Ferry to Cooperation Island

by Carol Newman Cronin

  The deckhand nodded back at the wheelhouse. “Got some competition.”

  Chase had stopped outside the doorway, blocking the gangway. Courtney, arms crossed, was shaking her head at him.

  “Better offer up here, Mrs. Captain!” Billy called, before turning back to James with a wink. “I gotta get home before little DJ goes to sleep. Don’t keep her out too late!”

  James leaned his elbows on a piling, ignoring the heat in his face and the pounding of his heart. “Evening,” he said, as Chase passed by, but there was no reply.

  Courtney closed the wheelhouse door and ambled up onto the dock. Her lavender scent had been smothered by sunscreen. “Hey,” she said, eyes darting away from him and back toward the Homer.

  James swallowed. “Mack’s offered me his boat, and I’ve got supper and beers. Run to West Harbor, for sunset. If you want. No boat talk—well, not unless you want to. Just, well, us.”

  Her eyes leapt back to meet his, and he held her gaze, though it made his scar pulse. Then, pursing her lips, she shook her head. “Shee-it! I’ve been running a boat all day, and now you want me to go out on one just for fun?”

  Was that a yes?

  “Better let me carry that picnic basket,” she said, adding, “Not exactly masculine.” She held out her hand, smiling now, so he crossed the dock to retrieve it from behind the fish shack.

  “It was my mother’s,” James told her, handing it over. “I should tell you about her someday.”

  “How about right now?” Courtney replied, stepping down onto Mack’s boat and setting the basket on the seat in front of the console. “It’ll keep me from worrying about whether the engine’s gonna start on this thing. Though it looks a little shinier than the Homer’s.”

  “Mack just finished the rebuild, so it’s probably even better than new.” James followed her aboard. “Want to get us underway, and I’ll cast off?”

  “Hell no—I’m off the clock! Unless you think you’re too rusty to drive a powerboat. . .”

  He dropped the outboard into the water and started it up—so quiet, he couldn’t quite believe it was running. Courtney cast off the bow and stern lines. By the time he’d pointed the bow at the harbor entrance, fenders had been brought in and all the lines were coiled.

  When she paused beside him, James smiled over at her. “Such a cool shell,” he said, reaching out to touch it. “Someone special give it to you?”

  She stepped forward, putting space and fiberglass console between them. “My dad. Very special. Got a bottle opener?”

  He handed over his multi-tool. “Gonna see him again soon?”

  “Who?”

  “Your dad.”

  “Not sure—why?” She dug two beers out of the basket, popped off the tops.

  Surely she’d tell him if she’d already accepted the Oxford job?

  “Cheers,” he said, clinking his bottle into hers. Don’t rush her, he heard Joe advise.

  When they passed astern of MoreSea, Courtney said, “That boat must be fun to sail. She fast?”

  The dark blue hull sparkled—but tonight, he didn’t care.

  “Not as fast as this one.” He pressed the throttle forward halfway; at the breakwater, he got the boat up onto a plane before carving around to port. When he reached the skinniest part of the shortcut, he backed off to idle again.

  Courtney gazed down over the port rail. “When did you hit West Rock? Don’t try to deny it—Mack told me.”

  “That tattletale.” He smiled. “Second year I ran the Homer. Sunset, just like you.”

  Her full-body shudder was not caused by a chill, he was sure.

  Once the seaweedy buoy passed by to starboard, James said, “Here we go—hang on.” It wasn’t rough in the lee of the island, and she’d already grabbed a handhold. But he wanted to take care of her, even though—just like Barb—she could definitely take care of herself.

  Once the boat was planing again, he adjusted the trim tabs to level out the bow. Wind whipped at his hair; Courtney swiveled her ball cap around so it wouldn’t blow off. Eight minutes later, he carved around into West Harbor and slowed to a wake-free crawl. Up at the monument, a flash caught his eye; Anna, standing at the edge of the bluff, one hand shielding her eyes. Not waving.

  There was no smoke from Joe’s chimney, of course. But West Harbor was just as glassy and magical as ever.

  “She talks about you all the time, you know,” Courtney said.

