Ferry to Cooperation Island

by Carol Newman Cronin

  “People on vacation’ll believe anything,” James replied. “After Labor Day, there’ll be no more Skye-sighting fever, no more crowded roads—”

  “Crowded roads! One lousy golf cart passed me on my walk over here.”

  “One too many.” But he smiled, to show he was teasing.

  “It was Anna’s, actually.” Courtney’s cheeks went pink. “She asked me where I was heading.”

  James looked out at the harbor. “What’d you say?”

  The jacket rustled with her shrug. “I’m a terrible liar.”

  An osprey chirped. Somewhere along the north side of the island, an outboard revved up to full throttle.

  “I’m taking that job with Dean Moreland,” James said, surprising himself.

  “I thought you already did!”

  “For the summer—now he wants a year-round commitment. Christmas in the Caribbean. . .” He spread his hands wide. “Too good to miss. So as soon as. . .” No matter how long it took, he wouldn’t leave while Joe was still here.

  “Nice easy escape,” Courtney said, strapping on her passenger-greeting smile—much toothier than the real one. “No more women chasing you, no more sit-in.”

  “It’s my dream job! You said that yourself.”

  “I never did!”

  “Yup. Told me it was every captain’s dream to get paid to go sailing.”

  “I didn’t know you as well then,” she muttered, rubbing her thumb along the edge of her shell.

  Somewhere along the harbor’s edge, a heron called for its mate. Or maybe it was just calling out to anyone, hoping for a response.

  Courtney upended her glass to sip out the last drop of wine. “So, what changed your—”

  “Everything’s changed! Joe can barely talk. The sit-in’s totally stalled. And you’ll be gone soon. . .”

  “I will?” She was glaring at him. “Know something I don’t?”

  Hadn’t she said she was going back to Oxford? He pressed a thumb into his scar, took refuge again in the water view.

  Her chair scraped back across the decking. “I should go—Mack’s gonna meet me at the dock first thing tomorrow to help me change the oil on the port engine, and—”

  “Courtney. . .”

  “Yes?”

  He swallowed, twice. “Thanks for the wine.”

  “Never arrive empty-handed,” she repeated, picking up plate and wineglass. “And always clear your place.”

  He followed her back to the kitchen, where they both set their dishes down in the sink. “Tell Mack thanks for the fillets,” he said, wishing he’d offered to help her with the oil change. He turned on the hot water to fill the sink.

  “Will do. Thanks for cooking.” The screen door snapped shut behind her.

  As soon as her flip-flops slapped against macadam, James abandoned the dishes and went over to the door. Just enough twilight found its way through the trees to pick out that sweet curve of khakis. So he stood, watching and wondering, until long after her tan butt had faded away into marshy darkness.

  AUGUST

  Parker

  THE SILENCE AT the bar was heavenly. Once the ferry arrived and everyone came back from the beach or the historical museum or wherever they’d chosen to spend their afternoon, somebody would need him to do something. Until then, Parker could sit here and enjoy the scent of garlic and onion wafting through the swinging door to the kitchen. Tonight’s special was his favorite: fisherman’s stew.

  August was always the hardest month; the dewy potential of early summer had long since been bleached away by humidity and heat, but the Inn was booked solid with needy guests—all trying to fit in a few days of sun and fun before Labor Day. He couldn’t wait for September.

  The back screen door banged shut: Sylvia, an hour earlier than expected. So much for peace and quiet.

  “Get the m-mussels?” he asked.

  She raised the twenty-five-pound bag with one arm.

  “How busy was the f-ferry?”

  “Not sure—I got a ride back.” Sylvia tossed a newspaper onto the bar on her way to the kitchen. “Might want to read that.”

  His Inn, on the front page of the Newport Daily News! The north side, though; trash cans and TV antennas. The headline stretching over the photo read, “Brenton Islanders Halt Golf Course Development.”

