disappeared from the Bean’s glass case. James could only assume he was the cause of that loss, too.
Over at the big table, Doc Emerald was grousing about the unreliable ferry. It had been late almost every run since James was fired, but Mayor Frank said they should give the lady captain another week to “settle in.” Then he changed the subject to update them all on the latest family feud: two twin brothers fighting about which one would inherit that big white house up near the Inn. Maybe being an only child wasn’t so bad after all.
The mayor glanced over at James several times, as if trying to draw him into the conversation, so James looked out the window. As if he’d never seen rain lashing a harbor before. Gonna be a wet walk home.
Maybe he could tag along with Mack this afternoon, on his weekly run ashore. Pick up some razor blades, check his bank balance— though James already knew there wasn’t enough for any real escape. At least he could walk a different set of streets; anything to get a break from this island jail.
When Mayor Frank stood up, he pressed his palms into the table so hard James thought he might upend all those coffee mugs. Rain and arthritis, bad combination. Leaving already? Nope—instead of heading for the door, the mayor limped across the five feet that separated their tables. Now what—more rumors?
“James, I need to tell you something,” Frank squeaked, loud enough for everyone to hear. “That day you got fired, Lloyd told me you’d been dealing drugs and that you’d attacked him. I now understand neither is true—my mistake.”
If Mayor Frank was gonna start apologizing to everyone for spreading gossip, it would be a very long summer.
“But. . . I still have to ask you not to leave the island.” Frank was massaging one arthritic thumb with the other. “Till it all blows over.”
The room went quiet.
“On what charge?” James asked.
No answer.
“What charge, Frank?” Between white hair and white shirt, the mayor’s neck and face reddened.
Patty set down her coffee pot on the counter, rubbing that baby-bump, frowning. Will-the-writer stared. Even Chester raised his head off his paws.
“Oh, Lloyd’s not filing any charges!” Frank replied brightly. “Just a friendly request, that’s all. He still feels. . . threatened.”
Temple pounding, James swiveled his gaze back to the window.
“Okay?” Frank pressed. “James?”
Finally, the mayor gave up waiting for a response and creaked back to his seat. Patty picked up her coffee pot again; the chattering resumed.
James stood up, grabbed his slicker off the hooks to the left of the door, and let the door slam behind him. Jamming his arms into stiff sleeves, he was already soaked by the time he’d pulled up the hood. Raindrops needled his face and bounced off the fabric.
Confined to quarters, he heard, in his dad’s voice—words from childhood, now come back to haunt him at age forty. Jesus, what gave Lloyd the right?
Damn them all. He had to get off this island.
JUNE
Lloyd
“HI DAD.” ALISON sounded bored, as usual.
“Ally-pal, my favorite girl! How are you?” Outside Lloyd’s office window, Newport Harbor was sparkling this first morning of June, the month of pure potential.
“What do you need?” she responded.
“Jeez! Can’t a guy just call his daughter to say hello?”
“A ‘guy’ might. Never you.”
“Well thanks very much. Actually, I do have a thought. . . any chance you could build me a simple one-page website?”
“You already own the URL?”
“The what?”
“Oh never mind—I’m just about to head into town. Be there in twenty.”
He hung up, grinning. His idea was so simple, it was hard to believe no one else had done it already.
Of course, no one else thought and dreamed and yes obsessed about gaining control of West Brenton. Ever since Lloyd’s sixteenth birthday, when his mother had explained how his grandfather drowned, he’d promised her he would reclaim the old family house—though he never shared with her his plan to take over all of West Brenton as interest due. Those damned Indians thought they owned the best half of the island—just because it was handed to them on a plate by the red-loving Malloys.
The mayor had warned James not to leave the island. But Lloyd still
worried that James would show up here one morning, psycho-mad, and attack him again. If only he’d learned sooner how to put a tracker on a cell phone! (He was definitely gonna put one on Courtney’s, next time he got the chance.)
If James’s father was still alive, Lloyd would’ve gone after him instead. But the key to hurting any Malloy was to hurt their precious island—so by gaining control of West Brenton, Lloyd could kill two birds with one stone.
And this new plan was so simple, so cunning, so—modern! The Indians had wrangled a deal with the whites back in 1978, which led to the formation of the West Brenton Land Trust—but thirty-two years later, that was just a name. And how did everyone judge whether anything actually existed these days? By web presence—not by some stupid paper document, filed away and forgotten in the City of Newport’s storage basement.
Lloyd had checked: there was no website, or any sort of online mention, of a land trust protecting any part of Brenton Island. So all he had to do was create one—or rather, get Alison to do so. He hadn’t told her mother about that marijuana, so she owed him one.
Wait until he told her he was building her a golf course. She’d discovered golf at college, and since graduating a few weeks ago she’d played every afternoon.
When Alison breezed in, she pulled his second office chair up to the far side of his desk and sat down. When she slid her laptop out of its bag, her wide-necked shirt slipped off one shoulder, brazenly revealing a bra strap.
“What address do you want?” she asked, already typing. She hadn’t even said hello.
“Um. . . it’s for the West Brenton Land Trust.”
“Okay, we’ll start with westbrentonlandtrust.org. . . Yup, that’s available. I’ll need your credit card to purchase the URL.”
He handed it over, praying it wouldn’t be rejected.
Pierce Borba had inspired this whole website idea, though the dolt hadn’t even realized. The previous week, right after cashing the Inn’s May loan payment, Lloyd had gassed up his car and driven down to Narragansett. Forty minutes of Friday traffic each way, just to talk to an Indian priest. Or whatever his tribe called him.
Ferry to Cooperation Island Page 7