“Of course we are! West Brenton would’ve been—”
“But how long can we hold out? Another week, maybe? As soon as we stop, they move in.”
“Isn’t that lawyer ashore making any progress?”
“Sheila.” James smiled. “She filed an injunction to have Lloyd’s name removed from the West Brenton Land Trust, but the judge is on vacation until after Labor Day—and that tractor’s ready to go anytime.”
“No matter what happens, we’ve proved the islanders can work together. . .” She glanced at her phone. “Shoot, I’m due at the gallery. One of the Inn guests brought in a painting Gavin thinks might be valuable.”
James handed her his almost empty mug. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“Want to go for a sail when you’re done here? Perfect day for it. I could bring a picnic. . .”
James dropped his eyes to the suspension bridge spanning the cover of his book. Tried to remember what he’d read, less than an hour ago.
“Pretty complicated right now,” he said, once he realized Anna wouldn’t leave without some sort of response.
“Complicated,” she repeated.
He kept his eyes down, swallowing, until he heard her spin the cart around to bounce back toward town.
Courtney
PULLING THE THROTTLES back to idle just inside the breakwater, Courtney pressed her left forefinger into the dimple on the Homer’s king spoke. Did James push into it the same way?
Ever since that delicious bluefish dinner, she’d spent the quiet parts of each run wondering what he was doing. Visiting his dying friend? Talking motors with Mack? Rallying the locals to stick with the sit-in, or bringing in new volunteers to keep it going? He’d somehow convinced his boss and a few other summer folks to join in, which meant they could hold out for another week—maybe even two.
She never pictured James inside that dingy museum of a house, which was just out of sight to starboard. Even though the marsh grasses along that section of harbor were soft-edged enough to remind her of home.
It was just past high tide, so she could see over the town pier all the way to the Bean’s deck, and though she couldn’t yet make out James she was sure he was sitting at his table. Steely blue eyes, tucked away in that craggy weather-beaten face. That big heart he hid so well. She’d scraped West Rock, about the biggest fuckup a licensed captain could make. Instead of squealing to her boss, he’d helped her sort it out.
She’d tried to return the favor by inviting him to that first awkward dinner—only to learn that he didn’t like supporting the Inn. So she’d organized the sit-in schedule—and just because no good deed goes unpunished, that had turned into a complete pain in the ass. Everyone whined, first about their partners and then about their hours. Every single day her phone buzzed with endless needs to reschedule, usually at the last minute—or while she was in the middle of docking the Homer. She’d kept her gripes to herself; everyone was tired and grumpy, with no end in sight.
Going home would be a relief. But she’d miss this place, she realized. Miss the chance to save it from the blight of sprawl. Miss the respect she saw in people’s eyes, now that she’d mastered the Homer. Miss talking boats with James. . .
Halfway across the harbor, Mack passed her starboard side and pointed to the full passenger area with a thumbs-up. Chester’s tail was wagging. After waving back, Courtney admired the boats lining up with the ebbing tide—though her smile faded when she spotted Anna Crosby on the foredeck of her sailboat, messing with the mooring line. The artist hadn’t gone ashore for her Tuesday class this week, Courtney realized; everyone’s schedule had been upended by the—
A loud bell sounded—damn that oil pressure alarm. Something to do with hot engines dropping back to idle, Mack had explained, when she’d finally confessed about the noise. She clamped her hands around the wheel, willing it to stop‚ because it was too piercingly loud to think straight. Instead, the vibration under her feet lessened.
She glanced down at the RPM gauges—port engine had dropped to zero. Jesus Mary and Joseph.
She turned off the port engine key, which shut up the alarm. Slid both throttles back to neutral, buying a little extra time. Could she make that final turn with only the starboard engine?
What if—but no, the gangway didn’t work on the starboard side. So stupid—if she couldn’t get into the dock port side to, they’d have to hire a crane to lift off her twenty-two day-trippers. Or ask them all to climb up the side of dock—heart-attack city.
