Ferry to Cooperation Island

by Carol Newman Cronin

  He pulled the door open with a creak, letting in a wash of cool salt air, and awkwardly stood back so they could climb the final steps ahead of him. (Eventually the door would open outward, but that wasn’t in this year’s budget.) Mr. Weston let the women go first; once everyone was out on the open deck, Parker latched the door behind him.

  “Isn’t it fantastic?” he waved north toward the mainland, surprising his guests—who were already staring south and east at open ocean. The group dutifully turned to follow the arc of his left hand, admiring the Newport Bridge and Beavertail Lighthouse. After establishing what the closest land looked like, he pointed west to show them a more distant piece.

  “There’s the mainland you all escaped. And Block Island—I can almost smell the coconut oil from here.” Samantha Irons tittered.

  Three times a week for the past six weeks Parker had given this tour—and he was only halfway through the summer. Better get another sighting soon, before he had to be carted off in a straitjacket.

  “People say this is the best view on the east coast,” Parker continued automatically, even as his mind puzzled out the latest staffing challenge. (Yet another cat fight between the two Irish girls last night; Shana had to go, but not until they got through the weekend.) “I say it’s the best view in the entire w-world! Which is Right. Out. There. . .” He pointed southeast, toward open horizon.

  “If ever there’s a day to see Skye, this is it,” he added, in honor of a raincloud hanging on the horizon, just the right size to be mistaken for a Scottish island.

  Ms. Woodley—Jane—had already climbed up onto the platform to their left. It had been built to hold a telescope, but actual magnification had proven much less effective than carefully laced cups of tea.

  Samantha Irons exclaimed over a nearby sailboat. Soon it would pass the outbound ferry, which was the only reliable sighting during these—

  “Look, Parker—there it is!”

  Jane pointed out to sea, well to the left of his chosen raincloud. A collective gasp went up, and the others quickly shifted their focus to follow her outstretched arm.

  “Where?” “Can you really see it?” “Are you sure—”

  “It’s right there!” Jane told them all. “Well—it may not be visible to the rest of you. I do have excellent distance—”

  “Let me up there,” Samantha said, starting toward the platform.

  “One at a time,” Parker replied firmly, moving between Jane and the rest of the group. “Could you point to it again, Jane? I don’t quite—” He raised one hand to his forehead, shading his eyes for a better view.

  Sure enough, a second vague smudge bumped along the horizon—either smoke from a distant car carrier, or another leftover storm cloud. Parker didn’t know who to thank; some unknown captain, or the weather gods?

  “The Isle of Skye—such a mystical place. Oh Parker!” Jane’s cleavage was heaving with emotion. “There’s simply no need to leave this country ever again—your scones are way better than any I had over there!”

  He grinned up at her before turning his gaze east again. Brenton rum was paying him back in spades. Just as he was about to add something appropriately reverent, Jane took care of that too.

  “It makes the world seem veddy veddy small, doesn’t it?”

  Courtney

  COURTNEY PUSHED ASIDE the thin bed sheet and crossed to the square loft window. After three rainy mornings in a row, she was itching to go running again. The water below already sparkled under clear skies, even though the sun hadn’t shown up yet, so she donned her running togs. Forget the sweatshirt—how chilly could it be in mid-July?

  Goosebumps formed on her arms when she let herself out the front door, the perfect incentive to start jogging. She followed the glinting pavement up the small rise, crisp air biting deep into her lungs. No one stirred this early, though the bakery’s blue door stood open. Yesterday, Courtney had casually asked Billy (just back from his “paternity leave”) how long Barb and James had been together. “Long as I can remember,” he’d responded. “He didn’t move in with her until his mother died, though—that was only a couple of years ago. Never could figure out what kept ‘em together—two grumps with crazy hair!” Billy had laughed, though he obviously worshipped his old captain; he and Patty had named their baby boy Declan James, after father and son Malloy. “We’re calling him DJ,” Billy told her proudly.

  All the islanders worshipped James, which is why he’d been able to talk them into this crazy sit-in idea. Courtney had set up a schedule and emailed it out to everyone, but she still wasn’t convinced passive resistance would make any difference at all to Mr. Wainwright’s plans.

