James looked around the mattress, panting, and nodded to the end of the hall. Then he started shoving again.
The room was small, with an angled ceiling and a window overlooking the harbor. Marsh air blew white curtains against the screen. A wooden bed frame with a sagging mattress took up most of the floor space—a double.
“Queen-size won’t fit,” she said.
“Oh! Damn, I hadn’t thought about that.”
“Just put this on the floor for now.”
“That’ll work?”
“That’s how my bed is over at the cottage.” Which used to be yours. Something she tried not to think about, going to sleep each night.
He scratched at his beard. “My dad built this bedframe. I can’t just. . .”
“Can we move it to another room?”
Twenty minutes later, there was room on the floor for the thick new mattress—still in its plastic wrapping, but James could deal with that on his own. They needed to get the Homer back to her own dock, before sunset and a falling tide pinned her here for the night.
James started up the engines again, like he was in charge. “Oh, sorry. D’you—”
“That’s fine, you take her out.”
Once Courtney had coiled and stowed the spare lines, she joined him in the wheelhouse and slid the door shut. Sweat dried on her face and arms; she’d be shivering again in five minutes.
The harbor shimmered in a swath of color. “Sunset’s so early now,” he said, spinning the wheel hard to starboard to back away from the dock. “Guess summer’s really over.”
Which meant he’d be leaving—so why buy a frickin’ mattress? Her heart thumped against her ribs. “The other night, I asked you about that sailing job. And you—”
“Lloyd’s only a few days away from bankruptcy.”
“Wait—what? How do you know? So he’s gonna lay me off?”
He reached over to switch on the running lights. “Won’t need to, if he goes under.” Even in the growing dark, she could see his lips stretching wide. He thought this was funny!
Courtney gripped the counter, knuckles whitening. “You’d love that, wouldn’t—”
“Only because it lowers the price on the ferry.”
“Oh great, so the banks’ll take it over! Maybe Chase’ll end up running it—then I’d definitely have to sleep with—”
“Chase is not going to be your new. . . anything.” That shit-eating grin hadn’t faded one bit.
“How do you—”
“Can’t tell you quite yet,” he said. “Still working out a few details. . . so for now, you’re just gonna have to trust me.”
Trust him!
Why should she, when James didn’t trust her enough to share his secret?
SEPTEMBER
Mavis
MAVIS FOLLOWED GUMBO out the front door and around the corner of the house, into gray dawn. Feet, lungs, and heart all craved the challenge of rock-hopping up to the monument. It would be the first time since Joe died.
The sky was heavy with shivery clouds and the hanging threat of fall. September had arrived the day before, and even though summer wouldn’t officially end until Labor Day, it felt like a fresh start. Next Wednesday she’d make her first trip ashore in two years, to meet the new Land Trust board.
If only Joe could be here to share her excitement.
“You’re all right, Mavis,” she heard him say in her head. “I’m still here.”
And Parker wanted to marry her.
It was like a shiny pearl, buried deep. She’d told no one, and Parker surely hadn’t either. For now, she was happy to enjoy the compliment, without the real-life complications that would kick in as soon as she gave him an answer.
She had enough complications at the moment. After that slippery Lloyd Wainwright demanded an outrageous price for the West Brenton Land Trust website address, Sheila had suggested setting up an entirely new non-profit that would cover all of Brenton—and Dean Moreland wanted to donate Bird Island as soon as the paperwork was completed. That meant fielding questions from concerned islanders, who were worried about how development restrictions would affect their property values. Lila McKay had helped with all of that, which made it impossible to say no when the teacher asked for honest feedback on a rough draft of The Trees of Cooperation Island. Mavis had only read the first few chapters so far, and rough was the right term. If only she had inherited Joe’s tact along with his money. . .
