Pierce’s office smelled like cat piss. The culprit—a short-haired patchwork of whites and tans—curled up on the only chair, a velvet-seated number that looked like it dated back to the nineteenth century. One high window let in a blinding shaft of sunlight.
“Been a long time, Lloyd.” Half-standing behind his cluttered desk, Pierce held out a handful of sausage-like fingers. Had they ever actually met? He was almost as tall as Lloyd, but twice as wide—with the tight skin of a heart attack waiting to happen. And a braid, of course—already streaked with gray.
“What brings you down this way?” Pierce angled the chair enough to dislodge the cat, which turned out to be tail-less. As soon as Lloyd sat down, the creature tried to jump up into his lap.
“Shoo, get away!” He batted at the front paws, trying not to actually touch any fur. His nose was already beginning to itch.
Pierce grabbed the animal around its middle, tossed it out the door, and returned to his creaky desk chair.
Lloyd smiled in thanks. “I just wanted to bring you up to date on our plans for the West Harbor property. Such a cool location—”
“Plans?” When Pierce frowned, those basset-hound eyes half-closed. “You said on the phone that you’re going to build a miniature golf course in the field next to the inn. How does West Harbor even come into it?”
“The investors have decided to build a nine-hole course instead, which is great news—but more golfers than the Inn can handle. And these guys want their own places. They like West Harbor best—the added expense of running power and water doesn’t even scare ‘em.” With a little creative design work, they could fit in six new houses; that wouldn’t leave quite enough open property for a helicopter pad, but he’d worry about that later on. “Thing is, I need your help.”
“Because my family’s in your way.” Pierce toyed with a silver pen. “Narragansetts used to outnumber the whites on Brenton, you know—two to one.”
“I know that,” Lloyd responded, trying to be patient. “My grandfather, rest his soul, went to your grandfather, trying to make peace, back when—”
“Setting fire to a building isn’t exactly what I’d call making peace!”
“That wasn’t ever proved—”
“Whatever.” Pierce shook his head. “God dealt with him, better than we ever could. What’ve you got in mind?”
Ignoring the niggling suspicion that Pierce was referring to his grandfather’s drowning, Lloyd said, “I’d like to bring you in as an investor. That way, we’ll be able—”
“Investor! Every penny I have goes into this.” Pierce waved around his cramped office, just as the door pushed open again. The cat strutted in, circled Lloyd once, and finally jumped up onto the wide windowsill, where it sat down to lick its front right paw.
“Just thinking out loud here, but considering your influence. . .” Lloyd spoke slowly, even though he’d already figured out to the exact penny what Pierce’s support would be worth. “My investors might be willing to waive your down payment. They’re keen to break ground this year, and we don’t want any bad press about booting out the last of the island’s Narragansetts.” His nostrils began to tickle and burn; this better not take too long.
“Joe’s only got a few more weeks at most,” Pierce responded. “Until he passes, Mavis and my mother aren’t going anywhere.”
“But surely they’ll come ashore after that—maybe move in with you?”
Pierce snorted so loudly the cat paused its washing to stare. “Mavis tried living ashore. It didn’t take. And Mom thinks her daughter needs her—even though she doesn’t need anyone, as far as I—”
“They can’t stay where they are!” Lloyd pressed at the bridge of his nose, hoping to contain the sneeze building up inside it.
“Don’t be so sure.” Pierce stared at his desk, then looked up again, eyelids fully open for once. “But I can try to make both of ‘em see some sense. What would that be worth?”
Finally, they were getting somewhere. “How about. . . a seat at the table?” Lloyd suggested. “I’ve already told the investors that you’re a key part of this, so I’m sure. . .” The sneeze could no longer be denied. “A-choo!” He wiped at his nose, then surreptitiously dried his fingers on the side of his pants.
“I want the Sachem’s cottage,” Pierce said, as if there’d been no interruption. “As is—I’ll take care of the renovations myself.”
