Ferry to Cooperation Island Page 10

  Worth a try. Courtney tapped out a quick note and hit send.

  James

  HE WAS UP on the foredeck, wind pulling hard against the dinghy as he tried to tie it to MoreSea’s mooring line, when the new phone let out a strange pinging sound. Three weeks ago, as soon as James accepted the job, Dean had produced a smart phone—his old one, he said—and reprogrammed it with James’s number and a brand-new email address. Ever since then, the thing had been dinging and whistling several times a day, the electronic version of a whiny two-year-old’s “pay attention to me!” Now, instead of obeying, James nodded back to Dean at the helm: ready to cast off.

  Twelve-year-old Peter came forward, tucking hands under his red life jacket. “Captain James? Dad wants me to help.”

  “Okay. . . as soon as the strain comes off the mooring pennant, uncleat it and drop it over the side.” James waved to Dean to put the boat in gear. “Ready?”

  Peter managed to pull the thick line up and off the horn cleat, but when he let it go the dinghy painter tangled around the bow anchor.

  “No, not like that!”

  Peter scurried back to the safety of the cockpit. Damn, now he’d scared the poor kid. Easier to do everything himself.

  By the time James untangled the pennant and headed aft, Dean had gunned the engine to show his own aggravation, and Peter was tucked into the corner of the cockpit, knees up, thumbs tapping at his phone. James had a few minutes before the main could be raised, so he sat down next to the boy, ignoring the way the kid shrank away from him.

  “Know anything about cell phones?” he asked quietly.

  “Course.” Same clear blue eyes as his dad’s.

  “Maybe when we get back to the harbor again, you can help me shut off all the noises mine is making?”

  Peter held out his hand. “I’ll do it right now. What’s your password?”

  “Password?”

  “Oh, never mind—that’s Dad’s old phone.” Peter’s thumbs were already scrolling and tapping away.

  James stood next to Dean, fingers itching to take over. Since signing on as MoreSea’s captain, he hadn’t once been offered the helm. “No Ainsley today?” he asked. Dean’s wife had come along for the very first family sail, but James hadn’t seen her since.

  Dean shook his head. “She said it was a better day for golf than sailing, but she pretty much always thinks that’s true.”

  “It is gonna be a little wet and wild out there.” Beyond the breakwater, a building southerly had already kicked up a steep chop. Clouds scudded over Bird Island, moving almost as fast as the wheeling gulls. There’d be rain in a few hours—best keep today’s sail short and sweet.

  “We should raise the mainsail in here, where it’s flat water,” James suggested. So Dean—after a half-hearted attempt to interest Peter in sail handling—pointed the boat up into the wind. James hauled up the sail and trimmed in the sheet.

  As soon as they nosed outside the breakwater, the boat began to pitch and roll. Dean shut down the engine, and James let the main out to match his course. They scooted past the nun off Bird Island like a runaway train.

  The bow heaved up, then down, over an especially large wave. James sat down on the windward cockpit coaming, clear of the water running aft down the deck. Dean’s knuckles wrapped white around black wheel.

  “Let’s go around Bird Island and then head west, along the lee side of the island,” James suggested. His boss nodded, and once the rocks were safely astern they tacked—Dean hated jibing—and James unrolled the jib. The boat picked up speed again on a rollicking reach—flat water, great breeze, speed climbing above eight knots. Yeah!

  When they reached the west end of the island, the bow began to heave up and down again. Dean set a course for Point Judith, but he was too timid driving the boat to keep enough power through the waves, which set up a corkscrewing motion. James wasn’t surprised when Peter threw up (mostly over the leeward rail), and when the kid asked if they could please turn around—voice shaky with fear— James nodded in agreement. Grimacing, Dean spun the boat into another tack and retraced their course back to protected water.

  As soon as they were inside the harbor again, Dean handed over the wheel to Peter with a few instructions and came forward to help James flake the mainsail on the boom.

  “I thought he’d be tougher,” he admitted. “He’s so hungry to learn!”

