Ferry to Cooperation Island Page 11

  That same finger, now shrunken except for its knuckle, emerged from the blanket to point at the desk under the eaves. “For something this big, though, you’ll need a real attorney’s help. Send Sheila a picture of the deed and agreement. . . papers can’t leave this house.”

  “Sheila?”

  “My old partner.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, worn out by his own words.

  James stood up and crossed to the desk. “I don’t have a camera.”

  “Phone.”

  “It takes pictures, too?”

  “I’ll show you. . .”

  James set the folder down next to the untouched coffee and handed Joe his phone. Joe slid and tapped before returning it. “Push the white button.”

  It clicked, just like a real camera.

  “Photograph every page.”

  Finished, James handed the device back to Joe, who pressed a few more buttons before closing his eyes.

  Time to go. But Joe waved his hand, indicating James should sit down again.

  “Pierce came out to visit again last week,” Joe croaked, his eyes remaining closed. “To pray with me, he said. But he kept looking around, mentally measuring for his wall-to-wall carpeting. I don’t know who you should fear more, him or Lloyd. . .” his voice faded.

  “Want me to help you get back to bed?”

  “Mavis. . . back soon. Go call Sheila.” Joe’s eyes opened, and he reached out a hand. “Give me that phone again.” He punched in a string of digits, muttering, “Wish I could be there to watch her skewer Lloyd. . .”

  Outside, the rain had cleared away earlier than forecast. Moisture steamed off grass and roof shingles. James inhaled a lungful of salt-laden humidity, grateful to be out of that stuffy house. Shouldn’t Joe be out in open air, rather than squirreled away under his red blanket?

  Climbing onto the bike for his steep climb home, James looked back at the closed door. Joe should be wherever he wanted at this point. It wasn’t like island air—or kale, or pure stubbornness—was going to keep his friend going much longer.

  Courtney

  “ABOUT TIME,” SHE muttered to nobody, as Billy cast off the Newport dock lines and jumped on board the ferry—nine minutes late. She tried not to let her irritation transfer to the throttles. Another minute, and she would’ve been forced to shove off without him again.

  Except for Billy and his tardiness, she’d settled into a routine over the last few weeks. Morning wind sprints, the day’s ferry runs, pasta for dinner, and a few emails before bed—except on Fridays, when she took herself up to the Inn’s bar for a beer or three. Greetings of “Morning, Captain Courtney” at the Bean had begun to sound right, and Hunter had finally gotten the water heater in her tiny cottage working. If she had to, she could do this all summer—or even longer.

  But sometime quite soon that new Oxford ferry captain was going to lose it—such a hothead, she’d heard from both of the deckhands— or go on a bender. And once the owners called Courtney home, she’d ditch this ride faster than a fox fled a forest fire. Until then, Mom was right; making a success of her current job was the best way to prove to those pencil-pushers that Courtney was “a team player.”

  She hadn’t told her mother about Mr. Wainwright’s emailed lists of “MOST IMPORTANT RULES,” which were threatening to make her first captain’s job an unrepeatable miracle rather than the start of a promising career. The first new rule specified a thirty-dollar penalty for any run that arrived more than ten minutes late, claiming recent delays had resulted in several bad reviews. That was just plain BS—nobody, except that finicky mayor, cared whether the Brenton ferry made it out there on time!

  Last week’s rule was a more specific wording of the Coast Guard’s deckhand requirement: Make a run without Billy Dean, and it might be her last.

  (She was still “wearing” her lucky shell—tucked in her bra, safely out of sight. It left a mark, but who cared. . . no one else would see it.)

  She’d broken that running-without-Billy rule twice already, because he hadn’t shown for Sunday evening’s last run back to Brenton. She’d figured no one but Patty and the Monday morning commuters would find out; the tourists had been oblivious (some things were the same anywhere), and even Billy must be too smart to tattle on himself.

  But today’s paycheck—delivered five minutes before she was supposed to push off the Newport pier—had been sixty dollars short. She’d chased Mr. Wainwright up the ramp to ask: why dock her pay, instead of the tardy deckhand’s? (What she’d really wanted to ask was: how did you know?)