And then there was Pierce, trying to weasel more cash out of Joe’s estate without actually contesting the will. Even as a kid, he’d taken a snake’s length when given an inchworm. But Pierce had met his match. Yesterday, Sheila’d told Mavis she was going to start billing at her “asshole rate” if he called one more time. Lord, please bless your servant Sheila. Laughter bubbled up, and the gulls soaring above the harbor joined in—Joe was laughing too.
She stepped onto the first rock, taking in deep lungfuls of damp air. Gumbo ran back up the beach, heading for the path up over the bluff; he knew where she was going.
Protecting this island from development—keeping it from turning into, as Parker put it, a mini-Newport—felt as natural to her as nursing Joe or delivering babies. How had her brother known that running a land trust was exactly what she was meant to do?
Thoughts swirling, her bare feet found each step without conscious direction. Soon Mavis was scrambling over the bluff’s edge, lungs burning. Gumbo ran up for a quick ear-scratch before chasing off, nose to the ground.
After a quick glance up at the Inn’s jagged profile, Mavis stepped behind the monument and pressed her back into its cool west-facing stones.
All that water, insulating the island. Isolating, some would say, but that’s not how Mavis felt. It was safe here, away from the expectations of ashore. She was free to be her own quiet self.
And yet Parker wanted to marry her.
Where would they live? She couldn’t imagine moving up to the Inn, but she also couldn’t imagine Parker sharing the Sachem’s cottage with her and Mémé. Mavis lived with a foot in both worlds, tribe and white; until recently, James had been the only overlap.
For now, she would just enjoy being sought after. There was no rush; she already knew marriage didn’t fix anything.
Okay, Joe? She asked the gulls and ospreys wheeling and diving into the waves below. There was no answer.
Her brother had sent Parker plenty of nasty letters and emails over the years. But she believed that if he’d lived a little longer, the two men could’ve become friends. They both respected and appreciated other hard-working folks, regardless of skin color. And thanks to the sit-in and all those birdwatcher guests, Parker had realized that open space right next door to the Inn was its most valuable feature.
Regardless of how she answered Parker’s big question, Mavis could stay out here forever. Joe had given her the most priceless gift of all: independence.
She’d rather have him back, and still be working six jobs.
Gumbo appeared out of nowhere, belly low and ears back. Grabbing his collar, Mavis peeked around the corner and spotted Anna Crosby, setting up a canvas on her easel. The top half was plain white, but the bottom already held rocks and water—what you’d see if you dared to look down over the south bluff, on a gray day like this one. Anna picked up her paint brush and began dabbing at the blank half.
A month ago, caught in this same situation, Mavis had disappeared back over the bluff without a word to the artist. Now, as land trust president, that seemed terribly rude. So she stuck her head around the stone corner, waiting.
When Anna’s hand lifted, Mavis stepped out from behind the monument—just as Anna looked right at her.
“Oh!” Anna dropped her brush, bent down to pick it up. “You startled me.”
“Sorry.” Mavis felt her way along the monument’s south side until she reached the corner nearest Anna.
“How’d you get out here?” Anna wiped the paintbrush clean with a multicolored rag. “I didn’t see y
ou on the path.”
Mavis pointed over the north bluff.
“Really—up that steep cliff? I would’ve cracked my head open.”
Mavis moved closer to the easel, wanting to touch the painting but keeping her hands at her sides. “Nice.” Somehow Anna had captured that contradiction between insulation and isolation. All the rocks leaned in, toward the cliffs. Was that it?
“Yesterday was too sunny,” Anna said. “Now the light’s just perfect—gray layered on gray. I tried working on it in my studio, but somehow this one needs me to smell the salty air.”
“And the rocks.”
“They do have their own scent, don’t they?”
Mavis pointed north. “West Harbor next?”
“So beautiful! I’d love to paint down there.”
“Different rocks.”
“I didn’t know that.” Anna laughed, a surprisingly girlish trill. “Rocks seem to be my new specialty. I can’t get enough of them— such a variety of texture and color, if you look closely enough.”
Mavis nodded. “Yes. I’ll show you.”
