Ferry to Cooperation Island

by Carol Newman Cronin

  “Yes, she did. Even talked Mrs. Allen into seating the white kids on the wrong side of that stupid line—the one Pierce drew on the classroom floor.”

  “Would’ve worked, too, if he hadn’t. . .”

  “Staged a sit-in,” James finished. “That’s why Sheila’s idea seems so—childish. But she says it’s at least ten days before she’ll get the land trust takeover in front of a judge, so I don’t know what else to do.”

  “Franklin?”

  “Mayor Frank can barely organize his socks these days. And I just don’t know who else islanders would listen to, other than—”

  “You.” Before Mavis could think, she walked over to James and set a hand on his shoulder. “They’ll listen to you.” The muscles beneath his T-shirt were violin-string tight.

  James turned to look up at her. “Even though I got fired for—”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  He shook his head. “Barb’s been badmouthing me around town.”

  “Apologize yet?” Joe asked.

  “She’s the one who threw me out! Believed Mayor Frank, rather than trusting—”

  “Pretend she’s a boat,” Joe said, eyes closed. “Go make it right.”

  Mavis giggled, but James pushed his left thumb into his scar. When he turned his head away, she could see a muscle in his jaw pulsing too—so maybe Joe was serious.

  The first boom of fireworks filled the silence, and a tentative white sparkler exploded outside the big window. Disappointment bloomed in her chest; this could be their last Fourth of July out here, and now Mr. Dane’s balcony would already be occupied. She’d so wanted to watch from there, just once.

  “Barb’ll come around,” Joe rasped. “And Mavis is right, the others’ll listen to—” A fresh round of coughing started. Mavis stepped over to help him sit up enough for a sip of water, but he waved her away, turning his head toward the window. Was he watching the fireworks? No—his eyes were closed.

  “I guess I could call a town meeting,” James said, pressing his hands into his thighs to stand up. “But I sure wish you could take the lead on this, brother.”

  Joe nodded, wiry gray hair scraping loud against starched pillowcase. “Me too, brother.” That last word was almost drowned out by the next boom, which startled a whine out of Gumbo.

  “You really think this sit-in thing will work?” James asked.

  Only one way to find out. That’s what Joe would’ve said next, if he had the strength. So as Mavis prepared her brother’s next dose, she repeated out loud for James: “Only one way to find out.”

  Parker

  EACH OVERHEAD FLASH of blue, green, red, and white illuminated the smiling crowd; eight full patio tables, and blankets and beach chairs covering the lawn. One particularly loud Roman candle startled the guest at the middle table enough to upend her rum punch, but before Parker could leave his perch next to the doorway, his best server was already kneeling down, rag in hand.

  Personally, he thought fireworks shows were a waste of good money. But the previous Inn owner had always invited the locals up for a Fourth of July cookout, so continuing the tradition provided a link to the Inn’s colorful history—and it was a great way to sell drinks. Next year, they’d all be gathered around the infinity pool, maybe playing putt-putt golf as well as croquet.

  Lloyd’s big golf course plans had already met with some local resistance. Within hours of that planning session with the golf course designer, someone—James Malloy, no doubt—had pulled up all the surveyor’s stakes and removed every single tree ribbon, leaving behind no trace of the designer’s plan. Lloyd had called yesterday, seething, saying he’d refused to pay the surveyor’s bill.

  Hanging up the phone, Parker had found himself grinning. It was simply ridiculous to lay out a nine-hole golf course right through the island’s only wooded area—and very satisfying that someone was finally standing up to Lloyd.

  The patio was perfectly lit; those new solar lights around its edge had come on automatically a few minutes ago. He hadn’t made his customary rounds during dinner, because Dean Moreland was seated at the corner four-top with his family. Twice in the last ten days, Dean had tried to corner Parker for a chat. Whether or not the golf course happened, Parker was in full agreement that six condos at West Harbor would be too many. But secret plotting behind the back of his biggest creditor would be an extremely bad career move.