  “Locals have organized a round-the-clock vigil to protect the two tallest trees on Brenton Island,” the story began. After a historical summary, it moved onto recent happenings. “A few months ago, Brenton Ferry Company owner Lloyd Wainwright (who refused to comment for this story) elected himself president of the West Brenton Land Trust and subsequently hired a company to develop a nine-hole course on the property. The proposed course would require the removal of the island’s only forest.

  “‘A golf course is development,’ Captain James Malloy explained. ‘It is not the preservation of nature, which is the stated purpose of a land trust. This is just Lloyd Wainwright’s latest attempt to gain control of West Brenton. That land belongs to everyone who lives here, so we’ve banded together to protect it from anyone who wants to clear-cut the trees and then profit from it.’”

  None of it sounded a bit like James—more words than he would string together in a month.

  “Malloy has a personal interest in preserving the island’s only forest,” the story went on. “The two trees that are the focus of the sit-in were planted by his father and the Sachem of the local Indian tribe. ‘They are a symbol of cooperation between the Narragansetts and whites,’ Malloy said. ‘We’re not going to let them come to any harm.”

  Sylvia’s name leapt out of the next paragraph. “The bartender at the nearby Skye View Inn claims the sit-in is ‘not impacting our business,’ though Inn guest Amelia Saunders said she saw a local woman flashing bare breasts while on a widow’s walk tour. . .” Who wrote this? Definitely not an inn-lover.

  Wait—that one guest back in May; the guy Parker thought might be an undercover reviewer. He dug out his phone and scrolled back through their reservations. Yup! Same name as the byline. Sent back his fisherman’s stew, complained about the pillows, took two widow’s walk tours in a row and caught Parker repeating himself. . .

  Widow’s walk tours had been cancelled until further notice, aided by a few strips of yellow caution tape and a carefully spread rumor of rotted railing. When guests asked when they’d open up again, Parker smiled and said, “We’re working on it, thanks for your interest.” The real answer was “never.”

  Next the story described the Inn’s “uninspiring” food and the Skye sightings as “a harmless #skyeviewhoax,” rewarded by free drinks.

  “Not so harmless, however, is an accusation of sexual harassment by former Skye View Inn employee Shana O’Neill. ‘I really should press charges,’ she said. ‘But that would mean staying in this godforsaken country, and I’m catching the next plane home to Ireland.’”

  The writer had dug deep for that one; Shana’d left a week ago, with a bonus that should’ve been big enough to keep her quiet. Once she was safely on the ferry, Parker had explained to Owen that Irish servers were not summer play toys. But beach sex with a fellow employee wasn’t harassment! That implied the boss was involved. . .

  Did Mavis read the Newport papers?

  Swallowing hard, Parker flipped to page five—and there she was! Mavis. Sitting in a beach chair, alongside the schoolteacher. Pert nose, full lips. . .

  Parker drew in a ragged breath. This morning she’d emailed to say she wouldn’t be available until “further notice.” At first he’d taken it personally—she’d heard about the West Harbor condo plan, and blamed him for not standing up to Lloyd—but then he realized that it must be Joe’s time at last. For the past two years, her brother had written a letter or called—or both—every time Parker so much as trimmed a single blade of grass west of the Inn. Next year, Parker would be able to put in his infinity pool without an infinite stream of complaints.

  But losing him would hurt Mavis.
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  Parker dropped the paper down to the bar and stared off into space, not seeing the line of bottles or the old photo or even the ratty fishing net hanging from the ceiling, more dusty than rustic at this point. All day he’d been out of sorts, wishing everyone would just leave him alone. Ever since her email.

  August fatigue: an annual curse, he reminded himself. Mavis made his life easier, that was all; she was the best worker he’d ever had.

  He snapped the paper up again. She blended in with the trees behind her, but you could still pick out the way her bottom lip covered over her top one whenever she was uncomfortable. . .

  STOP. He’d never dated an employee, and he never would. He turned the page.

  Criminy—another bad picture of the Inn! Backlit by red sunset, the silhouetted dormers looked like a tight bevy of witch hats. Sighing, Parker reached behind the bar to flick on the overhead lights. Better read it all.

  The final section spelled out Lloyd’s precarious financial situation. Terrible writing, but at least that dirty laundry was finally getting a little air.