“Right now?” Anna shook her head. “I need to finish this painting, before the light—”
“Afternoon would be best.” Maybe Anna would paint a picture of Joe’s house? She might even capture his spirit, still flickering within.
“I’d be honored,” Anna said. “Where should I meet you?”
“House. Anytime—I’m working all day.”
“I, uh, don’t exactly know where you live. . .”
“Ask James.”
Anna shook her head. “Never mind, I’ll find you. Five o’clock okay?”
Mavis smiled. “Perfect. Bye, Anna.”
Her brothers thought the whites would ruin the western half of the island. James, Parker, and Lila McKay had all proven otherwise. And without the cooperation of every islander, she’d never be able to preserve its natural beauty for her kids.
Kids. . . now there was a thought to keep her mind occupied, while her two bare feet found the right path to bring her safely down to earth again.
Courtney
THIS TIME, THE port engine quit halfway through the U-turn into the pier—without even belting out an alarm first. Shee-it! The starboard throttle was already in reverse, so Courtney revved it as much as she dared—too late. The Homer’s bow slammed a piling so hard, she felt the whole structure shudder.
Billy managed to grab the bow line and cleat it off, lurching them to a stop. As soon as he went aft to grab the stern line, she scooted up to inspect both the port bow and the pier. Except for a little white paint transferred from hull to piling, nothing appeared to be damaged—except her ego, of course.
She followed the tourists—nobody saying anything about the big crunch—up to the Bean, braced for a dressing-down. All week long, James’d been wearing that silly grin; the previous afternoon, Mack had passed close by her table and muttered, “What’s with our Cheshire cat?” More like cat and mouse, since James wouldn’t share his good fortune.
Such a sloppy landing would surely wipe away that good mood.
But all he said was, “Port engine quit again?”
“Good guess.” She swallowed, hard. “Engine trouble, two days before Labor Day weekend! Not exactly what—”
“Go get your coffee.” James instructed, handing her his mug. “And bring me a refill while you’re at it. I just texted Mack.”
“He went to get fuel in—”
“Already on his way back.”
That grin! What the hell was he up to?
Inside, Patty reached out for Courtney’s travel mug and the china one from James. “Quite a landing you made just now—this whole building moved!” She topped off both mugs and set them down on the counter. “If you want to butter up James, Barb just dropped off some pumpernickel bagels—I guess she’s finally forgiven him.” Patty leaned across the counter to add in a whisper, “Maybe because of Gavin. Did you know Lizzie moved ashore? Oh, of course you did— she took yesterday’s ferry. I heard she and—”
“I’ll take that pumpernickel bagel,” Courtney said. The only news she cared about was back outside.
Could James be leaving? Relief would explain that smile; no more worries about the island, or the Homer—or all the women chasing him.
By the time Courtney set the small plate down in front of James, Mack’s boat was approaching the pier.
“Pumpernickel—my favorite!” James said. “How did you—ah, Patty, of course.” He smeared an entire tub of peanut butter onto one half—ick—and waved to the other chair. “Have a seat.”
Uh oh, now what? She perched on the edge of the chair, heart pounding. Was he going to yell at her for that crash landing?
Instead he took a bite, and then another. “Wow, that’s good.”
“Sorry about hitting the pier,” she said, before she could stop herself. “Not exactly the eggshell landing my dad—”
“Whole deck moved,” he agreed, strangely unconcerned; maybe the bagel-bribe was doing its job.
“If the gangway fit on the starboard side like it should,” Courtney told him, “I could dock the thing easy, even with one—”
“Man, have I missed this flavor!” A dab of peanut butter dotted the corner of his mouth.
Damn him and his secrets. Fighting back a fresh round of tears, Courtney pulled out her phone to check her email.
She didn’t look up until Mack dragged over a chair from the next table and sat down straddling it, tanned arms resting on the narrow back. Chester the dog nosed at Courtney’s hand. Softer ears than her dad’s dog, but just as friendly.
“Got your text,” Mack told James. “What’s up?”