  To his left, the tiny metal balcony outside his office remained stubbornly empty. He could picture Mavis standing there, blending into the shadows, mouth rounding into an O with every sparkler. Like watching an orchid bloom, the way she smiled when she thought no one was watching. He’d offered up the private viewing area to reward her loyalty—more personal than the crisp twenty he added to her pay envelope each week—but she must’ve taken it wrong. Had she noticed he’d removed the INDIANS ONLY sign in the bar? Had she heard about Lloyd’s condo plan? Was she blaming him? Should he—

  “Shouldn’t you be mingling with your guests?” Sylvia asked, coming out through the doorway.

  “Shouldn’t you be t-tending b-bar?”

  “Hunter’s the only customer inside. Outside bar is cutting into my tips.”

  Not with Owen bartending. The kid had dropped almost as many drinks as he’d actually served.

  Sylvia pulled on Parker’s elbow, forcing him to face the fireworks. “Caught you standing still for once. Figured it might be a good time to give you a dose of reality.”

  “About w-what?” She couldn’t possibly know why he’d been staring at his own office balcony—there was no one there.

  “Staff.” She glared down at him; those ridiculous heels made her almost four inches taller than he was. “I caught the two Irish girls out back an hour ago. They were screeching at each other like she-cats about who’d have to work with Mavis next week. Is it really worth keeping her on?”

  “Why don’t they l-like working with Mavis?” Maybe they didn’t want to work as hard as she did.

  “‘Dirty little Indian,’ Shana calls her.” Sylvia tittered, folding muscled forearms over cleavage. “All thumbs, that one—plus I think she’s been sneaking out to the beach with Owen, which can’t end well. So maybe you should fire her instead.”

  She was talking about Shana, not Mavis, he realized. Parker crossed arms over his chest. Staffing was his concern, not Sylvia’s.

  “Room eight has reserved the p-patio tomorrow afternoon for a b-birthday party,” he told her. “P-parents’ll be s-starting early.”

  She was glaring at him again. When a red roman candle exploded, it reflected in her dark eyes. So different from—

  “Well in that case, I’d better get back to my ball and chain.” Spit back over her shoulder, “Since you obviously aren’t listening to me anyway.”

  As soon as Sylvia and her attitude were safely inside again, Parker sneaked another look over at his office balcony: still empty. Ah, well.

  Courtney

  THEY’D ARRIVED AT the Inn separately—Courtney walked up from her cottage, while James coasted down the gravel drive on that ancient bike—but standing together, waiting for a table, it still felt like a very awkward first date.

  She’d never been good at dating.

  It was just the setting, Courtney told herself, once they were seated at the outside corner table, which was set diagonally so they each had a view of both water and land. Sunset-tinted water stretched out to open ocean, south and east; behind her, the mainland would be a faint moustache across the western horizon—bumped by that one crazy blue pimple of water tower. This was a blushingly romantic spot, but only for an actual couple, which they definitely weren’t.

  “Thank you again for all the help with the Homer,” Courtney repeated, just to reinforce why she’d asked James to share the dinner-for-two gift certificate she’d won two nights ago. He kept his eyes on the menu, left thumb pressing into that scar. “Too bad you didn’t come up for the fireworks,” she added. “You might’ve won it yourself.”


  “I don’t like—ah, at last!” He turned to the waitress. “I’ll take a beer—whatever’s on tap.”

  Didn’t like fireworks?

  “And for the lady?” The dark-haired girl smiled at Courtney, exposing one crooked front tooth.

  “Summer ale. And an ice water.” And don’t call me “lady,” ever again.

  Opening the menu, Courtney almost gasped at the prices— though it all sounded delicious. Except the Maryland crab cakes, which would surely be a disappointment compared to her mother’s.

  She’d order something quick to prepare and easy to eat, so this awkward evening would be over as fast as possible. What had ever made her think inviting James to dinner was a good idea?

  He set down the menu to scratch at his beard. A nice balance to those eyebrows—despite one or two gray chin whiskers.