“That will drastically change our plans.”
“Then change ‘em.” Those black eyes were pebble-hard.
Lloyd pretended to ponder for as long as he could stand that stare; then he nodded. “Okay, I’ll make that happen. Somehow.” He turned away to look out the window, trying to hide his grin; not tearing down the biggest cottage would reduce his up-front costs significantly, and as long as he didn’t tell the others their payments would remain the same.
“Who are these investors?” Pierce asked.
“Some yacht club buddies. An advertising guy. And. . . a banker.” That sounded impressive.
“Banks aren’t exactly rolling in cash at the moment.”
“Private money,” Lloyd assured him. “No problem there.”
“And you really have full control of West Brenton?”
Lloyd nodded. “We registered the land trust trademark last week.”
Which is when Pierce asked his key question.
“Got a website?”
“Of course!” Lloyd nodded, even as he thought: Website! We need a website? “This ain’t my first rodeo,” he added, crossing one knee over the other and opening his mouth to breathe; both nostrils were now completely clogged.
“And you think all of that will be enough to blow up that ancient agreement?”
“Your brother thought he was so smart, sending all those letters,” Lloyd said. “But all that time, he never actually activated the land trust. So I did.”
“Wish I’d thought to do that myself.” Pierce rose from behind the desk. “Now I’d love to chat further, but I’ve got parishioners to call on this afternoon. . .”
So Lloyd managed to escape that cat-infested office without sneezing again. On the drive back to Newport, once his sinuses dried out, he’d cranked up the stereo as loud as it would go to sing along: We. Are. The. Champions. . .
“Dad. . . earth to Dad! You are SO not listening to me.”
Lloyd reluctantly came back to the present to find Alison pointing across the desk at his computer. “Type it in.”
The new site didn’t look like much; just the text “West Brenton Land Trust” above a yellow and black image that stated, “website under construction.”
“Great job!” he told her. Would this kind of work ever support all of her expensive habits?
“Not quite done,” she said. “You’re trying to declare ownership of this site, right?”
“That’s the plan. Own the site, own the land.” He itched to share his brilliant plan with her, but he didn’t want to seem too eager.
“Then your name has to be visible somewhere. It’s already in the metadata, but to stand up in—”
“Fine—put me down as president.” A title like that would totally frost Joe Borba’s balls. Maybe even more than hearing—and unless he was already dead, Joe would surely hear—that his brother Pierce had signed on with Lloyd.
“There, done.” She closed her laptop, stood up, and waved. “Later, tater!” And before he could suggest lunch—assuming his credit card limit would stretch that far—she was gone again.
He clicked again on the new website. Was that really all he needed? His simple plan seemed almost too simple now.
His inbox beeped with an email from his new captain; the title stated “2 wk trial complete.” Already?
He wasn’t going to sign a new contract, of course; without one, there’d be fewer complaints about late paychecks.
And sooner or later, she would screw up—but he couldn’t think about that right now. Golf was the future, not that stupid ferry. Pierce was on bo
ard at last, so it was time to get this party started.
James
FOR THE FIRST time in just over a week, James breathed in uncontaminated ocean air. Even on Brenton, there was always another odor—honeysuckle, marsh mud, coffee, drying seaweed. Motoring outside the breakwater, he could smell nothing but salty freedom.
An hour ago, when visiting yachtsman Dean Moreland had sauntered up onto the Bean’s deck and invited him out for a sail, James stood up so fast he’d almost knocked over his unfinished coffee. Anything to get off this damned island. He’d overslept for once, so by the time he arrived at the Bean there were no more bagels.
Didn’t matter now—sailing would be sustenance enough.
Dean was in advertising, somehow able to take off most of each summer and still afford very expensive hobbies—like a beautiful new race boat. He led James down the dock to a small inflatable dinghy, and ten minutes later James climbed up the ladder onto MoreSea, the only dark blue boat in the harbor. Twenty minutes after that, they were motoring out through the harbor entrance.
