“Shouldn’t you be—”
“So, you’re stepping out with Chase now?”
“Stepping out?” Courtney snorted. “Hardly.”
Eyes remained on his phone. “Dinner at the Inn,” he growled. “Last—”
“You and I ate there—was that a date? Shee-it, why can’t everyone just leave me alone today!”
She let the door slam behind her before remembering she’d wanted to ask about Mayor Frank’s accident, and how to find Nathaniel. On Fridays and Sundays, she allowed herself an extra jolt of caffeine to get her through the evening run, and usually at this hour she was the Bean’s only customer. Today, though, a line of tourists ran from cash register to door—too long a wait for the half hour turnaround. Damn summer crowds! She felt like kicking something.
Patty’s mother Ruby, the owner of the Bean, waved from the right end of the counter. “Usual, Captain Courtney?”
“Yeah, but easy on the soy milk. And what happened to Mayor Frank?”
The woman assembled an iced coffee while bringing her up to date. The mayor had heated up some soup and forgotten to turn off the stove; while he was slurping away out on his porch, the curtain in the kitchen window had blown over the open flame. He’d escaped down the back stairs, but a rotten tread broke under his weight. Hand burns, sprained ankle.
Ruby set down the coffee. “Patty smelled smoke, called the Irreverend, and took the baby to my house just in case the fire got out of control. By the time the fire truck made it up there, Mack had already put it all out with a couple of extinguishers. But I’m starting a petition; Mayor Frank shouldn’t be allowed to live on his own anymore.”
Courtney headed outside again, her own problems shrinking to trivial. And James was gone—a tourist couple had already snagged his table—so she couldn’t ask him where Nathaniel might be.
Everyone had been on edge the past few weeks; not enough sleep, all their routines upended by the sit-in. And now the fire.
The seat at the head of the big table was empty. Poor Mayor Frank.
She’d last seen him yesterday afternoon, when the mayor had screeched down the pier in his golf cart to meet the ferry. “You need to give James a pep talk,” he’d rasped.
“Me!” Courtney snorted. That’s Anna’s job, she wanted to say.
“He is tired and frustrated,” Mayor Frank replied, sounding much more with it than he had lately. “Someone needs to convince him to keep the sit-in going. He doesn’t suffer fools ashore, and he likes them even less on the water—he’ll listen to you.”
She’d scoffed away his words. And then tucked them away, deep inside, a shiny gem of thought to pull out whenever she needed something nice to think about. Like right now.
She was slurping down ice from her coffee when a text pinged: James. “Supper my house since UR so desperate for free meal.” So many words must’ve taken him forever.
She grinned. Not here for a long time, just here for a good time, as the mechanic at home would say, whenever he was trying to justify going out with yet another girl. She hit reply and then stared out unseeing at the harbor; this required just the right response. But after several attempts at a witty retort, all she could think to ask was, “What time?”
James
HE AWOKE WITH a jolt in the camp chair at the west end of the sit-in, drool encrusting his beard. Must’ve nodded off, even though he’d biked back up here from the Bean only twenty minutes ago.
Barb almost always drooled when she slept. James had been thinking about her all day, ever since spotting her at dawn with the gallery’s owner. They must’ve been walking home after the two to six a.m. sit-in shift, but that didn’t explain the way they leaned toward each other, shoulders almost touching. . .
James had pedaled away as fast as he could, hoping they didn’t spot him, and headed blindly for the Homer—craving the comfort of those predictable diesels. He hadn’t started them up in more than a week, too overwhelmed with everything: Sitting with Joe. Sitting up here at the west end every afternoon. Sitting on the dividing path three nights a week.
Too much damned sitting.
Ever since that supper up at the Inn, James had been telling himself he needed to apologize to Barb. Courtney’s words aligned all too closely with what Joe had said. Two people he respected who’d never met, saying the same damn thing.
But if Barb had taken up with a married man, then she didn’t deserve an apology.
