He’d been so hopeful when he spotted James dining on the patio with Captain Courtney—locals at the inn, just as he’d always wished! He’d thought James was with Anna now, a major upgrade from the baker—but two captains would have a lot more in common.
That gift certificate had been Mavis’s idea.
Had she been on the sit-in last night, and that’s why Gumbo was out roaming?
When he first heard about the protest, he’d thought it wouldn’t affect Inn business at all. A huge misjudgment—just like these stupid widow’s walk tours. Harmless fun, he’d predicted. Instead they’d quickly become a pain in his personal ass—even before Sylvia waltzed into his office to report a new hashtag: #skyeviewhoax. Parker didn’t really understand the concept, but it sure sounded bad for business.
At today’s afternoon tea, he’d been quoted the exact distance and direction from Brenton to Skye—by one of the wives now standing against the railing of his beautiful widow’s walk. Maybe he should invent some safety hazard up here.
“Welcome to the famous Skye View widow’s walk,” he began. “Newport Bridge, Beavertail. . .”
He was just about to repeat the Block Island coconut oil joke when a yell came up from below.
“Hey Mr. Dane! Down here!”
Confused, he looked down—right at that sit-in chair, visible through an unfortunate gap between two dormers.
“How’s the view up there today?” the woman continued. “See any other islands?” Thanks to some strange auditory twist, Parker could hear every word, as clearly as if she were up here right next to him.
“Who’s that talking so loud?” Mrs. Saunders peered through the gap. “Oh—”
“Nice jugs!” Mr. Walker said. Which is when Parker recognized Patty Hubbard—brazenly nursing that brat of hers.
“Watch your mouth.” Mrs. Walker slapped her husband’s shoulder.
Keith Walker had skipped the tea altogether and asked for rum on the rocks, so Parker had been quite hopeful they’d have their first-ever male sighting. Instead, the guy was gawping down at Patty like he’d never seen such a pair. Maybe he hadn’t—quite impressive, even from three stories up.
“Like I said, there’s always a great view from here,” Parker said, ostentatiously swiveling his gaze and his shoulders around to the southeast. “Now, looking east, the unique combination of light and height sometimes makes it possible to see great distances. . .”
But he already knew that Patty’s bare breasts had destroyed any chance of mistaking a cloud on the horizon for a distant Scottish island.
Damn that sit-in!
Wednesday’s forecast called for rain. By next Saturday, he’d figure out an excuse to cancel the tours for the rest of the summer, even if he had to rip out a railing himself.
“Isn’t this the best view in the world?” Parker told the two couples, sweeping his hand along the watery horizon. “If only the Indians had built another story on their Wampum building, they never would’ve given this up. . .”
James
“MANY EYES FOLLOW us,” Sheila said, grabbing his arm to navigate spiked heels down the Bean’s steps. “Where we headed—your place?”
James nodded. “Might start a few rumors.”
When she’d first sat down at his table, whispers had started up around them. Hefty women of color—ebony skin, blue blouse, strand of purple hair, sparkly fingernails—weren’t exactly a common sight at the Brenton Bean. Joe’s law partner had never visited the island before.
“That’s right, none of your neighbors knows I’m a lesbian!” Sheila pulled her soft hip in against his. “How ‘bout you—got a girlfriend?”
“Not anymore.”
“Alrighty then, lead on!” She even rested her head on his shoulder.
James grinned. Joe enjoyed shocking people, too.
Sheila had called yesterday morning, saying she had some new information she wanted to share in person. As soon as he’d explained that he wasn’t allowed ashore, she’d promised to be on the next morning’s ferry—and when she walked up to the Bean, she’d stood out from the crowd like a peacock surrounded by seagulls.
At the top of the ferry landing, they turned right—and the gallery owner paused his window-washing to stare. James’s spine felt like a target, until the road finally bent out of sight to the right and Sheila dropped his elbow. Though she continued to make flirty small talk, all the way to the sagging steps of his cottage.