  He paged back to look at Mavis again. Should he—

  “Bartender on duty yet?” the husband from room two asked.

  “Sylvia comes on at five. Can I get you something?”

  “Nah, that’s okay—I’ll come back then, drown my sorrows. No bobolinks today.” Without waiting for a reply, he wandered out through the doorway and punched the elevator button.

  “You’ve got a gem here, Parker,” the same man had told him the previous evening, between two double scotches and dinner with his wife. “Great birding, within easy walking distance of hot showers and cold drinks! Nothing like it, anywhere else. . .”

  Is that why so many of his guests were cheering on the sit-in? Even the whiny woman in room three had taken a glass of cold water out to Patty yesterday afternoon, staying long enough to cluck at her baby.

  Lloyd wouldn’t like this newspaper story, but it wouldn’t stop him—he’d just scuttle sideways and go around the obstacle. Say what you wanted about his methods; the guy got things done. James and his band of merry men—and women—couldn’t keep up this round-the-clock thing much longer.

  He would miss it, Parker realized. Glancing out his bathroom window this morning, he’d smiled to see Anna Crosby huddled in that crappy beach chair. He hadn’t even complained when she moved onto the lawn to escape those calf-tickling weeds.

  Two nights ago, he’d actually sneaked out to the dividing path to watch over Mavis, in case that madman came back. He’d asked her twice to name her attacker, but both times Mavis just shook her head.

  Should he call Lloyd, try to end the stalemate? He studied the photo again, wishing he could ask Mavis what she thought.

  “You’ve got it bad, dontcha.” Sylvia slid in behind the bar, nodding down at the picture.

  Parker folded up the newspaper. “N-nice t-time ashore?” he asked, wishing she’d fasten up one more button on her blouse.

  “Yup.” Sylvia kept her eyes on the circling white bar cloth, like she needed to make sure it was doing its job.

  “Do anything special?”

  “None of your business.” Her lips pressed together into one firm line.

  Hunter Moody had a new powerboat, Parker remembered; that must’ve been Sylvia’s private ride back from Newport. The previous evening, Parker had just delivered three fresh bottles of Brenton Rum to the bar when Hunter came in through the patio doors—and Sylvia poured punch into a white wine glass. What an odd pair—milquetoast Irreverend and ornery tattooed bartender!

  Then again, who’d ever have thought that the Skye View Inn’s owner would be pining after his Native American cleaning girl?

  Lloyd

  LLOYD LOCKED HIS office door before unfolding the newspaper. He’d met the writer a few times, but he couldn’t remember doing anything in particular to piss him off. “Refused to comment” always made a guy sound guilty as hell. And the last paragraph was a personal affront: “A prominent Newport banker who asked to remain anonymous claimed that ‘this golf course thing is Lloyd’s last chance,’ so Wainwright may try to wait out the locals. But as the redcoats discovered two centuries ago, patriots protecting their turf often find a way to fight on for much longer than expected.”

  Patriots! Just a bunch of interfering redneck islanders, led by James Goddamn-him-to-hell Malloy.

  It had all seemed so modern and simple, building a website to gain control of West Brenton. If only that golf course designer hadn’t staked out the property so quick, James would’ve disappeared like he was supposed to—flushed off the island by rage, boredom, or poverty. How could the guy stand watching some girl do his job? Or teaching the bratty kid of a stuck-up know-it-all how to sail?

  Dean Moreland was no longer returning Lloyd’s calls, which was another disappointment; Lloyd was desperate for another funding injection.

  The only one who’d followed orders was Owen the landscaper, but he must not have been scary enough since Pierce’s little deaf-mute sister was still showing up for her shifts. She hadn’t even gone tattling to Parker.

  Damn that sit-in! They should’ve broken ground on Alison’s golf course by now—but instead, Lloyd was dodging calls from the developer. The latest invoice had a handwritten, “Please!” added to it—as well as a hefty late free.

  Never mind—he’d made it through worse. This newspaper story was just a five-minute wonder.