His phone pinged again, which must’ve been what woke him— Courtney, asking what time for supper! After extra run, he texted back. What had he been thinking, asking her? Now he’d have to cook something.
Grill. Fish. He could manage that. He texted Mack: Any fresh blues?
This morning, Courtney’s name had dominated the Bean’s breakfast discussion: the Irreverend had spotted her on the Inn’s patio last night, with Chase. Quite casually, Mack added that she’d put in a formal application for the Oxford Ferry job. The preacher replied that he was happy for her; she’d be able to go home again, escape all the Brenton aggravations. A boss setting her up to fail, locals who hadn’t fully accepted her. . .
Never mind friends who didn’t listen to her advice.
James stood up, stretching his stiff back muscles. In the glare of late afternoon sun, the Narragansetts’ graveyard at the edge of the bluff—burial ground, Joe corrected; sacred land for our people— threw long shadows across the rough grass. Sticking up well above the stones was an out-of-place black pole; sailboat mast, he realized, and a tall one. There must be a sizeable yacht anchored in West Harbor.
James rubbed his eyes to clear them. Was he hallucinating?
A white guy came up over the bluffs, heading right for his chair. Khaki shorts, dark blue shirt—Dean Moreland.
So much for avoiding the guy’s calls.
He’d given his notice two days ago, by text message—a very useful form of communication, he’d discovered—right after seeing Dean’s name on that land trust website. Since then, Dean had called, texted, and emailed, repeating the same message; James would remain on the payroll until he could explain.
“Thought I’d find you here.” Dean was breathing hard from the climb.
“Researching your new property?” James growled, too exhausted for pleasantries.
“I’m heading up to the Inn for a drink. Don’t suppose you want to join—”
“Sorry, can’t leave this place unguarded. Never know who to trust around here.”
Dean perched on the tumbled-down rock wall surrounding the burial ground and leaned forward, resting elbows on knees and knitting tanned fingers together. “How many more weeks can you do this?”
“Long as we need to.” All fifteen sit-in regulars were as tired and grumpy as James, and the two calls he’d made to summer folks hadn’t been returned, but Dean didn’t need to know any of that.
“Sailing down here, I was trying to think of ways to end this standoff between you and Lloyd. . . and I’ve decided to place a story in the Newport papers. Stealing property from the Narragansetts would do his reputation some real—”
“He’s stealing from all the islanders,” James corrected.
“Yes, well. . . we can’t always control the exact details.” Dean’s teeth were pearly white, his smile oily. Why hadn’t James seen that before? Too busy taking the guy’s cash, that’s why.
“Bad press won’t scare Lloyd,” he muttered.
“Oh I think it will—he believes everything he reads about himself. I’ll give my favorite reporter a call, set up an—”
“You’re in bed with the guy! Why would you sabotage his plans?”
“I am not. In. Bed. With. Lloyd.” Dean thumped his fist against his knee to emphasize each word. “When he first asked me to join the West Brenton Land Trust board, I put up some cash—because I thought we were going to protect this place. He’s told each of us exactly what we wanted to hear. The daughter gets her golf course, and I get protected open space. Pierce gets the Sachem’s cotta
ge, and somehow I’ll be able to build my dream house on the same exact property. I’m tired of his lies—it’s time to fight back!”
Dean’s breathing was surprisingly loud.
“I’d hate to sail around this island next year,” he continued, “and see fake grass and whale-pant golfers instead of open fields and deer. Ainsley has too many places to play already.”
Another silence fell, until Dean pressed his hands on his thighs to stand up.
“Besides, the sooner we end this thing, the sooner you can stop playing tree warden and get back to MoreSea. Your skills are wasted out—”
“Summer’s almost over!”
“I offered you a year-round job. Christmas in the Caribbean, remember?” He smiled again, and it looked genuine this time. “Sound good?”
Sounded great.
“If you’re really interested in helping,” James said slowly, “can you think of anyone who could join the sit-in? We could use some. . . fresh blood.”