“Why don’t you take over, James?” Dean nodded down at the huge wheel. “I’ll hoist the main.”
The carbon wheel was much smaller and smoother to grip than the Homer’s, but so big in diameter the bottom disappeared down into the deck. James checked they were clearing the Bird Island nun even with the flood tide setting them toward it, while Dean removed the sail ties that kept the main flaked on the boom. He was the same height as James, but he seemed taller—it was the swagger.
James would swagger too if he owned a boat like this. Custom-built for offshore racing, and enough interior to cruise comfortably too. Dean said he was still learning how to sail her. It didn’t seem that complicated, but maybe James was missing something.
“Put her up into the wind, would you?”
James spun the wheel—and almost lost his balance when the boat turned quicker than expected. He couldn’t wait to shut off the rattling engine.
Behind him came the blast of a familiar horn. Instead of looking astern—where he’d see the Homer, just leaving the dock for the afternoon run to Newport—James kept his eyes forward and watched white mainsail creep up black mast. Once it was at full hoist, he bore away onto starboard tack, trimming in the mainsheet as much as he could by hand. Wow, speed and power—and they hadn’t even set a jib yet!
Dean called his boat the Ferrari of sailing. James had never driven a Ferrari, but this boat sure cornered way better than any other he’d steered. And an afternoon sea breeze was already flicking whitecaps across the ocean to windward—classic June.
“You can shut down the motor,” Dean said. “Throttle back all the way, then press—sorry, you probably know already.”
As soon as the vibration under his feet stilled, James grinned. Nothing was quite so satisfying as making miles under sail—so different than powering anywhere. If only there was a sail-powered ferry in need of a captain. . .
Dean pulled a line, unrolling the jib like a window shade. James watched the digital speed readout almost double.
“She’s fast!”
“And two of us can sail her. My last boat, I needed a crew of six just to get it off the dock.”
“That’s a lot of friends.”
“More like a lot of paychecks.” Dean climbed to windward again and punched a button on the aft side of the cabin house. “GPS’ll tell you when we can lay the Brenton bell. We’ll—”
“The gong, you mean?”
“Yeah, whatever. We’ll tack then, maybe sail around the island?”
Five minutes later, James called “Ready about,” and Dean moved to the leeward winch. “Tacking!” He spun the wheel two spokes— plenty. Dean cast off the old jib sheet and wound on the new one. They barely lost any speed.
Ahead and to leeward was the lighthouse, white with a red top, standing tall on the southeast bluff. James hadn’t seen it from this angle since he left for his last Caribbean delivery, the winter before he’d taken over the Homer. The green buoy slid by, bouncing and clanging away, so there was plenty of sea room between him and the island’s south side. Especially since the boat was slicing through the mixed-up waves so effortlessly.
James sat down on the windward deck and found a foot rest, right in the perfect place. “Forty-two foot dinghy.”
Dean nodded. “You’re driving her really well.”
James focused on steering, occasionally glancing up at the sails and around the horizon. No other boats in sight—everyone else was working, or maybe still waiting to launch. The breeze still had a bit of spring nip to it, and he hadn’t brought a jacket, but even so it was great to steal away from all the questions of his land life for a few hours.
Last summer, Dean had rented a big house on Brenton and ridden the ferry every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, taking his ten-year-old son ashore for day camp; sailing, lacrosse, horseback riding.
“We’re in Newport this year,” Dean had explained on the dinghy ride out to the boat. “Tried to get the same house again—the mother had actually agreed to sell to me, or so I thought. Once she died, her kids started fighting. . . and everything got too complicated.” He shook his head, then forced his frown into a smile again. “That’s okay, I rented a mooring instead. And I’m looking into building out here, if I can sort out the details.”
“Where?” To build a house on Brenton, you’d probably have to tear one down.
“We’re still working that out. And I know the locals can be quite touchy about new construction. . . so I’m also thinking I might donate Bird Island.”