  “Billy’s fishing friends offered to double his salary,” Mr. Wainwright replied. He turned to face her, forcing her to remain on the ramp connecting brick sidewalk to floating dock. Man, the guy was tall—and pasty-faced, like he lived in a cave. “Docking Billy’s pay would only encourage him to take off. Then we’d be—”

  “Jake could take over.” The kid rode the ferry whenever they had room for him, hungry for sea time. Both his attitude and his punctuality were a lot better than Billy’s.

  “Too young to serve drinks. And every other deckhand in this goddamn town is looking for glamour—my ferry doesn’t even make their list.” Mr. Wainwright had winked at her then, leaning in to add, “But nobody’d be surprised if Billy ended up with a black eye.”

  Would a good solid punch make Billy show up on time? If so, it might be worth it. Twelve minutes late leaving the harbor. And Mr. Wainwright seemed to know to the second when they arrived at the Brenton dock. . .

  Billy must’ve been on time for James—why was he behaving so differently now? Making Courtney look bad would just get him a less patient boss. Unless he wanted Captain Punctual back in charge again. Could James be bribing him?

  Her deckhand slithered into the wheelhouse, chomping at his gum. “I went for a run. Lost track of—”

  “Out.” She pointed her thumb over her shoulder, toward the passenger deck. “Go ask Jake if you can borrow his goddamn watch.”

  “Jake has no life! It’s easy for—”

  “He’s dependable, and he doesn’t invade my wheelhouse. Out.”

  He turned for the door, stopped, and moved toward her instead— close enough for a dense whiff of gum breath.

  “Shave ten minutes off our time if you take the short cut,” he murmured, just loud enough to be heard over the engines.

  “No way.” Courtney shook her head. “Not safe.”

  “James used to do it.” And with an oily smile, he slid out the door and shut it behind him.

  Shee-it! That kid knew exactly how to get under her skin.

  As soon as she reached the speed limit buoys at the outer edge of Newport Harbor, she pressed the throttles forward all the way. But that started an engine pinging underfoot, which just couldn’t be good, so she backed off again to cruising speed. There was just no way to make up time on this rustbucket!

  Sighing, she tried to distract herself by admiring the huge lawns gleaming electric green along the port shoreline. But it didn’t work; instead, an image of that shortcut popped into her head.

  Billy had pointed out the open water between Bird Island and Brenton a week ago, and Courtney had been eyeing it ever since. On the chartplotter it looked wide open. It was only the coffee-stained paper chart that alerted her; two hand-drawn rocks, labeled West Rock and Miss Piggy. Running around in small boats as a kid, James would’ve learned exactly where those two hull-bangers were, long before a license was on the line.

  (Had he figured out who’d sent that text yet?)

  Her phone dinged. Mr. Wainwright: “12 min, 30 bucks.”

  Shee-it, she got it already!

  After one more check for boat traffic—two incoming fishing boats, three outgoing sailboats, all paralleling her course up or down East Passage—Courtney pulled out the paper chart again and unfolded it on the counter in front of the wheel. If the shortcut was really such a time saver, why wasn’t it the main channel? Shitload more direct than going all the way around Bird I
sland.

  Two answers: West Rock and Miss Piggy.

  “Billy!”

  He popped his head in the starboard doorway.

  “How do we avoid those two rocks?”

  “White and red buoy—can’t miss it.”

  “It’s not on the chartplotter—or the paper chart.”

  “Privately maintained—Fisher Marty set it out there, years ago.”

  “Marty who runs the boat yard?”

  “Yeah. Used to fish, till the cod dried up.”

  She inhaled a huge breath, then blew it out again. “All right, we’ll try it—I can’t afford any more late fees. Soon as we’re abeam of Bird Island, I want you back up here.”

  “Aye aye, Mrs. Captain!” He saluted, ruined it with a wink, and disappeared out the door again.