  He glanced at his watch, woke up his phone. Time to give everyone something fresh to talk about.

  James

  HE TOSSED THE paperback onto the ground next to his sagging beach chair and stood up, stretching hands overhead, yawning. MoreSea was motoring out of West Harbor, that tall shiny mainsail creeping up her black mast. Oh to be steering that sweet boat again— or even grinding a winch. August Sunday afternoons were meant for wind on the cheeks, water soaking deck shoes, and making tiny sail adjustments to go two-tenths of a knot faster. . .

  Not sitting on his ass, guarding a fucking forest.

  Two shifts every twenty-four hours was too much. Hell, this one six-hour afternoon shift was too much if it wasn’t going to make any difference. Last night, Sheila had called to report that Lloyd was suing the Newport Daily News for defamation of character. Maybe Courtney was right; you couldn’t stop a bully with something as passive as a sit-in.

  Then again, summer was more than half over and the trees were still standing—tall and ribbon-free.

  He’d told Lizzie the lawyer about Lloyd’s next move during their shared ten p.m. to two a.m. shift, but all she’d done was snort. “Only thing that’ll do is convince the judge it’s all true.” Then she’d asked if the rumor circulating the island was also true: that he was leaving them. He’d nodded, but dodged her requests for detail until she reverted to her favorite topic: her own work. She’d spent the rest of their shift talking about how much she’d enjoyed working with Joe on his will—made it sound like a big project. Maybe for her, it was.

  She blathered on even more than usual, but didn’t mention any trouble at home. Could James have imagined the intimacy between Barb and Lizzie’s husband?

  An engine whined, so James turned to check behind him. Ideally they’d have a third sit-in site on the dividing path during the day; if that damned tractor decided to tear into the middle of the forest right now, there wasn’t much James—or Patty, who’d be nursing baby Declan, as close to the Inn as she dared—could do to stop it.

  When the source of the noise appeared, James shook his head—so tired and paranoid, he couldn’t tell the difference between a tractor’s growl and the electric buzz of a golf cart! He watched the cart bump off pavement onto unpaved track. Dark pink—Anna. Going to the monument to paint?

  Instead she turned right and bounced across open field. James let out a sigh. Anna’s sandwiches were delicious, but her food came with a boatload of expectations.

  All the traffic across this field had flattened a new path. Trying to save this wild lan
d, they were actually damaging it; Joe would be disappointed. But there would be no more letters, complaining about this new white man’s shortcut.

  Ah, Joe. How many more days could he hold on? Somehow it felt like when he died, the sit-in would too—even though that was totally irrational.

  Anna parked her cart right next to James’s bike and carried over a pair of stainless mugs. “Brought us iced coffee today.” She sat down and picked up the paperback he’d dropped. “Murder on the Manhattan Bridge—our local author’s bestseller. Any good?”

  “I already know exactly what’s going to happen.”

  She pointed to a folded over page corner, about a quarter of the way through. “But you still read all the way to—”

  “My mother must’ve done that.” He’d given her the book as a birthday present—her last, as it turned out.

  “How’s everything here?” She put her hand on his left arm. “You look exhausted.”

  He scratched at his beard, dislodging her carefully careless touch. “I’ve been here since nine this morning.” His stomach growled. The coffee was refreshing, but he’d been hoping for a sandwich. All he’d eaten today was a piece of stale toast.

  “I thought Hunter was on the morning shift at this end.”

  “He was, until Chase’s security system went off.”

  “Can’t believe he leaves his house empty in August! Crazy.”

  “Everyone needs a vacation from work and house projects. Especially the commuters.”

  “Oh, Chase loves that ferry ride! Though maybe it’s really Courtney he’s in love with.” She winked.

  She had mixed a little cream into the coffee—and something else. “Cinnamon?” he guessed, mostly to distract himself from her casual comment about Courtney and Chase.

  “Yes. Special treat. For a special guy.”

  Before Anna could touch him again, James raised his mug to take another sip, ice clinking against stainless. “I’m not feeling so special,” he admitted. “I’ve been sitting here wondering if we’re actually accomplishing anything.”