“Billy! Jake!” She called out the doorway. Get your asses up here!
“What’s up, cap?” Jake arrived just ahead of Billy.
“Port engine just cut out,” she told them. “Jake, be ready with a fender up in the bow. Billy, get that extra-long dock line out of the stern locker.” She drew in a deep breath, then blew it out. “Keep smiling, okay? Maybe the passengers won’t even notice.”
“Fender, will do.” Jake headed aft.
“We gonna make that turn?” Billy asked.
“We have to. And Billy. . .” Courtney locked eyes with him. “Remind Jake not to be a hero. You neither.”
The VHF radio crackled, and Mack’s voice filled the wheelhouse. “Headed your way.”
He must’ve heard the alarm—or seen her wake change. Today his casual radio protocol was a relief—the Homer’s one-engine woes wouldn’t be broadcast all over Rhode Island Sound.
The distance between the moorings and the east face of the dock always looked too narrow for a U-turn. Today, with only one engine, it definitely would be. She slid the starboard engine into gear again, heart pounding.
The year she turned fourteen, Dad had made her practice single-engine landings anytime there weren’t any passengers—even though she’d told him it was stupid. Who would ever try to land a twin-engine ferry with only one running?
“Teach you to appreciate that second propeller,” he’d replied. She’d call him tonight to say thank you—if she wasn’t heading home because she’d cracked up the island’s most valuable pier.
The harbormaster’s boat slid into view through the starboard doorway; Chester had his paws up on the port rail, tongue hanging out, like he was smiling at her. Mack pointed to his own bow and then to the Homer’s starboard quarter; he would give her a push to help her turn. As soon as she nodded, he dropped back behind the ferry again, waving to the passengers as if all was fine and dandy.
Extra space where Mack’s boat usually tied up, and the ebb would push her bow away from the dock. Light westerly was helping too. . .
Still, it was gonna be tight.
Passing as close as she dared to the two powerboats moored right off the captain’s cottage, Courtney touched the shell inside her bra one last time. Then she spun the helm to starboard as far as it would go and goosed the throttle forward. The Homer’s bow began to turn— though in a much bigger arc than usual.
Over at the Bean, she heard a chair scrape across wood decking; James would be heading for the pier, already knowing something was wrong from her strange approach. Woman driver, no survivors, Courtney heard the Oxford ferry mechanic say—the lame joke he’d repeated far too often.
Up forward, Jake was shaking his head—the Homer was going to plow right into the pier. She threw the starboard gearshift hard into reverse, spinning a nearby boat sideways with her prop wash, and simultaneously rotated the wheel all the way to port. The starboard engine groaned, but the stern began to creep toward the dock.
James appeared alongside one of the pilings—rubbing at his scar, of course.
Any passengers who didn’t realize by now that something was seriously wrong—either with captain or ferry or both—should never, ever, be allowed to drive anything more powerful than a tricycle.
When Courtney was as close to the beach as she dared, she spun the helm all the way to starboard again and shifted back into gear. Out of habit, she pushed both throttles forward together.
The bow was closing again with the dock, but just
at the right time Mack’s bow pressed against the Homer’s starboard quarter like a personal tug boat. Jake began nodding his head. The bow was through.
Pulling the starboard throttle back to neutral, she steered one spoke to port so James could throw Billy the spring line. Astern, Mack reversed away with a playful thumbs-up to the passengers back aft, as if he was just there for a lark. Courtney blew out a sigh of relief. She’d made it! Mack was going to get a big fat kiss—or better yet, an afternoon delivery of his favorite lager.
Once bow and stern lines were secured, Courtney shifted the gearshift back to neutral, checked the gauges, and shut down the engines. Or rather, engine. In the sudden silence, she heard the gangway slide into place.
The light dimmed. James was standing in the doorway—he hadn’t even waited for the passengers before coming aboard. When he stepped into the wheelhouse, dark smudges beneath his eyes, she smelled nutmeg—but instead of a reassuring hug or pat on the shoulder, he pushed right on past her to check his precious diesels.