  It would definitely get her fired, though, if her boss found out she was helping. And, according to her friends at home, the new pain-in-the-ass Oxford ferry captain was still solidly on the job.

  Around the next bend, the big hill rose in front of her before she was fully warmed up, so Courtney slowed to a walk until she reached the top. Usually she ran to the monument—the farthest point on the island, besides the Narragansett settlement on West Harbor, which the mayor had warned her away from that first day—before returning to the killer hill for wind sprints. But when she spotted a narrow path with a small wooden sign that read “Brenton Beach,” she turned left. Running in soft sand would be a welcome change.

  The path was wide enough for two runners side by side, but so uneven and steep she was forced to slow to a walk. Which was totally worth the aggravation once she stepped down onto the horseshoe-shaped beach. The bluffs blocked the northerly wind, the eastern cliffs of Block Island lit up red with the sunrise, and the water between the two islands rippled greenish blue. Just beyond her toes, waves curled, stretched, and broke against the sand. What a morning!

  And there wasn’t a soul in sight. By lunch time, she guessed, all those sunbeds would be full.

  She picked up her pace again—and instantly stubbed her right toe against a rock half-buried in the sand. At this end, the beach was still in its natural state—except for several flattened plastic water bottles, and half a crab pot with a length of line still attached. Up ahead, both rocks and trash had been cleared away; the Inn’s brochure promised a sandy beach, she remembered.

  The sand was firmer than she’d imagined, but the rock-free section was the perfect length for thirty-second wind sprints. She was on her sixth set with one sprint left, jogging back to the rocky end and still breathing hard, when a woman’s laugh made her look up.

  The other path must lead directly down from the Inn. A couple picked their way over the bluff, holding hands. Dammit, why didn’t Inn guests sleep in like normal vacationers—

  But it wasn’t a couple from the Inn. It was Lizzie the lawyer, and that girl with the thick braid who’d been helping out at the gallery for the summer. Before Courtney had quite processed it all, Lizzie spotted her—and dropped the girl’s hand like it was griddle-hot.

  Hmm.

  When she reached her starting point again, Courtney decided climbing the path would count as her final wind sprint. Just before she stepped up onto a rock half-buried in dirt and grass, she turned to look back again. The pair had turned west to walk away from Courtney, backs lit up by the sun. Their hands were no longer touching, but the girl’s long braid dangled left, leaving only a tiny slice of daylight between her left ear and Lizzie’s right shoulder.

  Did Lizzie’s husband know she was stepping out with his summer help? Probably not—and Courtney certainly wasn’t going to be the one to spill the beans.

  She was still puzzling over what she’d seen and how it would reverberate through the island community when she reached the bottom of the big hill, slowing to a cool-down pace for the last few minutes back to the cottage. The road was quiet, but the air wafted fresh-baked goodies. Her stomach growled.

  “Good morning, Courtney.” A bulky woman filled the blue doorway. “Want to be a guinea pig?” This must be Barb the baker, James’s ex.

  “If it means a tas
te of whatever I’m smelling, sure.” Courtney followed her inside, and Barb kicked away the large stone doorstop. As Courtney’s eyes adjusted to the dimmed light, she spotted a wooden table in the middle of the concrete floor, a large slop sink full of dirty stainless bowls and mixing utensils, and three ovens. To her right were several cooling racks full of scones.

  “You must’ve started early this morning.”

  “Every morning. I like to have the ovens off by noon.” Barb reached up to a high cabinet and pulled out a single plate. “I just baked a new flavor, and I’m not sure it’s quite right. I’ve heard you tell it like it is, which would be a refreshing change around here.”

  Courtney wiped the sweat off her forehead with her forearm. “My mom always says life’s too short to sugar-coat what you think.”

  “Perfect—these are savory. More like a meal than a dessert, I’m hoping.” Barb placed a scone dotted with green specks on the plate and blew a strand of cinnamon-colored hair out of her face with a sharp practiced purse of her lips. “Just brewed some coffee. Though you’re a runner, so maybe you’re too healthy for—”

  “Coffee’d be awesome.” Courtney followed the baker through a narrow door into what turned out to be the house kitchen. Shades covering the windows blocked out the sunrise, and dishes and papers covered every flat surface—except for a single place setting at the near end of a wood table.