  Courtney’s gut heaved. High tide, but that meant that those two rocks would be even harder to spot.

  It was her only option.

  As soon as Courtney altered course three degrees to starboard, the door slid open again.

  “Easy peasy, you’ll see,” Billy said. Though his chewing speed was faster than normal.

  When the channel between the two islands narrowed, Courtney backed off to idle.

  “There it is—see that lobster pot?” Billy pointed. “Just leave that to port and you’ll be fine.”

  She wouldn’t have even noticed such a small buoy, half covered in dark sea growth. “How far off? Any sort of range?” They were closer to the Brenton shoreline than the visible rocks on Bird Island, which was good; the chart showed a ledge to port. The red line crawling across the clear blue electronic chart verified her visual estimate.

  Billy shrugged. “All I know is stay close to that pot, like you’re doing. We came this way a lot last winter.”

  “Late for James, were you?”

  “Never! I mean—”

  “Uh-huh. Let’s talk about that after we’re through.”

  The rocks slid by unseen. Sure enough, they were only going to be a few minutes late.

  Then she spotted it: a repeatable range. Red-topped lighthouse lined up with the end of the breakwater. Dad would be so proud of her! Grinning, she bumped the throttle back to full speed. Run her like you own her.

  The rocks at the end of that breakwater seemed like old friends today. She was just about to reduce speed when the VHF radio squawked.

  “Mind your wake now, Courtney.”

  Who was that? She picked up the handset and keyed the mike.

  “Vessel hailing the Homer S. Morgan, this is the Homer S. Morgan, channel sixteen.”

  No response. After two more tries, she gave up.

  It wasn’t until she spotted the harbormaster boat roaming the outer harbor that she realized it must’ve been Mack’s voice—though it was way too casual for an island official.

  As soon as she slowed down to idle, some sort of alarm sounded— brain-piercingly high-pitched. Had one of the engines shut down? No; both tachometers still read 1000 RPM.

  Before she could figure out what to do, the wheelhouse went quiet. Thank goodness—she could think again.

  A few minutes later, the Homer’s fenders bumped against the Brenton pier. All the passengers were smiling—there would be no bad reviews about today’s run. That frickin’ shortcut had saved her thirty bucks!

  Billy followed the final passenger along the side deck, carrying two gallons of milk; Courtney overheard him telling the woman that the Bean had “the best coffee on the island.” The only coffee, she knew now. Just as he passed the wheelhouse door, she stepped in front of him and held up her hand, waiting until the passengers were out of earshot.

  “I don’t like violence,” she told him, keeping her voice low. “But if a black eye is what it takes to make you show up on time, I’m all in.”

  He smiled, revealing yellow teeth. “No worries, Mrs. Captain.”

  He pushed past her and she turned away, unclenching her right fist. He’d be late again, but hopefully not until a new week started. And now that she had that new range. . .

  When Courtney climbed the Bean’s steps, already tasting fresh coffee, a reserved sign sat in the middle of her table. What the—

  To her left, a newspaper lowered. James’s beard had filled in enough to darken his chin. “You got lucky,” he said, his voice deep and gristly—as if he hadn’t used it in a while. “Short cut’s a risky move.”

  Lucky—damn him! She’d found a range.

  “If your stupid deckhand would show up on time, I wouldn’t need to go that way,” she retorted. His eyes were ocean blue, not green like the water swirling through the shortcut.

  “Just don’t try that below half—”

  Enough of his day-late, dollar-short advice. She let the screen door slam behind her, just to prove his words hadn’t stung one bit.

  Patty said the “reserved” sign was to hold her table, so Courtney carried her scone and coffee back out to it and sat down. James was still at his own table. She pulled out her phone.

  It had been almost a week since she’d sent him that text. When was he going to figure out why Mr. Wainwright was listed as president of the local land trust? He couldn’t just sit there and ignore the problem! She tapped out “Any progress?” and hit send.

  His phone buzzed. Those eyebrows scrunched together. Courtney watched out of the corner of her eye as he pulled it out of a side pocket and read, then tapped out a reply with one fat index finger. Writing a goddamn novel?