He dragged an extra chair into the kitchen so Sheila could sit down at the head of the table. Before dropping her massive handbag to the floor, she pulled out a familiar tan-and-green pamphlet.
“Last Christmas, I received my very own copy of The History of Brenton Island.” She held it up, framing it with those sparkly fingertips. “Guess who?”
“Had to be Joe.”
“He also sent handwritten research notes on who really set the fire. As the man himself used to say, ‘Sometimes knowing the history makes. . .’”
“All the difference,” James finished. “Want something to drink? I don’t. . .”
“Water’s fine.” The pamphlet disappeared, back into her bag.
James filled two glasses from the tap and sat down on Sheila’s left.
“On the drive down to Newport, I took a little side trip to Narragansett,” she said. “Made a teensy-weensy donation to Pierce Borba’s new church steeple, which loosened his tongue quite a bit. He told me he’d invested in a new development out here and would be moving home any day now, once some family business got quote ‘straightened out,’ unquote.”
Asshole. But wait—“Development?”
Sheila extracted several sheets of legal paper, covered in dense round handwriting. “I also stopped in at the Newport County records office, had a chat with a very nice young man. As of three years ago, everything on paper has been transferred to their online database, including a deed for West Brenton dated—”
“No wonder Joe recommended you! Did you find the agree—”
“That agreement’s not notarized. You could’ve typed it yourself, dipped the paper in tea to make it look old. Only thing we have that’ll hold up in a court of law is the deed, and that says West Brenton is owned by some entity known as the West Brenton Land Trust. So all your friend Lloyd had to do was buy a URL, maybe print up some business cards, and bingo. . .”
She dug out her phone, sliding the granny glasses hanging around her neck onto her nose. The tip of her tongue stretched up to cover her top lip, and one purple thumbnail scrolled, tapped, then scrolled again.
“Here it is—page was just updated yesterday. There’s three trustees.”
“Trustees?” Looping gold script read West Brenton Land Trust; below that was a picture of waving grasses that looked more like corn belt than New England.
“Fancy name for investors. Scroll down—recognize anyone?”
Alison Wainwright. Pierce Borba. Jesus, Joe’s brother in cahoots with Lloyd!
And—Dean Moreland.
“Not a very big world, is it?” Her brown eyes were rock-hard. “How does it feel to be working for a guy who’s working against you?”
He handed back her phone. “So Lloyd has a legal claim to West Brenton,” he said, ticking off each problem on a finger. “Joe’s brother is helping him. And my new boss is also in bed with—”
Sheila held up a hand. “It gets worse.”
“Worse!” His scar started to throb.
Sheila pulled out another manila folder.
“Just out of curiosity, I looked up the oldest island deed.” She licked her forefinger to page through the papers. “Dated 1913, the year after the East Harbor breakwater was completed. The owner was a Mr. Peter Crosby—”
“Anna’s place.” She already knew more about Brenton real estate than he did.
“Here’s how the deed defines that property: ‘Bound to the east and running one hundred feet along the Atlantic Ocean, also known as Rhode Island Sound. Bound to the west and running one hundr
ed feet along the Indian pathway. Bound to the north by a large boulder of granite. . .” she dropped the paper into the file. “Just distinctive land details, no latitude or longitude.”
Get to the point. Instead he said, “You’ve done your homework.”
“Property law is my first love.” Sheila pulled out a handkerchief, wiped each temple dry, and patted at her forehead.
Her glass was empty, so James refilled it and set it back down on top of the papers. He drained his own glass in one gulp, sweat beading up from every pore. The sun beamed in through the sink windows, which were painted shut like all of them. His mother hadn’t thought marshy harbor air was healthy—but neither was this sweatbox of a closed-up house. Once Sheila left, he’d figure out how to get some air circulating in here.
Sheila sipped at the water glass and set it down a safe distance from her folders. “Now, here’s the real kicker. That old agreement reads the same way; a boulder here, an ocean there. Doesn’t even mention the dividing path—only the Atlantic Ocean. So—”
“So Wainwright owns the whole goddamn island?”
