Ferry to Cooperation Island Page 13

  Branches snapped underfoot as the voices faded away.

  James stood up again, feet and ankles tingling as blood returned. Local rum! What BS.

  He picked up his bike, walked it as far as Joe’s tree—and let it fall out of his hands, because the oak’s trunk was ribboned with orange surveyor’s tape. Behind it, sunlight glinted off the reservoir; all the undergrowth along its edge had been trampled. A path marked by wooden stakes with orange ribbons veered off to the right, toward the new tractor barn. It was the first time James had seen the building from the front; the two men were walking toward it, Parker proudly pointing out its shiny metal roof to a stockier man in bright green shirt and shorts.

  More damned improvements!

  Fuming, James turned to check the west side of the dividing path. Ten scrub oaks had been marked with surveyor’s tape—though even bundled together, they wouldn’t be as wide as Joe’s tree was on its own. The undergrowth was relatively undisturbed—but a matching row of beribboned stakes faded off into the distance. Spears right through the heart of the only wooded property on the island.

  James bent down to retrieve his bike—and then dropped it once again. Reached for the multitool on his belt, flicked open the blade. Scar throbbing with each heartbeat, he sliced away every single tree ribbon and pulled up all the stakes. Using the long tape that had encircled Joe’s tree, he strapped the very large bundle to his bike’s rusty rack and walked it all the way home. Stuffed the orange tapes deep in his kitchen garbage, built a bonfire in the backyard with the wooden stakes.

  Staring into the flames, he had no goddamn idea what to do next.

  JULY

  Courtney

  EVEN OVER THE rumble of engines, Courtney could hear a full load of Friday evening passengers applauding as Billy ran down the Newport gangway and tossed the last dockline aboard. Eleven minutes late and out of uniform, they finally had their bartender—and she had her deckhand.

  Sunday was the Fourth of July, so the outbound runs had been packed all day. Monday was an official holiday, which meant three extra runs this weekend. Sixteen round trips every seven days—how the hell, she wondered for the umpteenth time, had James run this ferry for sixteen years without a relief? After only six weeks, Courtney was already fried.

  Captain Punctual hadn’t had a daily razzing from his boss, though—or a chronically late deckhand. Maybe instead of her morning wind sprints, Courtney should go running with Billy, make sure he got back on time? Nah—with all that smoking, he’d never be able to keep up.

  She had just pushed both throttles up to cruising speed when the kid appeared in the starboard doorway. He’d changed into a Brenton Ferry T-shirt, but he was still sweaty and gross.

  “No way.” Courtney didn’t even look at him. “Tide’s too low for the short cut.”

  “We can make it!” Billy pointed at the Fort Adams jetty, lit up gold in the sinking sun. “Still almost half tide here, and it’s fifteen minutes later out—”

  “No! It’s getting dark, and we’ve got a full load of passengers.”

  He started to reply, so she held up her hand. “Don’t tell me ‘James would do it.’ He was born on the island. Now get out of my sight and go serve those thirsty folks another round, on the house.”

  A moment later, another cheer pulsed through the wheelhouse bulkhead. Free drinks meant no passenger complaints, but it wouldn’t put thirty bucks back into her pay check.

  Flat water, so at least they wouldn’t lose any more time. The afternoon sea breeze had faded, leaving behind a bay shimmering with reflected sky. Either side of the bow, spray glinted gold. Even Bird Island’s gloomy rocks would look attractive tonight, if it wasn’t already too dark to see them by the time they got there. . .

  She goosed the throttles all the way forward. Extra fuel, but she might be able make up some time.

  Nope—pinging, underfoot. She pulled back again, resigning herself to another late arrival. Damn Billy!

  Fifteen minutes later, the gap between Brenton and Bird appeared—teasingly wide, and glowing with evening light—just as Billy strolled into the wheelhouse.

  “Still enough water for the shortcut.” He pointed at the back side of Bird Island. “See that one big rock? There’s a bump shaped like a seal head that only shows up below half-tide. Not showing yet.”