“I’ll help out myself, starting tomorrow. And I’ll make a few calls tonight, rally the summer troops. Sound good?” he repeated, reaching out his right hand.
James half-stood to match his grip. “Thanks, Dean.” Settling back into his chair, he turned to watch Dean saunter up the hill, toward the Inn, thoughts chasing each other—until his phone dinged once again.
Mack would drop two fresh-caught fillets in James’s fridge on his way home. No questions asked, which was helpful since James didn’t have any answers. So at six o’clock sharp, James folded up his lawn chair and hopped on his bike to pedal home along North Road. He usually went by the dividing path to check that the six-to-ten p.m. shift had arrived, but tonight he didn’t have time for babysitting.
Back at the house, he opened the slider to the back deck and pulled the top off the rickety round grill. Paint peeled off the underside of the lid, but the rack looked shiny enough. Bunched-up newspaper, kindling, fresh charcoal; ready to light.
The decking was slick with green mold, but he couldn’t do anything about that in the next half hour. Instead he went back inside and cleared the kitchen table of everything that had piled up since the town meeting.
Once the kitchen was tidied, he forced himself back into the living room and looked around with a visitor’s eyes. Not too bad, except for his mother’s roll-top desk; weeks ago, when he’d tried to open it to search for Mayor Frank’s book, it had jammed, revealing a sloppy stack of abandoned papers. Now he shimmied and shuffled until it opened all the way, giving off the faint scent of lavender. His stomach roiled—Courtney would be here in twenty minutes! What was he thinking, inviting her for supper? What would they talk about?
In the left corner was a stack of photos—wow, was that him? Definitely his handwriting on the back: “Merry Merry! December 25, 1990.” Christmas at sea: a twenty-year-old’s tanned elbow locked around a sailboat shroud, shoulder-length hair tossed by trade winds, gold ring in his right ear, and a smile as wide as the horizon behind him. Pure potential—without much to show for it, twenty years later.
The next photo was his dad, standing next to the lighthouse door and smiling for a change.
Maybe he should frame some of these and put them up around the house? Take down his mother’s shell-covered frames—though he’d keep that Cooperation Island fable she’d embroidered, the one that had hung to the right of their fireplace first in the keeper’s cottage, and then here in this house.
Beneath the photos was a thick ream of stationery. Elizabeth Davidson Malloy, Malloy House, Brenton Island, Rhode Island. She’d named the house the same day they’d moved in, even got a wood sign carved that she placed right next to the driveway. As if the postman might not remember where they’d gone, after they left the lighthouse.
The teenaged James had scoffed at the sign’s pretentiousness. Last May, when he moved back in here, he’d repainted it and set it out next to the road.
He stashed the stationery in the left drawer, which uncovered a wrinkled spiral-bound notebook, full of his mom’s neat script. Journal? No. . . a story.
“It was a fine place for this young man to be, though a long, long way from his own island. He’d found a place where winter was just a memory, where the skills he valued most mattered year-round. His mates were sailors too, and there was one in particular, a woman named Carrie. . .”
Charlie, actually. Mom had turned his delivery letters into a story!
James looked out over the harbor—but instead of seeing a twisted dock and the marshiest corner of Brenton Harbor, he was picturing a distant tropical shoreline and a gorgeous blonde in a bikini. He’d probably made their relationship sound quite serious in his letters back to Mom. Where was Charlie now?
The notebook was more than half full. James carried it over to the staircase, slid it between two balusters. He’d read it some night when he couldn’t fall asleep.
Courtney was a few minutes later than expected and carried a paper bag shaped like a wine bottle. “My mom always says never to show up empty-handed,” she told him, tossing the bag toward the garbage can. It missed, so she went over to retrieve it. “Hey, you finally opened some windows in here!”
Removing her jacket unleashed that lavender scent, which fit with this house much better than onboard the Homer—though it was overlaid with something else. Engine oil, he realized, turning away to hide his smile. Not the usual perfume, but any scent that told him she was looking after the Homer was a real comfort.