  “Who does?”

  “Anna Crosby. Wasn’t that her, back there?” Courtney tossed a thumb over her shoulder.

  “Just because she says there’s something going on doesn’t mean there is.”

  “And—Barb?” Her voice wobbled. “Is that really over?”

  His knuckles whitened on the helm. “I, um—apologized. Yesterday.”

  “Better late than never. So, you can leave with a clear conscience then.” Before he could respond, she asked, “We gonna anchor, or tie up at the dock?”

  “Anchor.”

  She dug the aluminum flukes out of the bow locker without banging them on anything, waited for his nod, and tossed the anchor overboard. Tied off the rode with an extra hitch on the bow cleat. Flaked the extra line back into the locker, closed the hatch. Finally, she came back behind the console—but only to grab her empty beer.

  “What a spot!” she said, opening the basket to deposit her bottle. “And is that a seafood pie? Smells fantastic.”

  “Sam Prime says it’s your favorite. Dig it on out—I’m starving.”

  “You’re the host.” She moved around to the starboard side, so he came forward, pulled out the pie, and removed the foil wrapping. Steam escaped from the slits in the middle; still warm, even after a high-speed boat ride. Thanks, Mom.

  “Plates and forks? Too messy to eat by hand—I’ve tried.”

  “Bottom of the basket,” he said, which turned out to be true. Courtney handed him a paper plate, popped the tops off the other two beers, and set the basket down on the foredeck. He served her a piece of pie and she sat down on the starboard half of the seat, placing her bottle in a nearby cup holder. Leaving just enough room for James to sit beside her.

  “Good thing you’re left-handed,” she told him, digging fork into pie. “Hot—hot—shee-it! Burned the roof of my mouth—I always do that.”

  They ate, shoulders just touching, serenaded by the symphony of summer evening: seagulls cawing, beach grasses rustling, waves tickling the beach. Courtney finished first. “Wow, that was great.” A burp escaped. “‘Scuse me!” she added, giggling.

  She was so easy to be with—no agenda, just straight talk. James glanced up at the Monument; Anna and her easel were no longer in sight.

  “Such a peaceful spot,” Courtney said. “Is it really not safe?”

  He set his empty plate down on the foredeck, anchoring it with the fork. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “My very first day, Mayor Frank said something about not coming down here by myself.”

  “Ah! We tell everyone from ashore that West Harbor is haunted. It’s not.” Except by Joe, and memories.

  “Does that mean I’m a local now?”

  “You saved the tree,” he reminded her.

  “Oh yeah—honorary islander,” she said. “Whatever the hell that means. Don’t you think Mr. Wainwright’s gonna figure out some other scheme—”

  “By then, Mavis will have the entire island protected. She’s already talked to most of the property owners, gotten them onboard. The land trust board meets right after—”

  “You can’t take that sailing job.” Courtney’s voice was almost a growl. “This island needs you.”

  He pressed his lips together, containing his stream of questions. All he had to do was ask about her plans, and she’d tell him. But he didn’t want to spoil this magical evening by finding out she was leaving, so instead he told her about diving for clams with Joe, right about where they were anchored. That led to other childhood stories, and Courtney’s chuckling
recap of rescuing Lloyd and Owen. Before he was ready, the sun dropped behind Block Island.

  “Getting dark,” he said, polishing off his beer. “We should get back.” He stacked the plates, returned them to the basket, started up the outboard. Courtney went forward to pull up the anchor.

  “Oh by the way,” she said, talking over her shoulder as she hauled in wet line hand over hand, “I turned down the Oxford ferry job. So until Lloyd fires my ass, y’all are stuck with me.”

  James looked down at the console dials to hide his grin. Joe might be gone, but West Harbor had still provided the right answer to the question he hadn’t dared ask.

  Courtney

  BY THE TIME the commuters were on board for the afternoon run back to Brenton, there was a constant boom of thunder off to the west. Just like pretty much any summer afternoon on the Chesapeake—but here, the land was too high to see storms coming.