  Courtney glanced at her watch. Then she clenched her teeth together, and turned the wheel two spokes to starboard. Grinning, Billy disappeared aft again.

  Between the two islands, she slowed to idle. The Homer’s bow was pointing right into the setting sun, and the Inn’s big hill threw a shadow over the channel ahead. She slid her sunglasses off, just in time to catch a red flash; the lighthouse tower still glowed white-gold, but its light—red, to warn her of the dangers ahead—had already turned itself on.

  The breakwater was also in the island’s shadow. She caught a glimpse of it right under the lighthouse beam, then lost it again.

  “Billy!” she called, pulling the throttles back to neutral. Keeping her eyes on the water in front of her, she heard rather than saw his head appear again in the starboard doorway.

  “I can’t find that buoy,” she told him. “Go up to the bow, and keep pointing at it until it’s past our port beam. If you see anything I might hit, raise your fist and I’ll back down hard. Got it?”

  Through the wheelhouse glass she watched him, heart pounding, until finally he pointed just off the port bow. Okay then. Swallowing hard, she pressed the throttles into gear. Breakwater lined up with the lighthouse, right where it should be. She was committed now— too narrow to turn around, and the ebb tide had already doubled her forward speed.

  Billy’s arm arced back along the port side, then dropped. They were through—

  And then something scraped along the starboard side. More feeling than sound; a love tap, Dad would call it.

  She’d been lined up perfectly with her range!

  Billy sidled back to the starboard door. “See, I told you! No problem—”

  “Get out of my goddamn sight,” she hissed. If he hadn’t felt the rock, she sure wasn’t going to tell him.

  The engine alarm sounded when she dropped to idle inside the breakwater, but as usual it went off again after ten seconds of torture. If the bilge pump didn’t come on by the time she closed the wheel-house door tonight, she’d buy the first round up at the Inn.

  Even after three beers and a few laughs with Hunter and a tourist couple, Courtney didn’t sleep well. Every time she dropped off, her bed seemed to scrape against something hard and she’d jolt awake again, heart racing. After some deep breathing, she’d manage to fall asleep—only to start the cycle all over again.

  When twilight lit up the tiny square of window in her sleeping loft, she sat up in bed to shake off her dreams. James was right—she’d just been lucky the first time. Lucky this time, too; ten feet to starboard, and she might not be safe in bed right now.

  She set her feet down on painted boards and crept over to the window to check on the Homer. The bow was just visible; a little low in the water, maybe? To hell with coffee—she’d go check the bilges instead.

  Throwing on her running shorts and a hooded sweatshirt, Courtney climbed down the ladder, slid her feet into flip-flops, and pushed out through the screen door of the captain’s cottage. If someone spotted her, she’d say it was just too nice a morning to waste sleeping.

  Which was true enough. The island had been so packed with visitors the past few weeks, it was a relief to walk right down the middle of macadam without worrying about being run over by the Inn’s people mover. Quiet like May, but warmer.

  Flip-flops slapped shiny pavement. Flecks of mica glinted, even though the sun hadn’t popped up yet. No sunglasses—oh well, she wouldn’t be long.

  As soon as she turned onto the landing, hard-packed dirt quieted the slap of her footsteps. She could see the gangway, angled correctly for just past high tide. But the bilge pump would keep up with anything less serious than an
outright hole; she needed to get aboard. She’d wanted to check the bilges last night, but she couldn’t think up an excuse to justify opening the engine hatch.

  Just as she reached the wooden pier, the Homer’s starboard engine started up. What the—? She ducked behind the fish shack and peeked around the corner, but the wheelhouse was still in shadow.

  When the pain-in-the-ass port engine started up with just the right amount of extra throttle, she knew it must be James. What the hell was he doing in her wheelhouse, before dawn?

  She should storm down the gangway, catch him in the act. But first she pressed her back against the rough shingles and closed her eyes, admiring his ability to rev the two engines to half throttle in perfect harmony.