Courtney opened the wine and James dug into a cabinet for two glasses. “Cheers,” he said, taking a quick sip. Wow, that was way better than anything Sam Prime carried. Setting down his glass, he turned to open the fridge. “You like bluefish?”
“When was it caught?”
“This afternoon.”
“Spring catch where I come from—does it really taste as good in July?”
She was teasing, James realized.
“Depends on the grill—and the grill master. I did clean it. So if the rusted leg holds up—”
“On the grill? Or the grill master?” She must be nervous too.
“Both, actually.” He reached into the fridge to pull out the two fillets. Butter, salt, pepper, ready.
“Want me to make a salad?”
“Only if your freshness standards aren’t as high for lettuce as they are for fish.”
She pulled open the door of the fridge, then closed it again. “Never mind.”
He carried the pan out to the grill. Courtney followed. “Can we eat out here?” she asked. “Way too nice to be inside.” Golden evening brushed the tops of the marsh grasses.
“The southern belle won’t freeze to death?”
“Brought a jacket. I’m learning. . .”
He managed not to burn the fish, and as soon as they settled down at the outside table James dug into his food. Between bites, their conversation was as free-range and tasty as Mack’s fillets; boat-nerd talk, Joe would call it. James told her about delivering boats to the Caribbean, and Courtney talked about running the Oxford ferry. Five minutes across a river wasn’t always boring, apparently. She asked the difference between a gong and a bell, so he explained that a gong has multiple tones while a bell only has one.
He’d never talked boats or buoys with a woman before.
He was dividing the last of the wine between their two glasses, wondering what her next navigation question would be, when she asked instead: “Where’d you get that scar?”
It pulsed once, then settled down again. “Old girlfriend.”
“Charlie? Weird name for—”
“How’d you know that?” He clunked down his glass.
“I found a picture in the captain’s cottage. Holding up a fish.”
“Oh! Man, that seems like a long time ago.” He’d half-moved into that tiny place when he first came back to the island, until he realized how lonely his mom was living in this house all by herself.
“How did such a babe give you such a scar?”
“By
rolling over a mini-moke.”
“A what?”
“Cross between a small car and a golf cart—it’s what they rent down in the islands. We finally had a day off, so we drove up into the hills for lunch. Probably had one too many cocktails. . . anyway, on the way down, the thing rolled over. I whacked my head on the gear shift.”
“Lucky it didn’t take out your eye.”
“Should’ve gotten stitches, but I didn’t have the patience.”
“A tragic end to your modeling career.”
“Huh?”
She was smiling—another joke.
“And what about your career?” he asked her, before he could stop himself. “Heard you applied for that Oxford ferry job. Isn’t it taken?”
“New guy’s thinking of leaving—not enough money. Owners emailed me yesterday, said they’d received my application.” Her cheeks reddened even more than usual. “Last time I talked to them, I kinda lost it. So they may not want me back.”
But it was true—she was trying to go home again.
“I don’t want to work for Lloyd anymore.” She pulled on the jacket she’d draped over the back of her chair, zipped it up all the way. “I was able to get that tracker off my phone, but still. . .” She shivered again, maybe not just from the cold.
Maybe he’d get his old job back, if she went home.
The daylight faded, but the triangle of water lapping at dock and marsh grasses still held the setting sun’s light. Even the bugs were staying away, thanks to two spider-webbed citronella candles Courtney had dug out of a kitchen cupboard.
“That was tasty wine,” James said, setting down his empty glass.
“I got it at that little store, right near the Newport docks. . .”
“John’s Liquors?”
“That’s the one. There were two girlfriends in line ahead of me, buying a bottle of vodka. I ended up following them back to the ferry. They’d booked rooms at the Inn for the weekend, said they were going to see Skye no matter what, because that meant drinking for free, ‘like, faw-evah!’” Courtney shook her head. “Can’t believe people fall for crap like that.”
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