  Just before leaving Newport that afternoon, she’d worked up the nerve to text him. An agonizing thirty-five minutes later, right off the Brenton breakwater, she got a reply: he’d meet her up here. As if walking up the hill together would be more than he could possibly stand.

  When he’d appeared on his bike, out of breath and a little sweaty, he’d explained that he’d come straight from Joe’s house. Shook his head, as if the news wasn’t good.

  Courtney hadn’t ever met Joe, but she’d never heard a bad word about the guy. On this island, where grudges were held for generations, that was impressive.

  Their beers arrived, and Courtney reached for a smile as she raised her glass. “Cheers. Here’s to the—”

  “Some bread for the table. . . now let me tell you about our specials.” The server held up a small pad. Courtney had never seen her before—though with that strong Irish accent, she must’ve ridden the ferry at least once. “We’ve got a fresh striped bass served with lemon and capers. We also have a grilled pork chop. . .”

  “What’s a stuffie?” Courtney asked.

  “Local speciality. And delicious!” the girl promised, pencil poised.

  “Broiled scallops, please,” Courtney said, closing her menu.

  “Oh sorry—we ran out over the weekend. It’s been just completely crazy around here! How about the striped bass instead?”

  Rockfish, Courtney corrected. And there had been no fish delivery for the Inn today, she was sure. “Never mind—I’ll have the chicken breast.”

  “Out of that too.”

  “All right. . . how about fish and chips.”

  “Excellent choice. Sir?”

  “Steak, medium rare,” James replied.

  “Salad to start?”

  “Okay.”

  “House dressing? It’s a lovely vinaigrette.” James nodded, so the server turned to Courtney. “Can I bring you a starter as well, ma’am?”

  Courtney shook her head, trying to decide whether “lady” was better than “ma’am.”

  “Oh! I forgot—” the girl turned back to add, “my name’s Shana. I’ll be right back with your salad, sir.”

  Now there was nothing between them on the white tablecloth except a basket of bread, an unlit candle, and two half-empty beer glasses. Drinks weren’t included with the gift certificate, so James better not be too thirsty. It’s a free meal, she reminded herself. Be grateful. She wouldn’t have come here by herself.

  “Why don’t you like fireworks?” she asked, taking a tiny sip of beer and then backhanding away the moustache of fizzy foam it left behind.

  “I like fireworks just fine. But I try not to step onto Inn property.”

  Where did he go for beers after work? The fish shack down on the ferry pier, she realized. Mack had a fridge in there, supposedly for bait, and she’d spotted a few guys hanging out after hours.

  “Parker’s been stepping all over West Brenton,” James was saying. “Aided and abetted by your boss.”

  “And not giving him your business is gonna stop that?”

  “No. But there’s a meeting at my house tomorrow night that might. I’m organizing a sit-in.”

  “Really! How totally sixties.” Not even an entire beer, and already her sass was up.

  “I thought you said you wanted to help.”

  “I do! But a sit-in—it’s just so far off what I was expecting. Weren’t you talking to a lawyer who was going after that land trust takeover?”

  “Sheila. She’s awesome.” He actually smiled. “This is her idea, actually—I never would’ve thought of it.”

  His salad arrived, and James shoveled lettuce into his mouth with the same speed and focus that he ate his daily bagel at the Bean.

  Shana came back to light their candle, and around the edge of the patio lights flickered on. Days were already getting shorter, she realized.

  “I don’t quite get why you’re in charge,” she said.

  James paused, the last forkful of lettuce halfway to his mouth. “What do you mean?”

  “Isn’t this something a mayor should—”

  “Our esteemed mayor stopped by my house yesterday to ask if my mother could help out at the school. She died just over two years ago.”

  “Yikes. I didn’t realize he was that out of it.”

  “Most of the time, he’s fine.”

  “Except when he’s mistaking me for his late wife.”

  “You do look a little bit like her. Same eyes.” Pushing away his empty salad plate, James pressed that left thumb against his scar again. Even in the dimming light, Courtney could see his ears reddening. “So what brought you up this way, anyway? Helluva long way from the Eastern Shore of Maryland.”