  How had James ever fit into such a small crowded place?

  “Sorry for the chaos,” Barb said, clearing a second place at the table. “Since. . . I don’t get a lot of visitors.”

  Courtney set down the scone and perched, trying not to dampen the back of the chair with her sweat.

  “Dig in—I know you’re on a schedule.” Barb set down a mugful of black coffee on Courtney’s left. “Take anything in it?”

  “Not unless you have soy milk.”

  “I do! Switched about a month ago.” Barb pulled open the fridge door and set down a small container. “Gave up gluten too, which is quite ironic. But I feel so much better! I don’t get so mad at people anymore. I’ve been wondering. . .” her voice trailed off as she turned to pick up her own mug, which she cradled in both hands. “But you’re here as a guinea pig, not a shrink. What do you think?”

  Trying to ignore the eyes staring down at her, Courtney lifted the scone to her mouth. As promised, it wasn’t sweet—tasted just like spanakopita.

  “Feta and spinach?”

  “Plus a touch of rosemary—and gluten-free. What do you think?”

  “Too much feta,” Courtney said. She took another bite. “But quite satisfying—the perfect light lunch.”

  “Just what I thought! I’m thinking about phasing out bagels all together.”

  “Not just pumpernickel?” It was out before she could stop herself.

  Barb scowled, and stood up to refill their coffees. “That asshole. I might’ve been wrong about the drugs, but he still jumped right out of my bed and into Anna’s. Right across the street! Does he think I’m blind?”

  “Wait—James is sleeping with Anna Crosby?” Gears meshed in Courtney’s head: the way Anna kept dropping James’s name. Her sheep-like devotion at that town meeting, and how she’d lingered afterward, retrieving abandoned bottles and cups, even as the midwife ushered Patty up the stairs. Courtney had planned to stick around herself to help clean up, maybe talk over with James how he thought the meeting had gone—but Anna’s presence made her feel like a groupie.

  “. . .breakup was supposed to be just a reset,” Barb was saying. “A chance to dig out of our rut. But instead of talking things through like a grownup, he hightailed it out of here. The very next night, I see him knocking on Anna’s door, carrying the same goddamn bottle of wine he’d brought me the night before!”

  “I can set you straight on that at least,” Courtney said. “I saw him come out of Prime’s that night, with a—”

  “Whatever—he’s obviously moved on.” Barb shook her head, loosening hair from her bun. “For all the guy’s faults, he’s definitely a one-woman man.”

  None of this should feel like a serrated knife sawing at Courtney’s gut; she was only on Brenton for a little while. And she didn’t date ferry captains.

  “Gotta go.” She stood up, remembering too late the uneaten half scone. “Can I take this with me? It’s really good—just too rich to eat in a hurry.”

  Barb screeched back her chair. “Ah yes, that damned ferry. Seven forty-five departure, no matter what it interrupts.” She stomped out through the baking room to the blue door and pressed it open. “You make a great guinea pig, Courtney. And I hear you’re doing a great job running the ferry too. James gives you any guff, my door’s always open.”

  An hour later, Courtney was getting ready to start up the Homer’s engines when Chase the banker paused outside the wheelhouse door. “Good morning! Are you free for dinner tonight?”

  “Thanks anyway.” She smiled over at him. “Maybe another time.”

  “That’s what you always say,” he responded, setting his briefcase down on the deck. “So today, I’m not budging until you say yes.” He crossed his arms, waiting.

  He was blocking the gangway, so the other commuters—and Billy—couldn’t board.

  “Come on, don’t be ridiculous. . .”

  “I don’t care if I’m late for work.” Above the tight collar and tie, those chins wobbled.

  “Jeez, Chase—go sit down!” someone called from the dock.

  Courtney started up both engines, adjusted the RPMs, turned on chartplotter and VHFs and depth sounder. When she looked over at the doorway again, he was still there.