“Port engine quit?” he asked, looking down at the gauges—which would both be showing zero now. She might not know much about motors, but she knew that. “Did the alarm go off?”
“Only the—thanks for riding with us!” Courtney told the departing passengers, before saying over her shoulder to James, “There’s a bell that sounds just about every run, when I drop back to idle, so I didn’t—”
“Every run! You think it was gonna fix itself?”
“Weren’t any other noises—”
“How many hours since you added oil?”
“Um, not sure. . .” Her pride in making the landing ebbed away, replaced by his disappointment in her. She hadn’t remembered to check the dipsticks this morning, dammit. Feeling the heat rising to her face, she smiled out the doorway again. “Bye now, thank you!”
“Jesus, Courtney! I told you already—this port engine needs. . .”
“Settle down, James,” Mack ordered. He’d rafted his own boat alongside the Homer, and as soon as he swung his leg over the starboard rail and pressed into the wheelhouse, the nutmeg scent was overwhelmed by sweat and sunscreen. Turning back, he pointed to his dog and said, in the same bossy voice, “You stay, boy.” Chester had been about to jump onto the Homer, but instead he sat down on the foredeck of the harbormaster’s boat, pink tongue hanging out, watching.
Mack’s gaze landed on Courtney as his voice returned to pleasant casual. “How many hours on that port motor?”
Courtney’s brain felt like mush. “Um. . . more than the starboard one?”
Mack turned both keys one click, setting off alarms again but activating the gauges. “Starboard one’s no spring chicken either.” He shut off both keys again. “Hours are hours.” Then he fixed James with a look so piercing, Courtney thought it might laser a hole right through the wheelhouse bulkhead. “Hours are hours, James,” he repeated. “Doesn’t matter who’s on the throttles.”
James was rubbing at his scar. The wheelhouse filled with tension. Courtney’s head started to pound.
“So, now what?” she asked, if only to fill the amped-up silence.
Mack sighed. “Well, if it’s the usual problem, we’ll—”
“Usual problem! Shee-it, this has happened before? Is that how you both knew exactly how to keep this rust bucket from taking out the pier?”
Mack’s blue eyes shifted back to James. “You didn’t tell her?”
“Why is it my job to tell her? I wasn’t the one who—”
“Is there a problem, Captain Courtney?” Lizzie the lawyer called across from the pier. “I’m going ashore this afternoon, so if—”
James pushed past Courtney to step out of the wheelhouse. “No problem.” Courtney couldn’t see his face, but she was sure James wore his captain’s auto-smile. “Just some routine maintenance.”
“Oh, James—I didn’t realize you were aboard! We’re in good hands then.”
As soon as Lizzie left, James turned back to Mack. “Think we can solve it before the afternoon run?”
“Only if it’s the usual problem. . .”
Courtney followed the two men back aft to the empty passenger area. James bent over to slide back the heavy engine hatch, and Mack followed him down the ladder. From what she could hear, it was in fact the “usual problem.” Something to do with the oil pressure alarm, which sometimes—but not always—triggered an automatic shutoff. As they added oil (a lot, it seemed like), they reprimanded her for not keeping up with that. She promised to do better, they pretended to believe her, and then they all headed up the dock together.
Courtney ordered three iced coffees, wondering if that meant they would all sit at the same table for once. But when she carried them back outside James was at his usual two-top staring at his phone, and Mack was telling some fish story over at the big table. Whether it was to keep up appearances or because both of them were too steamed at her to be sociable, Courtney wasn’t sure.
James
WHEN JAMES LET himself into the Sachem’s cottage, the house held the usual scents: coffee, wood smoke, laundry detergent. Morphine drips must not have an odor.
Mavis nodded to him, slipped her hand out of Joe’s, and headed for her work room. The hospital bed was still pressed up against the window, even though Joe was well past caring about a water view. White sheets and shiny bars belonged to a different world—a different century—than the familiar red wool blanket draped over his shrunken form.