  “Long way, and a long story.”

  “I’ve got time—I hear the service here is terrible.” He met her gaze at last, and she caught a trace of smile before he hid it behind his beer.

  “Well. . . okay. So, my father was in charge of the Oxford ferry for forty years—he took over from his father. Last August they made him get a complete physical, and of course he flunked the eye test—his sight had been going south for quite a while. I’d basically been running the ferry, so I thought I’d just take over as captain. But I didn’t actually have a license. So they brought in—”

  “Ah—show-stopper for sure. These days, with computers knowing everything, the owners wouldn’t dare risk it.”

  “Yeah. So I went and got my license, but that took almost six months and by then it was January, so nobody was hiring—and besides, the new guy had been bringing ’em coffee every morning since the ferry stopped running in November, so they said they didn’t need me anymore.” Courtney had actually gone a little apeshit, right there in that tiny office. But James didn’t need to know that part. She grabbed a piece of bread from the basket and tried to tear it in half. “Damn—stale bread? With a bakery right down the road?”

  James looked away, out toward the horizon. “Barb hasn’t been keeping up with demand. Not since—”

  “Not since you dumped her.”

  “What do you know about that?”

  “Only what I’ve heard on the deck of the Bean. Which actually doesn’t sound anything like you.”

  “What, you don’t think I’m capable of dumping anyone?”

  “Not at all. But after living with someone for ten years, I don’t think you’d just walk away and—”

  “Ten years! More like two. Or three, maybe—”

  “But who’s counting, right? Shee-it, what nerve you guys have! Love ’em and leave ’em, even on an island the size of a goddamn pea.”

  James was pressing at that scar again. “For your information, she threw me out.”

  “Not according to Barb.”

  “Oh, so you two’ve been having heart-to-hearts?”

  It was Courtney’s turn to look out at the horizon. “Actually, Mayor Frank was the one who told me what she said.”

  “That’s just perfect! It was his gossiping that caused the whole shit show.” James threw down his already crumpled paper napkin, but when it blew off the table he had to lean down to pick it up again, which completely spoiled the whole jilt
ed-lover look.

  Courtney tamped down a giggle. “Want to tell me what really happened?”

  James shrugged. “I got fired, so she threw me out.”

  “Because you were fired? She wouldn’t—”

  “Why do you care so much about this?”

  “Because we’re friends now, remember? This is what friends do— ask the hard questions.”

  He looked away, and she thought he’d just keep silent. Instead he muttered to the field beyond the edge of the patio, “Barb’s brother died of an overdose, so she’s. . . sensitive, about drugs. Mayor Frank got up to her house before I did, and he’s such a drama queen his version made me sound like a pusher. When all I was doing was delivering some relief to a dying man.”

  “Ah. That makes a lot more sense.” She downed the last of her beer—damn. What was she going to drink with her fish and chips?

  “Joe says I should go apologize,” he mumbled.

  “To Barb? I agree.”

  “Even though she’s the one who threw me out?” Those eyebrows scrunched together into one fuzzy caterpillar, and the eyes underneath darkened. “Tossed all my clothes out onto the goddamn road?”

  “She was hurt! And you’re the island equivalent of a big man on campus, so it probably felt like everyone was taking your side.”

  “My side! Everyone on the whole goddamn island was spreading rumors about what—”

  “If you don’t talk, everyone just fills in the—”

  “Can I get the lady another beer?”

  “Yes. Me too,” James said, handing both pint glasses to Shana.

  Ah, what the hell. This discussion needed all the lubrication it could get.

  “Since we’re talking about that lovely day,” James said, “I’ve got a question for you. How’d you find out the captain’s job was open? Lloyd couldn’t’ve advertised—it happened too fast.”

  “Back in March, I sent a letter to the owners of all ferries under a hundred tons up and down the East Coast,” she explained. “Mr. Wainwright was the only one who responded.”

  “When?”

  “Does it matter?”