Ferry to Cooperation Island Read online

  “Because my dad helped protect West Brenton? That was more Uncle Tony than—”

  “He thinks your father killed his grandfather.”

  “Wait—what??”

  “Your parents never told you about Willie Wainwright, did they.” James shook his head. “Lloyd’s granddad. Had a string of sailboats named Sarah, each one bigger and fancier than the last. Growing up, I’d watch ’em sail by; he was one of the first to get out on his boat again, after the war ended.” The mayor’s eyes moved from right to left, as if following a sailboat running back to Newport.

  “World War II,” James guessed.

  “That’s right. Willie never enlisted, so he didn’t have to get back to normal the way everyone else did. Some cockamamie story about a bum knee, but it never seemed to keep him from walking up the hill to Clark’s Inn for a wee drinkie. One night—” Then he paused, chuckling. “But I won’t spoil the next book for you.” For years, Frank’d been promising a sequel to The History of Brenton Island—with all the dirty gossip he’d left out of the tourist-friendly version.

  “Summer of ’46,” Frank continued, “Sarah would be the only yacht out sailing. I was twenty years old, so hungry to get off this island and out on a boat—any boat. I remember my father pointing out to sea and saying, ‘There’s goes the Sarah again, putting sails up just to take them down again. Like Will’s practicing for the America’s Cup or something.’ Back then nobody put much time into sailing. Other than to defend the Cup, of course.”

  Would he ever get to the point?

  “That winter, Willie commissioned a brand new Sarah from the Herreshoff yard up in Bristol,” Frank went on. “All varnish, every scrap of her—even the hull. Must’ve cost a fortune to build. And she would’ve been a fortune to maintain, too, if he hadn’t lost her the following August. Right there.” He pointed left, into the shortcut. “Piled her up on Piglet Rock—the one you kids call Miss Piggy. He’d bet another Newport yachtsman he could beat him around Brenton and back, but nothing was said about Bird Island. So when Willie rounded behind the other boat, he tried cutting through there to catch up. Fortunately, the crew was all saved. Boat was a total loss.” Frank cocked his head. “Worked out all right for the locals, though— if you look closely, the entire back porch of the captain’s cottage is planking from that wreck.

  “Anyhoo, Willie had another Sarah built, and every year after that he made the same challenge ashore. But nobody in Newport wanted to race him—he’d developed a reputation for being a little crazy.”

  Just like his grandson.

  “Willie got older, but he never got any. . .” Frank coughed into his right fist. “I’m just gonna get a glass of water—”

  “I’ll get it,” James offered. In the small kitchen he found two glasses and filled both from the dripping faucet, dodging the curtain that was blowing in the window. Back out on the porch, he handed one glass to Frank.

  “Thank you. Now, where was I. . .”

  “Sarah. Willie Wain—”

  “Ah yes! . . . 1967, or maybe ’68. . . no, it was ’67, because my dad died that fall. . . Someone with a new go-fast boat finally took Willie up on his bet. I’ll never forget seeing ’em come around the corner.” Frank pointed to his right this time, toward Lighthouse Point.

  “The other boat was out in front, and it was so windy they didn’t set a spinnaker. Willie was desperate to win, so he put up a really big sail—and then ran straight up onto Brenton Rock. The boat broke up in just a few minutes—they’d built her extra light for racing, of course.”

  The sudden silence felt like a memorial. A beautiful boat, similar to MoreSea, destroyed by a single rock—only half a mile away from where they now sat.

  “He must’ve cut the gong,” James said.

  “Wasn’t there yet. Coast Guard added it a few years later.”

  “Dad always told me never to go inside it, even in a small boat. What happened to the crew?”

  “They swam to the little beach just east of the lighthouse,” Frank said. “Your father took ’em up to the house, fed ’em some brandy. It was October, I think. Maybe even November. Cold and snorty.”

  Frank heaved a sigh. “But Willie couldn’t swim. They found his body a few days later, washed up on Bird Island.”

  Chewed up, no doubt, by that jagged shoreline. James shuddered.

  “So why does Lloyd think my dad killed him?”