James sat down. Joe opened his eyes. “Hello, brother,” he rasped.
“Any pain?” James asked, even though he could see the drip, drip from a hanging bag.
“Mavis. . . won’t allow it.”
“Good woman.”
“Yes. . .”
He seemed to fall asleep then, so James gazed out the window. Dark clouds were rolling in thick from the south, several shades blacker than the slate gray harbor. Rain soon.
James must’ve nodded off too—when Mavis placed her hand on his shoulder, he started. Dark circles rimmed her eyes.
“Stay?” she asked. Gumbo snuffled at James’s knee.
James patted the dog absentmindedly. “I’m due on the sit-in at noon.”
“Mémé. . .”
“I’ll stay until she gets here,” he promised. Joe was what mattered now.
Gumbo’s nails clicked across to the screen door, which shut behind them.
Who knew where those two were headed—to the Inn, to deliver laundry, to deliver a baby? On top of everything else, Mavis hadn’t missed one of her four evenings a week on the sit-in. James was sure that if she hadn’t suggested guarding the west end during the day, Parker’s tractor would’ve dug up the Indian cemetery while the whites carefully guarded the dividing path.
It was all too easy to underestimate her. Especially after spending so much of his childhood evading dorky little Mavis.
You never underestimated her, though, he told Joe, silently. There were so many questions he needed to ask, if only Joe would open his eyes again. How to keep the damned sit-in going, and whether it was making any difference. How to figure out what to do with his life. He’d made such a hash of things: Barb, Anna. . . Courtney. He was even dodging Dean’s calls again, unable to make a commitment beyond Labor Day. Though with barely a month of savings in his bank account, he didn’t have much choice.
Once Joe had gone to a better place, he’d make a decision. After the sit-in ended. And Courtney went back to Maryland. . .
After he worked up the courage to apologize to Barb.
“Do you pine for her?” Joe had asked a few weeks ago.
James had wanted to say yes. Instead he told the truth.
All Joe had said was, “Thought so.”
Living with Barb had been a way to avoid being alone after his mother died, he realized now. He’d never once thought about her during a ferry run, never surprised her with a bouquet of flowers or a funny card from ashore. Never, ever, pined for her.
He was already pini
ng for Courtney, he realized—and she hadn’t even left yet. The woman who he’d cursed for replacing him had become un-replaceable.
If he could only ask Joe one more question, what would it be? Not about the sit-in; all he could do was keep it going as long as possible. Either Lloyd would run out of money, or the islanders would run out of steam.
And not about the Homer; Joe didn’t care about boats.
The only thing worth wasting Joe’s energy on was—people. As usual, they were the real mystery. One attractive woman flirted with him, while another less attractive one simply went about her day. And yet the second one was who he found in his—
“Less attractive to whom?” It was almost as if Joe had actually spoken.
Less attractive by cultural standards: small chest, big attitude.
Yet so completely comfortable in her own skin.
And a very nice—
The screen door snapped shut. Blushing, James turned to find Mémé already halfway across the room. She dropped her hand on his shoulder, an even lighter touch than her daughter.
“Hello my sons.”
“Rain started yet?” James asked.
“Not yet.” She reached out to touch Joe’s chest, where his shallow breaths barely bumped up the blanket. “No rain in heaven.”
Joe’s eyes opened, the brown irises clear. “Hey Mémé,” he said, running all three syllables together like he always did.
“Joseph Flannery,” she replied, cheeks wrinkling into a smile. “I wish I could feed you something to make it all better.”
“Chicken. . . soup?”
She laughed, though she also removed the hand from James’s shoulder to wipe away a tear. “Coming right up.” She headed for the kitchen.
“She’ll need your help,” Joe told James. “Mavis too.”
“I’m here,” James replied. But I still need your help.
Joe’s eyes had closed again, so James would have to find the answers on his own.
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