Outside, a golf cart whined. James stood up in time to see Mayor Frank staring so hard at the house, he almost ran into a tree.
“Your flirting worked.” He wiped sweat off his forehead, wondering if he should go out there and explain—but the island rumor mill was the least of his worries right now, so he sat down again.
“All the houses in East Brenton have valid deeds,” he reminded Sheila. “No way the locals would allow Lloyd to take over anything east of—”
“I know. He could look like a perfect gentleman.”
“Huh?”
“After pointing out to the judge that he really could lay claim to the whole island, he’d probably agree to ‘settle’—” Sheila made quotes with two purple fingernails “—for just West Brenton.”
“Jesus.” James dropped his forehead into his palms. “Got any good news?”
“Yes. First off, our friend Lloyd doesn’t seem like the sharpest knife in the drawer, so he probably hasn’t figured out the boundary thing. Second, the guy’s so far underwater financially he’s gonna have to grow gills. His wife’s the one with the money, so ever since she started divorce proceedings he’s been on the edge of bankruptcy. That’s why he brought in Pierce and Dean; they must’ve provided some working capital.”
“And that’s good news?”
“Yup. Lloyd’s undoubtedly made those folks a string of empty promises, and it won’t be too long until that bites him in the toockus. His inbox was hacked yesterday, by someone other than your teenager. Which means—”
“How’d you know he’s a teenager?”
Sheila’s lips curled up into a smile. “Couldn’t be sure, until now.”
So damn quick! Good thing she was on his side.
“What’s your fee for all this, anyway? I can’t—”
“You’re taking care of Joe, right?”
“I stop by every day. Mavis and—”
“So, make these last days as easy as you can.” Dark eyes locked on his. “This is his fight. And. . . he doesn’t make friends easily.”
While James tried to come up with a response, Sheila realigned the corners of her folders.
“I’m going to ask for an injunction,” she said at last, “to get Lloyd’s name removed from the land trust. But it’s quite an unusual situation. Until he actually damages the property, it’s hard to prove malicious intent. If he does enough damage, there’ll be nothing to protect. So we need some more time to figure out the best approach. And none of it will matter one bit unless you keep the sit-in going.”
“We’re all starting to burn out,” James admitted.
“Any summer people who could help? Sounds like you need some fresh blood, and they won’t want their island paradise ruined.” She glanced at her watch, stood up. “Shoot, if I’m going to fit in a quick visit with Joe before the afternoon ferry, I’d better hit the road. Hang in there, James! We’ll get this sorted out—maybe not as quick or as clean as he would’ve, but we’ll manage.”
Courtney
FRIDAYS WERE ALREADY long enough without a surprise inspection from Mr. Wainwright. When she first spotted him scurrying down the ramp, all Courtney could think was: What’s he gonna moan about now? Billy hadn’t been late once since the baby was born. All the Homer’s lines were neatly coiled, and Courtney’s shell was tucked well out of sight. She’d even remembered to top off the engine oil this morning, not that he gave a rat’s ass about that.
Or—maybe he’d found out she was helping with the sit-in?
By the time he ducked into the wheelhouse, her heart was pounding beneath her bra-captured shell.
“Just had a call from a licensed captain,” he said. “Ned Porter. Know him?”
She shook her head, stomach beginning to churn.
“He’s looking for work, wondering if I needed anyone.”
Instead of answering, she started the starboard motor. The clock already showed four thirty-two. If he was the cause, would her boss fine her for a late arrival? Absolutely, she realized; the guy was nuts. She goosed the port throttle forward so it wouldn’t stall, and started that one up too. “I need to get underway,” she told him—though that should’ve been obvious.
“What you need to do,” her boss hissed, “is to stop them! Or I’ll fire your ass so fast, you won’t know what hit you.”
On his way out, he whacked that bald head against the top of the door frame—again.
Mr. Wainwright’s “them” was the sit-in group, of course. How exactly did he think she could singlehandedly halt the protest? And for what—so he could clear-cut a whole bunch of trees? Even if it cost her this job, there was no way she was going to help him gentrify Brenton.