  “There’s the idea of sailing, and then there’s the actual misery,” James replied. “He’s plenty tough—he just needs to look at the horizon, instead of down at that screen.” For the first time since handing over his phone, James wondered what had happened to it—lost overboard? That’d be just fine.

  Dean took over the helm again to make the mooring, even though Peter had a lighter touch than his dad did. By the time James had tied off the pennant and brought the dinghy aft, Dean had disappeared below. That meant beer; his mouth watered.

  “I fixed your phone, Captain James.” Peter’s color had returned; one thing about seasickness, it was easily cured.

  He sat down beside the boy, peering at the dancing screen—not his, he realized. Peter extracted a smaller one from his lifejacket pocket and handed it over.

  “It’s pretty old and slow,” he said. “But I guess it’ll work okay as long as you’re not watching video or doing any searches. All the alarms are shut off now.”

  “What’s this mean?” James pointed to a red circle with a one inside it.

  “That’s a text—a message, sent to your phone.”

  “Really! I don’t even know my number.”

  “Probably spam then.”

  “Spam?”

  “Someone trying to sell you something.” Peter’s gaze had already returned to his video game.

  James tapped on the message, shading the phone with his hand. “It has come to my attention that Lloyd Wainwright has taken control of the West Brenton Land Trust.” It was signed, “A Brenton friend.”

  James glanced around him, hairs on the back of his neck standing up. Except for three other sailboats dancing on their moorings, the harbor and dock were empty. Joe had mentioned that land trust a few weeks ago; how many people even knew it existed, let alone who was in charge? Very strange.

  “Who’s this from?”

  “Could be anyone,” Peter replied, thumbs tapping away. “Statistically, most spam comes from eastern Europe.”

  Christ! The thing fit in his pocket.

  Couldn’t hurt to reply, ask for more info. Dear friend, he tapped out with a finger too big for the tiny keyboard; how did you find out?

  “Now what?”

  “Huh?” Peter looked up.

  “I want to write back.”

  “So hit send—there.” The phone made a whooshing sound.

  “That’s it?”

  Dean came up the companionway ladder, carrying two cans of beer already covered in condensation. “Just like mailing a letter, James—you have to wait for an answer.” He was smiling, happy to see his son and James getting along so well—even though all they were doing was sitting side by side, engrossed in totally different worlds.

  “Thanks.” James took one of the beers, popped it open, and slid the phone into his jacket pocket. “Peter’s teaching me to text. Or email. I’m not really sure which.” He’d barely taken a sip before his phone pinged again. Had the guy written back already?

  Search on Brenton plus Wainwright, you’ll find same thing.

  “How do I search for something?” he asked Dean, showing him the screen.

  “The browser, remember?” Dean pointed to a small blue compass rose.

  “Oh that’s right.”

  “Might take a while. . . that’s why I upgraded.” Dean gazed out toward Bird Island, sipping at his beer.

  A wheel spun on the screen, promising something. When Dean asked what sails he should order for next year’s race, James slid the phone back into his pocket. But he couldn’t stop thinking about that warning. Who had sent it, and what did it me
an?

  When mist became drizzle, they all went ashore in the dinghy. Standing on the dock, Dean suggested they skip the weekend sailing they’d planned, since it was supposed to rain even harder the next few days. As James biked home on the old ten-speed he’d dug out of the shed, he tried to think of the next two days—paid, but he could do whatever he pleased—as a luxury. But back at the house, showered and dry, he was unable to settle to anything. The phone wheel continued to spin, right through supper. He needed help.

  Anna’s nephew Nathaniel was a computer genius. But James had been avoiding Anna’s house ever since that dinner—or rather, the next day, once he realized island gossip had already branded the artist as his new girlfriend. Should’ve known better than to buy a bottle of wine at Prime’s and then carry it directly up to her front door—right across the road from Barb’s.

  He should stop by the bakery, talk things out—if only so he could tell Joe he’d done so. But a month later, the memory of that confrontation still made his scar throb. And besides, he wasn’t sorry. If he ever got to choose again between reducing Joe’s agony and pissing off Barb, he’d make exactly the same decision.