  Her phone chimed.

  “Progress? What should I do?” Five minutes, to type five words— keep your day job, buddy! She almost spit out her coffee—that was funny, in a sick sort of way.

  “Find out if there’s a way to stop him,” she typed back. “He will ruin the island.”

  Again she heard his phone ping and waited through laborious typing.

  “Who are you?”

  Hmm. . .

  After some thought, she wrote the truth: “A friend who wants the best for this island.”

  This time, she looked up as soon as she hit send—right into James’s blue-eyed surprise.

  James

  THE OCEAN WAS already stirring with sea breeze when James first sat down on Mayor Frank’s east-facing porch. Boats—big, small, power, sail—rushed in and out of Newport, salt air wafted through the screens, and the ancient metal armchair bounced a little under his weight. But none of it fooled him into thinking he was out on the water rather than watching others enjoy a perfect summer day. Out there, life was so much simpler.

  Dean’s vision—“we’ll sail every day!”—had been pared down by family realities; Peter’s summer camps, Ainsley’s ever-important golf lessons. They’d only taken MoreSea out once last week, a refreshing slog into smoky southwester that ended with Peter getting seasick, again. With so much extra time, James had already completed all the easy projects on Dean’s list; the rest required ordering parts and gathering tools before getting himself out to the boat on its mooring—all of which was easy to put off until after he checked in for a coffee and bagel. By the time he’d listened in on the latest news and made sure the morning ferry got back from Newport, it seemed too late to start anything new.

  Identifying Courtney as the mysterious message-writer had only made it harder to concentrate. First, she stole his job. Next, she risked the shortcut. Now she was trying to tell him what to do? Friend of Brenton, my ass.

  All the same, he was curious. The island’s future was in doubt, all thanks to a mystery from his own past. And the only person with both the answers and the energy to explain was the long-winded Mayor Frank.

  So when the mayor hadn’t shown up at the Bean this morning, James biked up the hill to this ramshackle cottage with its million dollar view and knocked on the door. “Joe said you could explain why Lloyd hates my family,” he said, as soon as the door opened.

  Nodding, the mayor had stepped back to let James inside, obviously favoring his right leg.

  “You all right?” James asked.


  “Right as rain,” the mayor replied in a decidedly feeble voice, limping back across the kitchen. “Have a seat out on the porch. I’ll go find a copy of my book. . .”

  That was seven minutes ago. James’s knee began to pulse up and down; this history lesson could take all day. Had the mayor gotten lost in his own house? Or dozed off?

  A familiar clang pulled James’s gaze to the right. Just off Lighthouse Point, the Brenton Rock buoy bobbed and dipped over ocean swell. Growing up, the four tones of that gong had been a personal lullaby— they took turns carrying all the way up to his bedroom window, on the east side of the keeper’s house.

  To his left, the harbor breakwater pointed silently northwest toward the shortcut. Low tide, two days before the full moon; West Rock would be just breaking the surface. James shuddered, remembering. . . but the ferry and its scrapes were all that damned girl’s problem now.

  He stood up to stretch, wondering if he should just leave—but then his host returned at last.

  “Sorry about the mess. Mavis comes tomorrow. Oof!” Frank collapsed into the other chair, rubbing his left knee, and handed James a tan pamphlet with green text. “I guess you haven’t read my book, or you wouldn’t be here. I’m sure there’s one in your mother’s desk.”

  That roll-top needed cleaning out, but after Mom died two years ago James hadn’t even wanted to walk back into that house. So instead, he’d moved in with Barb.

  The mayor turned to face James. “Aren’t you proud of our new lady captain? She’s settling in, just as I—”

  “She stole my job!” James let the pamphlet fall onto the table between them.

  “She didn’t steal it,” Frank replied, his voice stronger again. “You lost it. She was just in the right place at the right time.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  Frank tapped the pamphlet. “I was quite surprised when Lloyd Wainwright hired you. He’s got a belly full of revenge for anyone with the last name of Malloy.”