  The sun still wasn’t visible over Bird Island, but there was enough light now to see into the wheelhouse. A meaty left hand reached out to turn on the chartplotter—of course! James had mounted it on the port side of the compass because he was left-handed. That same hand dropped onto the king spoke of the wheel, fingers wrapping around it as if they’d never left.

  Just a silhouette, but every angle—slightly bent knee and elbow, right hand resting on the throttles, head cocked left to listen—spoke of full attention to his boat.

  The sun popped out above Bird Island, sparking a sneeze. Dammit! She pressed at her nostrils, but—

  “A-choo!”

  She pulled back behind the building, stomach churning and pulse jumping—as if she was the one who’d been caught in the act.

  “Get down here,” he growled.

  So she thumped down the aluminum gangway, wishing she’d put on a hat to cover her bed-head. How strange, to stand outside this wheelhouse—where, she’d thought, she was finally starting to feel like she belonged—and look in through the doorway at James, so perfectly at home behind that wheel.

  “When was the last time you added engine oil?” he asked.

  She touched her shell, which she’d retied around her neck before heading up to the Inn last night. “That why you came down here?” she asked. “Make sure I’m not damaging your precious babies?”

  “That’s right.” His eyes dropped to her chest before dancing forward toward the bow. She hadn’t taken time to put on a bra, she realized, blushing. Apparently, her sweatshirt wasn’t baggy enough to hide that.

  James’s own sweatshirt was ragged, and his canvas shorts were frayed at their hems, leaving white strands to tangle in dark leg hair.

  “What got you out of bed so early?” he asked.

  “I’m always up early.” Crossing arms over braless breasts, she leaned her right hip against the door frame.

  “Okay, what brought you down here then?” James pressed his left thumb into that nasty temple scar.

  “Maybe I come down here every morning.”

  “Nope. Since you took over, I’ve started the engines up at dawn each Saturday. Last week, I added oil. Port one needs at least a quart today, as expect—”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Can’t you hear the pinging?”

  That noise she heard every time she pushed the throttles forward all the way?

  “Weren’t they serviced in the spring?” she asked instead.

  “You really think Lloyd would shell out a dime for maintenance?” As his right hand reached out to slide both throttles back to idle, James turned his gaze out the starboard door—like he couldn’t stand the sight of her.

  Or maybe he was just embarrassed. “You gonna report me to him?” he muttered.

  “Of course not! I know you’re just trying to keep this old bucket running.” Are you gonna report me? But he didn’t know about last night’s scrape, she realized. It only felt like it was written all over her face.

  He turned both keys to their off positions—first port, then starboard. “Another thing—don’t rev the engines when you shut down.”

  “But I thought that lubricated the injectors! A mechanic told me that once, and I’ve done it ever—”

  “Old Detroits don’t like a sudden change in RPMs.”

  “Alrighty then. Anything else, now that we’re sharing?”

  With his left forefinger, James wiped away a stain left behind by yesterday’s afternoon coffee. Wiped that finger clean on his shorts.

  “Port engine burns oil,” he said finally, tapping the logbook on the counter. “Both are overdue for an oil change.”

  “And I’m supposed to do that myself, on my lunch hour or something? Mr. Wainwright told me there was a mechanic on call—”

  “Yeah, and he brings you flowers every afternoon too! That mechanic told Lloyd to replace both engines two years ago. Which, of course, would cost—”

  “Lloyd told me to take off my lucky shell,” she blurted out. “And if I’m more than ten minutes late, he docks my pay! It’s like he wants me to fail.”

  James turned to look at her again—and then whacked the counter so hard, the logbook jumped. “Of course! Now it all makes sense. . .”

  The sun beamed in, lightening his spiky hair to gold.

  “But I work for him,” Courtney said. “Why—”

  The chartplotter beeped, so James reached over to shut it off. His next words were so low, she almost missed them.

  “I was pretty nasty when you first showed up.” He swiveled to face her, holding out his right hand. “Maybe we can be friends anyway?”

  Before he could change his mind, she matched his grip. He winced, and she grinned.