  “Your father was the lighthouse keeper. Took over when your grandfather dropped dead, only two days before the accident.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “But it wasn’t his fault Willie didn’t know how to swim?” Frank sighed again. “Once Lloyd’s mom had her nervous breakdown, there wasn’t much room for logic in that house. Rumor has it she also lost the love of her life that day.”

  Not Lloyd’s father, apparently.

  “Sarah’s boat captain. Sasha? Samson, that was it—youngest of the four Clark boys. He was several years younger than Kitty Wainwright, but—”

  “You said the rest of the crew made it ashore.”

  “They did, but Sam hit his head on the rocks. Spent the rest of his life in an institution.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Lloyd was seven at the time, so he was old enough to remember his mother before she fell apart but young enough to believe her when she said it was all your father’s fault. Right after that, the family sold their house out here and moved ashore to Newport. Lloyd’s been holding a grudge against the Malloys—and really, against all Brenton islanders—ever since.”

  “So why’d he buy the ferry?”

  “At the time, I figured he’d made his peace. Since then, watching how he treated the Homer—and you—I figured he was trying to run it into the ground. Maybe so he could buy the whole island for ten cents on the dollar, just like he did the ferry—”

  “When Quentin Ballantine went bankrupt,” James finished. “Wish I’d known all this sixteen years ago.” His leg bounced up and down like a piston, ready to run.

  “I thought about telling you,” Frank said. “But you were always in too much of a hurry.”

  James leaned his elbows on his knee to keep it still.

  Frank turned; his blue eyes magnified to twice their normal size. “I was always surprised he hired you,” he said. “Unless he figured he could get rid of you and the ferry, together—maybe for good.”

  “For good!” Even for Frank, that was a little too dramatic. Lloyd definitely had a screw loose, but he wasn’t a murderer.

  Though Joe was right; history did explain why James had been fired. Lloyd’s overreaction was just the latest and biggest in a long line of attempts to trip him up.

  “And now he’s hired a lady captain, with no open water experience.” Frank said, sighing again. “I’ve been trying to encourage her— that smile reminds me so much of Jeannie! But just between us, I can only hope this isn’t the end of our little ferry.”

  Parker

  FROM ACROSS THE dining room, Parker spotted Sylvia manhandling a silver cocktail shaker. In one of her moods, with a big spender sitting at the bar! Parker strode over and held out his right hand.

  “Good to see you again, Mr. M-Moreland.”

  “Please—it’s Dean!” The hand was cool and slightly damp from a bourbon and soda, and the tip of his nose was sunburned. He wore a dark blue polo with “MoreSea” written on the left chest, the name Dean gave all his boats.

  “Were you planning on s-staying with us again tonight? We’re—”

  “I know, you’re all booked up ’til Labor Day—despite your tiny advertising budget.” Dean’s wide smile took the sting out of his words. Setting down his bourbon and soda, he waved toward a nearby armchair, where a skinny kid with Dean’s blond cowlick pinged thumbs into a tablet screen. “Peter and I are staying on the boat. My new captain says we have to get used to the bunks. No detail too small if you want to win the Bermuda Race! And he loves it—we split a can of cold baked beans for dinner. Just came up here to
borrow some of your electricity.” Winking, he pointed to the glass before picking it up and emptying it against his white teeth. “Think thirteen’s too young to go offshore? Ainsley doesn’t want me to take him.”

  Parker knew better than to take sides between husband and wife.

  Dean raised the empty drink at Sylvia, who nodded without actually making eye contact. Despite her sour face, she was keeping up with the orders tonight.

  “I love that old photo,” Dean said, waving to the wall behind the bar, “but here’s what I don’t get. Indians put up this cool Wampum building. Then they let some white guy turn it into an inn. Why?”

  “The villagers agreed to b-build a school big enough to include the Indian kids. And the bar was open to their parents—even had a private entrance.” Parker pointed to the hand-lettered “INDIANS ONLY” sign. He’d replaced it after the renovation, as a hint toward the building’s rough history.

  “Oh yes, the good old days.” Dean made air quotes with his fingers around the last three words. “Don’t you have a cleaner who’s a Narragansett? She must love that classy reminder.”