  “All right!” Despite her irritation, Courtney found herself smiling; she’d always admired persistence. “Dinner it is.”

  Owen

  AS HEAD LANDSCAPER at the Skye View Inn, Owen was having the best summer of his life so far. All Mr. Dane really expected him to do was cut the lawn and weed the flower beds, which left plenty of time to hang with his after-hours companions.

  When summer started, his first choice had been Shana—the sexier of the two Irish serving girls. After she got off work, as long as Owen brought along a bottle of that island rum, she’d eagerly join him on one of those fancy sunbeds down at the beach.

  The last few evenings, he’d chosen Hazel instead: the beautiful tractor that lived inside this spiffy barn. With her red paint lit up by the sunset streaming in the high windows, she was even more gorgeous than usual.

  “And you’ll never get clingy, will you?” he asked now, tipping the rum bottle up to his mouth. Never, he imagined her replying.

  Three nights ago, Shana had interrupted to ask where Owen had disappeared to the evening before. He couldn’t tell her the truth— right here in this barn, keeping company with Hazel—so he’d been avoiding her ever since.

  Sitting on the workbench, at eye level with Hazel’s windows, he’d could tell her things he’d never dare share with another human. Like how much he hated doing Boss Lloyd’s dirty work. Tonight’s project was the worst of all—but the price was too good to refuse. Which was why he was planning to finish the bottle of rum before braving the dark woods.

  Together, him and Hazel had dug all the way around the Inn, transformed wilderness into croquet court, cleared some of that brush at the west edge of the lawn. After every outing, he rubbed her glass and paint back to spotless and wiped down the cushy bucket seat with some olive oil stolen from the kitchen. Soon as those locals gave up their stupid sit-in, she’d be ready to clear the way for Boss Lloyd’s golf course.

  Sliding off the workbench, Owen carried the rum bottle around to admire the glint of Hazel’s front blade. Boss Lloyd wouldn’t go for one of them grapple attachments—“not subtle enough,” he’d said, whatever that meant. Those things could lift trees right up out of the ground! But the boss said scraping a circle around the bark would make those two big trees die off on their own, so no one would know who’d done it. Whatever—the money promised would be e
nough to get Owen off this stupid island. Maybe even pay for bartending classes. A winter out here would just suck.

  He climbed up into Hazel’s cab and pulled the door closed. Dammit—there was another spot on the glass! He climbed down, collected cleaner and rag, and polished it back to perfect. There— now he could settle into the leather seat pressing cool and smooth against the back of his T-shirt. After another pull at the bottle, he set it down on the floor next to his bare feet. Placed both hands on the wheel.

  “Wish I could start you up right now,” he told Hazel. “Sitting still isn’t good for you. . .” They were supposed to do the tree work last week, but then the locals had started their damned rebellion.

  Why not run her? Steel drums were playing on the front patio tonight, which would cover the engine noise. Especially if he kept the barn doors closed.

  “What do you think, old girl—should we do it?” He could’ve sworn she nodded.

  “Alrighty then.”

  Owen reached for the key—and then pulled his hand away, heart pounding. What if Mr. Dane found out Boss Lloyd had been paying him on the side? What if tonight’s sit-in folks—only a quarter mile away—heard the engine, called the cops?

  Owen snorted. Only “cop” on this whole island was that rent-a-reverend, last seen at the right-hand end of the Inn’s bar, all googly eyes over Sylvia’s snake tattoo.

  Just a few minutes—till she came up to temperature. After another drink.

  Hazel coughed but didn’t turn over. He turned up the RPMs. VROOM! Louder than expected—he’d never run her with the barn doors shut before.

  The engine smoothed into a purr. “There, girl, you like that just fine.” Soon as the temperature gauge tickled to life, he shut her down again.

  When he opened the cab door, Hazel’s exhaust smoke was so thick he started to cough. Barn windows were open, but they were small— better sit tight, till the air cleared out. Anyway this cushy leather seat was way more comfortable than sitting on that damned work-bench—and there was still another hour to kill, and several more shots of rum, before he had the darkness and the Dutch courage for tonight’s dirty work.