  Then she remembered why she’d come down here.

  “Uh, now that we’re friends. . . can you keep a secret?”

  James

  JAMES CLIMBED DOWN the short ladder into the Homer’s engine room and looked to starboard—everything looked normal on the inside of the hull, anyway. Jesus, she’d been lucky. The balls of it all— going through the short cut, at sunset, below half tide! A little more bottom paint on West Rock now. . .

  The engine room—crawlspace, more like it—smelled of dirty oil and stale bilge water. Last week, he’d wondered if Courtney was too weak to lift the hatch. Now that he’d shaken her hand, he knew strength was not her problem.

  She knelt on the passengers’ deck to peer down into the gloom, right hand at her neck. Rubbing that shell, no doubt. Just trying to do her job—even though she didn’t quite understand everything that involved.

  “Any new vibrations in the wheel?” he asked.

  “No—well, not that I noticed. I was pretty freaked out last night,” she admitted.

  James stood up from his crouch to pull out his phone, cool morning air drying the sweat on his neck and forehead. He turned away from her to type out a text to Mack: “Homer dive ASAP?”

  “He’s a diver, too?”

  Courtney was reading over his shoulder—how rude!

  “Mack of all trades.” James squatted down again, impatient for his eyes to readjust to the gloom, and pulled out the port engine’s dipstick. “Jesus—this one’s almost dry.” The bucket with its oily rag was right where he’d left it.

  “Shee-it, really? Nobody told me I had to check that. . .”

  “Didn’t the alarm go off?”

  “Alarm?” Her cheeks reddened.

  “Or the pinging—that’s the first sign.”

  “I did hear something a few days ago. . .” she mumbled.

  She might know how to navigate, but she didn’t know squat about diesels.

  “See that white plywood box, up near the bar? Grab me three quarts of—”

  “Three!”

  “One for starboard, two for—” His phone dinged. “Mack’s on his way.”

  “Make sure you tell him to bill me, not Mr. Wainwright.”

  “Tell him yourself.”

  “I can’t hang around here!” Courtney protested. “Once the Bean opens, Mayor Frank and everyone’ll be asking what’s wrong. . .”

  “You’re just topping up the engine oil—should be part of your routine.”

  “Oh. Well, ah, okay—where’re they at again?�
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  He pointed forward, at the box he’d built years ago, and watched her walk up the aisle between the wooden benches. When she raised the lid, her breasts swung free against her sweatshirt. James, swallowing, looked out at the harbor.

  “Better come down here, learn how to do it yourself,” he told her, when she brought the oil back to him. So she climbed down the short ladder, three quarts gathered in against her chest, and crouched beside him—right beside him. Her lavender scent didn’t belong.

  Without a company hat, that shoulder-length dark hair was free to swing forward and screen her expression—but James could feel the heat of her blush. She, too, had noticed how close together they suddenly were.

  She couldn’t reach the oil fill unless he got out of the way, so he draped a rag over the top of the port engine and spun off the cap himself. Oil glugged down the tube—a sound so happy, it always made James smile. He handed the empty back to Courtney, and she handed him a full one—this time, with the cap off.

  After three quarts disappeared into two engines, he pulled out each dipstick again.

  “Better. Check ’em again before the afternoon run, especially if you push it above 2200 RPM.”

  “Thanks, James.” She stood up in the hatch, set down the empties on the deck, and wiped a sweatshirt cuff across her brow.

  He cleaned his hands on the rag and followed her up the ladder, wishing it was taller so he could enjoy the excellent view for a little—

  “Ever use the range?” she asked.

  James dragged his thoughts back to navigation. “Lighthouse over breakwater. So Billy actually remembered!”

  “No—I found it the first time through.” She rubbed at her shell again.

  He slid the engine room hatch closed, creaked up to standing, and pointed across the harbor. “Here’s the problem—the lower the tide gets, the wider that breakwater looks coming from the north. Especially at sunset, when the rocks blend in with the land. West Rock’s only about ten yards west of the range.”