  Windburn and worry had worn him out so much, he went to bed early. When rain needling at the window woke him just after midnight, he remembered that Anna had gone to Newport for some artist’s thing. So the next morning, after sleeping late—again—and brewing a spoon-standing cup of coffee, James braved the fog and rain to bike up the hill to her house. Just after his second knock, Nathaniel—hair spiky with bed-head—let him in the front door.

  “Captain James! What a surprise. Aunt Anna’s not—”

  “I’m here to see you.” As soon as James explained his dilemma, Nathaniel nodded and led James down to his basement lair—a combination crash pad and office that smelled like laundry detergent and concrete. Nathaniel sat down on a large round ball to tap at a black keyboard. And before James quite realized what was happening, they were reading Lloyd’s emails.

  “Wait—isn’t that supposed to be private?”

  “Most people use really lame passwords,” Nathaniel replied, scrolling through a long list of subject lines: checks in the mail, invites to cocktail parties, divorce papers. . .

  James was about to tell Nathaniel to stop when he spotted a familiar name. “Hey—open that one to Parker Dane.” Dated two days ago.

  He read it over Nathaniel’s shoulder, trying to absorb the words before they rolled out of sight off the screen. Apparently, Parker owed Lloyd a huge amount of money—more than James thought the whole Inn could possibly be worth. And if Parker didn’t pay what he owed in the next seven days, Lloyd was threatening to take over the very hill his family had lusted after for two generations.

  “Did Parker reply?”

  Nathaniel shook his head no, then turned to look up at James. “Why would Mr. Wainwright want the Inn?”

  “He wants that property,” James explained. “Just like his grandfather did. How well do you know your island history?” Then he glanced at his watch. “Damn, I’ve gotta get out of here. . .” The ferry bringing Anna home was due any minute.

  Coasting down the hill, the fog had lifted enough to see beyond the breakwater—and the only boat moving was the harbormaster’s. Mack and Chester, out collecting mooring fees. So the ferry was running at least ten minutes late, again. Even Mayor Frank might be out of patience by now.

  That left enough time to get another coffee without the risk of seeing Anna. But with his insides already jittery, James coasted right past the turnoff to the ferry landing. He just couldn’t take Mayor Frank’s cheery exaggerations today.

  Just after the road curved right and crossed the marsh bridge, his mother’s white sign (Malloy House, like it was a mansion instead of a mildewed cottage) appeared on his right. He pedaled across the tired lawn, right up to the front steps, but there were no answers here; the only person who could explain about Lloyd and the Inn was Joe. So James pushed off again, up a hill and around a sharp turn onto the dirt path that Mom had so optimistically called North Road. As kids, he and Joe had sought out its puddles and bumps as bike jumps. Today he swerved to avoid them all, carving out the smoothest, least muddy route.

  He passed the reservoir, pockmarked with raindrops dripping off the surrounding trees. The top of Joe’s oak disappeared up into the low clouds, even taller and straighter than the Douglas fir just across the dividing path. Forty years ago, had their fathers ever imagined how tall those two scrappy little seedlings would grow? Or that the dividing path would have almost disappeared, covered over by creeper and neglect?

  To his right was fog-free open water all the way to Newport, so he dropped his foot to the ground and searched the horizon for the Homer’s distinctive profile. Just disappearing behind Bird Island— fifteen minutes late. Damn that girl!

  Bile rising in his throat, James stomped so hard on the pedals that the rusty bike chain jammed. Simple fix, but before he started pedaling again, he forced himself to pause and take a few calming breaths. One more ire-induced error, and he might end up biking right off the road and tumbling over the steep bluff.

  By the time he reached the Indian burial ground—grass taller than weathered headstones; something else Mavis would need help with— the rain had started again. He crested the western-facing bluffs and coasted down the path, drizzle cooling the warm sweat on his neck. Just ahead rode the ghost of ten-year-old Joe, feet in the air, whooping.