Before James could answer, Courtney told Mack, “That port engine quit again! I can’t keep doing this. . .”
“No surprise. Adding fresh oil every five minutes doesn’t make a motor young again.”
Chester, deciding they’d be here for a while, settled down between her and Mack.
Courtney inhaled a huge breath and blew it out. “So, we need to ask Mr. Wainwright for—”
“We’re not asking Lloyd for a damn thing.” James wiped his hands on a napkin and tossed it onto the empty plate. The peanut butter was still in the corner of his mouth.
“So what are we gonna do then?” she asked. “Sooner or later, I’m gonna break down in open water. And the only thing I hate more than lightning is calling the Coast Guard.”
“Call me first,” Mack said. “I’ll come get you.”
“Tow the Homer with that single one-fifty? Yeah, right. . .” This was getting them nowhere. And James didn’t seem to care.
He must be leaving quite soon, she thought, still choking back tears. Running away from his problems, once again. . . and from whatever might have started between them. Adding engine oil, that magical evening in West Harbor. . . even delivering that whale of a mattress had been a hoot. He was so easy to work with—to be with.
Except when he was hiding something.
James burped. “Wow, that was great—I haven’t had a pumpernickel bagel in months.”
Mack, frowning, resettled his harbormaster’s hat, like he too was out of patience. “Courtney’s right, James—it’s only a matter of time before she gets stranded halfway to Newport. I’m sure I can get that port engine running again, but—”
“Mack, go grab a coffee. Courtney’s buying.”
“Now wait just a—”
“You’ve got an idea, don’t you?” Mack stared at James, head cocked to one side.
“Yes I do.” James leaned his chair back on two legs. “We’re gonna take over the ferry.”
“Take it over?” Courtney repeated. “Like, another stupid sit-in?”
“No, the old-fashioned way—we’re gonna buy it.”
“With what—goodwill and chewing gum?”
“More like dishes and dimes—and day trading.” James wasn’t making any sense, but he sure seemed pleased with himself.
“What the�
��”
“Sheila says Lloyd’s creditors are circling,” James said next.
“Who’s Sheila?”
“Joe’s partner,” Mack said. “That black lady who spoke at his service. She’s a pistol!”
“Yes she is,” James confirmed. “And she predicts Lloyd will file for bankruptcy right after Labor Day. Which he deserves. But we can’t let him take the ferry down with him. So—”
“There goes my job.” Should’ve taken the Oxford offer. . . more money, and a lot more secure.
“So,” James repeated, “I’ve decided we should make him an offer before the weekend—”
“What do you mean, we?” Courtney demanded.
“The islanders,” he replied easily. “Thanks to Joe.”
“Sachem Joe?”
He nodded, smiling at her, like it was all a big lark and not her whole life hanging on this crazy scheme.
Mack said, “I thought all that money went to some land trust thingy—”
“He made a second bequest,” James said. “Asked me to take over the ferry. If only to keep that money from going to Pierce and his damned—”
“How much are we talking about?” Courtney asked, sitting forward and pulling her sticky shirt away from her lower back; the cool morning was finally warming up.
“I’ve run the numbers. Can’t see it going for any less than four hundred,” James replied.
“Grand? The Homer can’t be worth that much!”
“Ferry company owns your cottage, too,” he reminded her.
“So what are we gonna do, hold a bake sale or—”
“Joe’s estate is good for it.”
Courtney gasped. Added to the land trust money. . . Sachem Joe had died a millionaire.
Mack turned to her. “Think you could run on one engine for a few days?”
“I guess. . . hardest part is the turn into this dock.”
“No worries there—you could always start it up for special occasions.” He was grinning now too, mismatched teeth white against tanned face.
“Mack, what the hell are you—”
“It’s against all my instincts.” Mack’s voice was so low, she had to lean in. “But limping into Newport with a dead engine the Friday morning of Labor Day weekend would drop the ferry’s value faster than a diving cormorant.”
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