“You own Bird Island?”
“Been in my family for years. We were going to build a place out there, but the architect couldn’t find a flat enough piece of rock.”
“I thought Bird belonged to Brenton property owners.” That’s what the real estate agents promised, anyway.
“My father was willing to set that up, and there was a lot of talk,” Dean said, “but nobody came forward to actually make it happen.” What a missed opportunity.
Running the ferry, James had felt so connected to the island. But it was all trivial stuff, he realized now; he’d never paid any attention to the really complicated issues, like saving open space from development.
“Maybe you and I should talk about Bird Island sometime,” he said now.
“Maybe we should.” Dean grinned back at him.
He could’ve kept steering forever, but once they passed the monument—so square and man-made against the rolling vivid greens of West Brenton—he handed back the helm.
“Wait till you see how fast she is downwind!” Dean said, spinning the wheel so fast James was almost knocked off his feet.
Dean hadn’t grown up on boats; he steered like it was a mechanical problem, instead of a rhythmic dance with the waves. James itched to show him how it should be done, but it wasn’t his boat so he focused on the distant line of smoky mainland. Point Judith, bright blue water tower. . . all the landmarks he’d taken for granted for so long.
To leeward, the six gray-shingled cottages of the Narragansetts’ village were still just visible against West Harbor’s steep bluff. He’d meant to check for smoke coming out of Joe’s chimney, but he’d been too busy enjoying the feel of this boat.
“You in a hurry?” Dean asked.
James shook his head.
“Me neither—and this is way too much fun.” Dean grinned. “We’ll round the Beavertail gong before we head back.”
That one was a bell, but James let it go and settled back against the cabin. Salt air, the glare of sun off whitecaps, and the roll and pitch of sailboat. The guy had no feel, but still—he loved this. If only. . .
“How’re you adjusting to life ashore?”
“I’m not allowed—oh, you mean on Brenton. Sucks. But that girl won’t last the summer. Late every single—”
“I chatted with Lloyd at the yacht club a few evenings ago.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And let’s jus
t say, your name ain’t exactly bringing a smile to his lips right now. Even if Courtney keeps screwing up, he’ll find someone else. Apparently, there’s history.”
James clenched his jaw, scar pulsing. Joe had said something similar. Maybe he should talk to Mayor Frank.
A wave picked up the transom, begging to be caught. Dean turned the wheel a few seconds late and it rolled underneath them. Another missed opportunity. . .
“I could probably talk Lloyd around,” Dean was saying. “Making people believe I know what’s best is as easy for me as steering a boat is for you.”
“Pays better,” James muttered.
“Yes it does.”
The red bell buoy off Beavertail was coming up fast. They’d made good time.
“Jibing or tacking?” James asked.
“I’ll leave it close to port, then tack. Like we’re racing.” Dean was smiling as usual, but James sensed uncertainty. Probably scared to jibe in the mixed-up waves off this rocky point that stuck so far out into the ocean. The inefficiency bothered James—a two-hundred-seventy-degree course change that could’ve been only ninety—but what the hell; more time sailing before heading back to jail.
He trimmed the jib through the tack. Dean aimed for the Brenton lighthouse, steering with two fingers, bow knifing into waves. Somehow no water made it back to the cockpit—what a great boat.
“Kind of a screwed-up world,” Dean said.
Huh?
“I make way more money than you, and all I’m good at is convincing people to buy things they don’t need.” He was continuing their conversation, James realized. “You’ve got an actual skill. Which is pretty much wasted, running that ancient ferry.”
“You a life coach too?”
“No, but I do have some career advice if you’re—whoa!” A puff hit, the boat heeled over, Dean headed up so much the jib luffed, and then he overcompensated—making the boat heel over too much again.
Once he’d managed to stabilize his steering again, Dean finished his thought. “I think you should take us sailing.”
Ferry to Cooperation Island Page 8