“Ready to go, Mrs. Captain?” Billy’s upbeat voice told her he’d overheard Mr. Wainwright’s threat. “Pair of honeymooners back aft, anxious to get to the inn.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
“Chase isn’t on board yet.”
“Oh, so we’re watching out for Chase now?”
Billy must’ve heard about their dinner last night. She’d managed to put him off for almost a week, but in the end it had been a nice evening with only a little flirting. “Not like that, it’s just—”
“Didn’t he tell you this morning? Said he had some black-tie thing tonight, out at the—”
“Then let’s get the hell out of here.”
She let routine take over: toot the horn, back out into the channel, power out of the harbor and push throttles forward to cruising speed. The bay was glassy, and the sun was lowering in the western sky.
Billy stayed aft, playing bartender to the honeymooners and commuters. Too bad, she would’ve enjoyed the distraction of aimless chatter today. Instead she tweaked the starboard throttle, trying to get the two diesels to exactly match RPMs, and trying not to worry about Mr. Wainwright finding out that she was helping “them” with the sit-in—until the VHF radio crackled with Mack’s deep voice.
“Courtney, switch down one.” As soon as she changed channels and responded, he spoke again.
“Mayor Frank’s house caught fire,” Mack said. “I’m running him ashore, just rounding Bird Island now. EMTs will meet us at the dock.” Ahead, she spotted his boat speeding toward her. “Could you make sure Jenna knows I won’t be back for supper? She took the kids to the beach, didn’t bring her cell phone.”
“Roger, will do. What’s the. . .” but more information wasn’t important right now. “Best to Mayor Frank. . . Homer S. Morgan, switching back to thirteen, sixteen.” By the time she hung up the handset, he had already whizzed past.
A fire! Those three cottages were so close together. . .
Bird Island’s population squawked away, unconcerned with human dramas. Courtney had already found the half-sunk nun and lined up the bow with the end of the breakwater when Billy finally stuck his head in the wheelhouse door.
“That middle fender’s not holding a
ir,” he reported. “I’ll see if Mack has a spare, or maybe I can fix it between—”
“Mack just passed us, on his way to Newport Hospital.” Courtney relayed the news.
“Right next door to our place.” Billy’s eyes jumped ahead, but the houses up on the bluff were still too far away to pick out.
“Perfect ending to a shitty afternoon,” Courtney muttered.
“Boss Lloyd is such a bully. I’m glad I’m not—”
“Spying for him any longer?” Courtney finished. “Me too—he hasn’t figured out I’ve been helping with the sit-in. Though somehow, he always knows to the minute when we tie up out here.”
“It’s your phone—transmits some sort of beacon. Boss Lloyd set it up when you first started.” Billy shook his head. “The guy’s a whack job! But I can’t quit right now—not with the baby and all.”
“Get paid yet this month?”
“I signed up for automatic deposit a year ago.”
“Smart move.” Courtney pulled her phone out of her pocket. “How do I shut off the tracking thingy?”
“No idea—ask Nathaniel.” One more worried glance through the windshield, and Billy headed aft again.
She tossed her phone on the counter, wishing she could throw it overboard instead. But until her next paycheck came through, she couldn’t afford a replacement.
Once inside the harbor, she checked that there were still three houses lined up on the bluff before focusing on her landing. The gangway dropped onto the deck only nine minutes late, and the smiling honeymooners filed ashore, hand in hand. “Best wishes!” she called after them. Beautiful afternoon, not too hot, perfect for a pre-cocktail walk down to the monument. Or a swim. Or whatever just-married folks did. . .
Courtney left her damned phone right where it was and followed the rest of the crowd up to the Bean, fists stuffed deep into her shorts pockets. Lloyd, stalking her! Where could she find Nathaniel, the island’s resident geek, on such a perfect summer late afternoon?
James would know, and he was sitting on the outside deck, staring at his own phone—even though he was supposed to be on the noon to six sit-in shift.
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