  Halfway down the bluff, the mist swirled in again—so thick he could almost imagine that the decrepit Narragansett houses below still stood as plumb and square as they had in his childhood, smoke rising from each stone chimney. On the grass between them, Little Mavis would be playing jacks or trying to rescue a broken-winged bird. Whenever Joe and James had come rocketing down this path, her face had blossomed into a wide smile.

  At the bottom, reality returned: sagging rooflines, missing shingles, mud, and the dread of Joe’s decline. Even the Sachem’s cottage was missing a few cedar shakes.

  Leaning his bike beside the front door, James knocked once before pulling it open. The dry heat inside was like terrycloth on damp skin.

  “Glad you came.” Joe’s deep voice emerged from the armchair. “Mind putting on coffee?”

  James sat down across from him instead, ignoring the metal-framed hospital bed standing beneath the big window. “You know we won’t drink it,” he said.

  “Only thing you know how to make. And preparing food and drink is a—”

  “A sign of respect, yeah I know.” James stood up again. “I actually managed to heat up some mac and cheese last night.”

  Joe chuckled. “Remember when your mother taught us to make pie?”

  “Yes. We ate all the apples, so there was nothing but crust for my dad.” There was no sign of Mémé today; she must’ve seen James coming down the bluff. He raised his voice to carry over running water. “I’d forgotten about that.”

  “Long time ago.”

  And yesterday, all at the same time. Here in this dry cottage, rain pattering overhead, the past seemed very close.

  Kettle on, James came back to sit down again.

  “I just found out something bad. Parker’s got a huge mortgage with Lloyd, and it’s gonna come due in a few—”

  “Old news.” Joe waved away the words. “Lloyd financed the Inn’s purchase and paid for Parker’s improvements, until about a year ago when his wife froze their joint account and started divorce proceedings. Not important. Besides, Mavis predicts Parker will make his payment on time.” Joe’s voice was stronger than it had been in several days.

  “So, what is important then?”

  “Really, really old news.” The kettle whistled. “Make our coffee first.”

  As soon as James brought back two steaming mugs, Joe started talking. Back in 1978, a few months before the Narragansetts signed over their land rights to the state of Rhode Island in exchange for a tiny reservation they already owned in South County, Lloyd Wainwrigh
t—eighteen years old, but already too big for his britches— had approached Joe’s father. Once the deal ashore went through, he said, the local tribe would lose control of West Brenton. Unless they sold it all to Lloyd.

  “Lloyd’s family didn’t even own property out here anymore,” Joe said. “And Pa didn’t trust him. So instead of signing those papers, he walked them up to the lighthouse.”

  “That’s how my dad got involved?”

  “Yes, because the tribe considered the lighthouse keeper the white Sachem.” Once James’s father confirmed that the written words were quite different, Uncle Tony tore up the contract.

  “Tell me about that deed,” James said. “The one that says your father owns all of West Brenton.”

  “I’m getting to that.”

  Only a handful of Narragansetts remained on Brenton by the time Lloyd had come calling, Joe continued. Outnumbered, Uncle Tony was worried whites would soon start building houses west of the Inn and eventually force them all ashore. It was Anna’s father who suggested deeding the land as forever wild, and so the West Brenton Land Trust was born.

  But the land trust existed only on paper. After stumbling onto a similar case in Massachusetts, Joe realized the old agreement wouldn’t hold up in court—so he’d started writing his monthly letters to Lloyd. “What I should’ve done instead was get the land trust up and running. Now Parker Dane’s creeping west, no longer funded by Lloyd but—”

  “But still encouraged by him,” James finished. A trickle of sweat ran down from his left armpit.

  Joe pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “I wanted to get all this cleared up myself. You’re going to have to take it on now.”

  “I’m a boat captain! I don’t understand all the legal shit.”

  “You’ll do fine. You may not be any good with people, but you sure can argue.”

  James smiled, instantly taken back to a teenaged fight in the woods. Over—what? Something James had said to Mavis, probably, trying to get her to stop tagging along. After their father died, Joe had instantly stopped complaining about his brat of a younger sister and started protecting her instead. When James had raised his fists, ready to do battle with his friend, Joe had pointed his right finger. Words, not fists, he’d said.