  Courtney asked Billy if he thought they should wait it out, but he was already casting off lines and picking up the boarding steps. “We’ll be fine—almost September. Water’s too cold for thunderstorms.”

  By the time they’d reached the outer edge of the harbor, the freshening southwest breeze had dropped again. Billy must be right—a week ago, another menacing line of dark clouds had broken up as soon as it hit Narragansett Bay.

  Behind her was a queen-sized mattress that had been delivered an hour earlier, taking up the entire back half of the wheelhouse. She pressed back into it, glad despite its bulk that she’d suggested the movers set it down in here; even plastic-wrapped, the salty wet deck would ruin it.

  A flash crackled down onto the land to starboard. One, one thousand. . . two, one thousand. . . three—boom. Three miles away, looked like it had hit something. Courtney shivered.

  She hated lightning.

  Minutes later, rain pelted onto the deck. She turned on the wipers. Billy dashed forward into the wheelhouse, pulling the door shut behind him. “Wow, cushy mattress!” he said, leaning back against it. “I’m so tired, I could fall asleep right like this. DJ was up all night— he’s got colic, poor little guy. Who ordered this thing?”

  “James.”

  “Oh really! And yours was the very first ass to rest against it—perfect!”

  “Jesus, Billy—”

  Another flash, and a loud bang—only one second between sight and sound. Billy turned the wipers up to their fastest setting. Courtney tamped down the bile rising in her throat and concentrated on the small piece of water she could still see through the curtain of rain, right in front of the Homer’s bow.

  “Wow, that came on fast,” Billy said. “We had a storm just like this last summer, going out of here. Saw a house on the starboard shore get zapped, lit up like a—”

  Flash-CRACK! A sizzle raised the hairs on her arm, which glowed with a faint blue light.

  “Wow, feel that?”

  Courtney clenched her teeth together to keep them from chattering. “I hate l-lightning. . .”

  Rain drumming on the wheelhouse roof drowned out her words. Courtney couldn’t even make out the Homer’s bow, let alone anything in front of it. Billy turned the windshield wipers to slow, then back to fast again. Didn’t make any difference.

  “Can’t see a damn thing,” he said.

  “Glad we’ve got radar.” She reached up to lower the range, but the screen was black—uh-oh.

  She pulled the throttles back to idle. “Steer for a minute, wouldja?”

  Billy wrapped his left knuckles around the king spoke and stared out through the streaming windshield, chewing away on his right thumbnail.

  The chartplotter screen was dark too. Courtney pressed the power button, twice—and then held it down to reboot it. Nothing. She never looked at it now; had she forgotten to turn it on before she left the dock?

  Above her head, both VHFs had gone dark as well—and those were definitely squawking when they motored out of the harbor.

  “Electronics got fried,” she told Billy.

  “But the lightning didn’t hit us!”

  “Close enough.” Rubbing down the hairs still tingling on her arm, Courtney took over the wheel again. “All we can do is keep idling forward till it clears. If we hit something, it should be me steering.”

  The old Billy would’ve scoffed, told her he could find the island without any help. Instead he stood beside her, staring out through the blinding squall.

  Five minutes later, the rain backed off enough to see the bow. Courtney pushed the throttles forward again, eventually climbing back up to cruising speed as the storm moved off to the east. When she looked over at Billy, he was leaning back against the mattress again, shaking his head.

  “Man, you’re a cool one,” he said. “I was freakin’ out back there.”

  Me too. But instead of admitting that, Courtney pointed to the rainbow touching down ahead of them. “Pot of gold on Bird Island— who would’ve guessed?”

  When they pulled up to the Brenton dock only five minutes late, James tossed across the spring line. The sky was blue, and a dry northwest breeze had dropped the temperature twenty degrees.

  “Mack tried to reach you on the VHF after that thunderstorm,” James said, leaning his elbows on the nearest piling. “Looked like it went right over you.”

  “It did—knocked out all the electronics.”

  “Jesus! You okay?”

  “Yes.” Courtney shivered, partly from the chilly breeze. “But I. Hate. Lightning.”

  As soon as the passengers cleared out, James came down the gangway. When he stepped through the port doorway, Courtney thought he was going to hug her. Instead he stared at the mattress. “What the hell is this?”