  Mavis would see the sign as a slight, Parker realized. How insensitive he was! He’d take it down tomorrow morning, first thing.

  “I’m anchored in West Harbor,” Dean said. “Lovely spot. And it’s a great way to do a little research for our project.”

  “P-project?”

  “Oh you don’t have to be coy with me, Parker!” Dean lowered his voice. “The West Brenton golf resort?”

  “Ah.” He hadn’t heard it referred to as a resort before. “So, you’re one of Lloyd’s in-v-vest—”

  “He says there’s room for six condos, but that’s way too many. Four, maybe? Or even two—that would keep it more exclusive.”

  Condos, down on West Harbor? Mavis would never speak to him again.

  Dean leaned in so close, Parker could smell the bourbon on his breath. “Personally, I’m beginning to think twice about this whole golf resort plan. We don’t want to lose the wild feel of West Brenton, just so Lloyd’s daughter can come out here and hit little white balls into the ocean.”

  Parker tried to keep his face neutral. “Our guests do love their nature w-walks.” After glancing outside to check on the patio diners he added, “Your w-wife’s into golf, right? She must l-love the idea.”

  “She would—if I’d told her about it. Every other damned island has a golf course! This is the only one left with any real wilderness.”

  “T-true enough.”

  “Though everything has its downside; Sylvia was just telling me she wouldn’t walk down to West Harbor after dark.”

  Sylvia wouldn’t talk to Mavis either. “You’ll be fine,” Parker assured Dean, “as long as you have a f-flashlight. No streetlights out here.”

  “Didn’t think to grab one off the boat.” Dean pulled out a thin wallet and pinned a fifty under his empty glass. “We’ll head back now, while there’s still some light. Thanks for the electricity.” He leaned in once more, his voice just above a whisper. “You and I should chat— maybe between us, we can keep Lunatic Lloyd in check.”

  James

  JOE HAD RALLIED again. Today he’d joked about playing hide-and-seek with death. Then, in a segue only James could appreciate, he’d asked how their trees were doing. So James had promised to check on them on his way home.

  Standing on his pedals to climb the path that connected West Harbor with the rest of the island, he wished he’d been able to sit with Joe a little longer. Dean had been riding him hard to finish several boat projects before a family cruise planned for mid-August. James had trouble visualizing the whole family sailing for an entire week; Dean’s wife preferred golfing, and Peter spent his afternoons on MoreSea playing video games, glancing up only when a little spray threatened to reach his phone. James had tried to explain that a twelve-year-old boy might like sailing better with kids his own age, but Dean claimed lessons from the family captain were the only way his son would be ready for the big race next summer. How did you teach a kid who didn’t want to learn?

  The monument and its view of open horizon beckoned, but James turned left toward the trees; a promise was a promise. Sitting down now but still breathing hard, he tried to remember how he and Joe had learned to sail. Dad sure hadn’t taught them; the only time James could remember his father leaving the lighthouse property was the day he was automated out of a job.

  What he did remember was talking his way onto whatever boat was leaving the harbor. And, on windless days, endless afternoons of hide-and-seek with Joe, out here in the fields of West Brenton. Back then, the trees their fathers had planted were still just skinny saplings, so they’d hidden themselves behind rocks or gravestones. Now, even the scrub oaks ahead had grown up into what could be called a forest—at least according to the Inn’s glitzy brochure.

  The tree planting was supposed to be a symbolic mixing of white and Narragansett “blood” across the path dividing East and West Brenton. It had worked for James and Joe and Mavis, but the rest of the kids had refused to cross “the line.” Joe’s brother Pierce had even painted a black stripe down the middle of the schoolroom floor, threatening his cousins with some dreadful disease if they stepped over to the whites’ side.

  The most direct route from the road to the dividing path would be across the Inn’s perfect lawn—but that would leave tire marks. Instead he veered off the hard-packed dirt early and bumped across open field. This land belonged to the West Brenton Land Trust— and its self-proclaimed president, Lloyd Wainwright. James had wanted to ask Joe how that could’ve happened, and how important a website really was. But his friend’s waning energy shouldn’t be wasted on regret; better to spend it replaying happier memories, like hide-and-seek.