  “I was wondering the same—”

  “I just placed the order this morning!” He pressed a thumb into his scar. “Figured I’d go ashore with Mack tomorrow, pick it up.”

  Courtney cocked her left hip against it, crossed her arms over her chest, and winked. “Chase suggested he and I test it out.”

  “He didn’t! Jesus, that guy. . .” James’s hands knotted into fists. “I have half a mind to—”

  “Kidding!” Courtney said quickly. “Weighs a ton, by the way.” She pressed a hand into the foam. “Took two big guys to drag it down the ramp.”

  “Top of the line memory foam. My back’s been bothering me lately. . . and the reviews said this one was fantastic. . .”

  Was he blushing? Courtney certainly was, so she glanced out the port doorway at the dock.

  When the delivery guy had told her the mattress was for James, she’d thought it was a mistake. Saturday evening in West Harbor, she’d pressed him about the sailing job and he hadn’t answered. Monday, he ordered a new mattress. So was he staying then?

  And if he stayed, what would he do? There was only one job here for him: hers.

  “Way bigger than I thought it would be,” James said. “How the hell am I going to get it over to the house? Maybe the fire truck. . .”

  Courtney pointed across the harbor. “We could deliver it by water—if it’s deep enough to get into your dock.”

  James turned to look over the Homer’s bow. “There’s one rock we’d have to avoid. . . but high tide’s only an hour away.”

  “So is sunset.” And the Bean’s outside deck was empty.

  “Sure you want to risk it?” he asked.

  She nodded. It would be her best chance to ask James if he’d decided to stay on after all. “Want to take her out? I won’t tell.”

  He started the port engine on the first try. Starboard engine started up without any fuss at all, of course. But James was frowning.

  “Port needs—”

  “I know, I know, it’s pinging like crazy! I’ll add some oil tomorrow.” Before he could give her another maintenance lecture, she stepped out onto the side deck and cast off the lines.

  The air was freshly washed—and chilling down fast. Courtney closed the port wheelhouse door behind her, rubbing goose-bumped arms.

  “
No depth sounder,” she reminded him.

  “Harbor’s plenty deep, except for a few rocks—and I’ve already hit them all.” Then his grin faded. “I’ve never actually been into that dock in anything bigger than a dinghy, though. Steer, would you? I’ll check the fuse box.”

  He opened a small hatch on the starboard wall. After a little fiddling, he said, “Got it!” and the port VHF squawked to life. Soon chartplotter and radar were working too.

  “Wow, that was easy,” she said. “Thanks.”

  “Keep wearing that lucky shell.”

  “Oh I will.” She fingered its jagged edge.

  James took back the wheel and turned it two spokes to port. Courtney kept her eye on the depth readout, but it held steady at twelve feet as they rounded the small point and headed into the dock. On the Chesapeake, deep water access like this would be worth a fortune—too much to toss as a thank-you scrap to the last lighthouse keeper.

  10.6 feet. 9.8, 8.6. When the depth dropped below seven, James slid the throttles back to neutral and Courtney opened the wheel-house door—brr. Trying not to shiver, she stepped up to the bow to rig one of the spare lines.

  The dock wasn’t nearly long enough. She tied off to the piling closest to the house, and James tossed her another line he’d tied off to the midship chock.

  “Good enough for unloading,” James said.

  The mattress was like a leaden marshmallow. James tied a line around each end, and with her pushing and him pulling, they managed to heave the wiggly lump up over the rail, onto the dock, across the yard, and up onto the back deck.

  Better check for splinters. She tried not to giggle.

  “That’s great,” James said, breathing hard. “I’ll—”

  “Might as well go all the way.” She was blushing again.

  Inside, the mattress slid easily across wood floor. “Glad that nasty rug’s gone.”

  James was breathing too hard to answer.

  The stairs off the dining room were narrow and steep. Courtney led up the stairs, heaving and pulling; James pushed from below. When she reached the top, she could barely see down the dark hallway.

  “Which room?” she asked. There were three narrow doorways.