  A croquet court! Had he already missed the dividing path? No, he was definitely still on public property—though a few seconds later, he spotted the turn too late and had to turn back onto the overgrown path. Brambles grabbed at his handlebars and bare arms, the tree-shaded air smelled like soil and pine needles, and the bike bumped over roots and rocks. James let the bike’s knobby tires take the impact, raising his right hand in front of his face to protect it from the swat of undergrowth. Perfect for hide-and-seek now—if only he and Joe were still up to it.

  He could barely see the wide trunk of his Douglas Fir through the thick wilderness that had flourished under its sheltering canopy. How many years since he’d been through here? As his heart rate slowed, he remembered climbing onto Joe’s shoulders to grab its lowest branches—and how he’d taunted Mavis, who’d followed them up to the trees only to look up, silently yearning for limbs that remained stubbornly out of reach. He hadn’t been very nice to her.

  Before he reached the tree, he heard a pop—quickly followed by a hiss. Damn, must’ve run over a thorn. James swung his leg off the bike; walking would be easier through here anyway.

  The scent of pine made him pause beneath the huge tree to look up, remembering two skinny nine-year-olds. One warm afternoon, inspired by their schoolteacher’s stories of the Revolution, he and Joe had run out of the classroom and straight to this tree, just to spy on an imaginary campsite of British soldiers. Their own bare chests and cutoffs had blended in with the wilderness so much better than the enemy’s red coats—though not nearly as well as his current gray-green T-shirt and tired khaki shorts.

  Ahead was Joe’s tree, a proud oak. Those bottom limbs were within easy reach, but his tree-climbing days were over. So quiet in here; he could just barely hear the rumble and hiss of ocean—

  Voices: two men, somewhere beyond Joe’s tree, growing louder. James stepped behind the Douglas Fir’s broad trunk, trying to quiet his breathing.

  “. . .in the plan,” the deeper voice was saying.

  “We can’t cut down the two biggest ones,” said the second man. “There’s a p-path, right over there. It’s on the Skye View w-walking tour.”

  That stutter—Parker Dane.

  “Send your gue
sts somewhere else,” the other voice said. “This is the ideal spot for the first tee.”

  Parker’s famous afternoon tea, moving to the middle of the woods? Those old biddies would never make it this far.

  “And that lake we passed a minute ago—perfect water hazard,” the guy continued.

  Not “tea”—“tee,” James realized. They were planning a fucking golf course!

  “That’s not a lake, it’s a r-reservoir—the island’s only source of drinking w-water.”

  Easing the bike to the ground, James crept forward—until a twig cracked underfoot. He crouched low to stay out of sight.

  “What was that?”

  “N-not sure.”

  Silence fell.

  “Probably a d-deer,” Parker said at last. “Last week one completely shredded all the new p-plantings around the p-patio.”

  “How do they make it all the way out here?”

  “Apparently they’re g-good s-swimmers.”

  A bead of sweat tickled its way down James’s cheek, but he didn’t dare wipe it dry.

  “Maybe you need to organize a hunt,” the unknown voice said.

  “All part of the island’s natural a-p-peal. . .” Parker’s voice tightened again. “Look, J-justin, I’m sure you’re very good at d-designing golf courses, but you’ll just have to rethink the l-layout. James Malloy g-goes by here every—”

  “Mr. Wainwright told me about that guy,” the other man replied. “Said he could have him arrested him on drug charges if he got in the way.”

  “Really! Lloyd’s tales are getting t-taller every day. But it’s not just James; all our guests l-love this forest. The birdwatchers—”

  “So put up no trespassing signs. Or better yet, tell ’em it’s hunting season. Tourist season—same thing, isn’t it?” His laughter made James’s skin crawl.

  “Shall we c-continue our t-tour?” Parker suggested, his stutter worsening. “I’d l-love to show you our n-new t-tractor barn. After that, I’ll treat you to a B-brenton punch. D-distilled l-locally, you know. . .”