Ferry to Cooperation Island Read online

  “That’s what I hit?”

  “Yup.” Another shudder ran through him, so he leaned over to rest his elbows on the starboard railing.

  She leaned on the railing too, squinting into the sun. Without sunglasses, or those stupid bars on the shoulders of her uniform—or a bra—she seemed smaller; more vulnerable.

  That view as she climbed up the ladder sure had been sweet.

  A school of fish broke the surface of the harbor, attracting a pack of seagulls. He missed watching sunrises from the water. Somehow he never made it out to Dean’s fancy boat before noon.

  “Ever hit West Rock?” Courtney asked.

  He grimaced. “Can’t remember.”

  “Yeah, right!”

  She knew; you never forgot a scrape like that.

  “Ask you something else?”

  Why did women always ask that question?

  “Billy told me he was never late for you. So do you think he does it because I’m new, or because I’m female?”

  “You might outgrow being new.”

  She giggled. “We’ll see.”

  “But I think. . . Mr. Wainwright might be bribing him.”

  “What—why?”

  “I always thought Lloyd was just a cheapskate idiot. Turns out, he’s actually trying to shut down the ferry—some ancient grudge against the island, and my dad. So paying off Billy fits that. You can’t run a dependable schedule, and he’s able to dock your pay which makes it look like your fault. Double win.”

  “But why does he want to damage his own business?”

  “Without a ferry, it’ll be easier to take over the island.”

  “Jiminy Christmas.”

  “Yeah. And the guy’s in debt up to his eyeballs. Wife’s divorcing him—”

  “Paychecks have been a little slow.” Courtney slid the toe of her right flip-flop out through the Homer’s aft scupper.

  “Might get slower. He’s pumping everything he’s got into this new golf resort.”

  “Wait—out here? Shee-it, is that why he’s president of that land trust? We’ve gotta stop him. I told the mayor I’d set up an email—”

  “Why are you so interested in our little island’s problems?”

  Courtney’s eyes were a clear green, with gold flecks. “I’d do anything to keep this island so wild and beautiful, like my home town used to be! And also—to thank you for helping me take care of the Homer, instead of filing a report.” She pressed her shell again. “Especially now that you have your dream job.”

  “Dream job?”

  “Paid to go sailing—every captain’s dream, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t know what to say, so it was relief to see Mack—already dressed in swim trunks—lean his bike against a piling and climb aboard his boat, all without glancing their way. Chester was notably absent.

  “Shouldn’t he be—”

  “Just leave him to it.” James handed Courtney an empty oil container, picked up the other two, and followed her to the gangway. Behind him, he heard the gurgle of Mack slipping into the water, which was quickly drowned out by Mayor Frank’s golf cart, coming down the hill at full tilt. Flying onto the dock, he clipped Mack’s bike so hard it tipped over onto the planking, wheels spinning.

  James pushed past Courtney to protect her from the speeding golf cart—but the mayor managed to skid to a stop before he hit anything else. The Bean’s door was already propped open; they must’ve talked longer than he’d thought.

  “Ah James—I thought I’d find you here,” Mayor Frank said. “Last night, the Irreverend stopped in to show me a property survey. The Inn’s new hedge is almost two feet onto fire station property. Meanwhile, Barbara’s complaining about those damned guinea hens, says they’re not sanitary. . .”

  Diesels were so much easier to deal with than people. “Let’s go up to the Bean,” James suggested, stepping onto the dock. From there, the Homer’s hull would hide Mack and his snorkel.

  “Oh, and good morning to you too, Captain Courtney!” Frank’s face wrinkled into his widest, warmest smile. “James, this wonderful lady says there’s a way I can contact everyone on the whole island, all at once! Simply miraculous. I’ll see you up there.” He backed up, turned around, and sped across to the Bean’s parking area.

  “I’ve gotta go take a shower,” she said. “Thanks again for—”

  A sharp exhale of snorkel-clearing drowned out her words. Courtney gave James a thumbs up, and James watched her go before picking up the fallen bike and leaning it against a piling.

  Something vibrated against his left thigh—that damned phone again. He slid it out, saw a Boston number, and pressed “answer.”

  “Morning James, it’s Sheila. Joe’s partner. Now a good time to chat?”

  “Sure,” he said, retreating to the end of the dock for privacy. “I don’t have any of the paperwork in front of me—”

  “That’s okay, I do. But first, how’s Joe?”

  “He has. . . good days and bad days.”

  “Give him my best the next time you see him. Now, about this golf course. I haven’t had time to dig into the details, but it’s already clear as a summer day that we need to keep those trees from getting chopped down. So, here’s what you’re gonna do.”

  Courtney

  THE ISLAND’S FOURTH of July fireworks happened up at the Inn, so as soon as Courtney finished up the last Sunday ferry run she followed a stream of people up the big hill and down the gravel driveway. Every table on the patio was full, families were spreading out on blankets across the lawn, and one of the servers was greeting new arrivals.

  “Welcome to the Skye View Inn fireworks display!” she told Courtney. “We’ve got an all-you-can-eat buffet, but first. . . would you care to buy a raffle ticket? Winner gets dinner for two, here at the Inn!” She held up a big red roll.

  “How much?”

  “Five tickets for ten dollars.”

  “How about one ticket?”

  “Five dollars.”

  “In that case, I’ll take five.” She handed over the money. “Good cause?”

  But the girl was already giving her spiel to the next couple, so Courtney stepped up onto the patio.

  Buffet tables had been set up either side of the wide doorway, but all that remained of the free food were two wrinkled hotdogs, a blackened hamburger, and a few spoonfuls of soggy coleslaw. No crabs, of course; nobody around here would know how to eat ’em.

  Her stomach growled. Oh well, beer for dinner again.

  There was an outside bar set up on the lawn just beyond the patio, but the long line was barely moving. The bar inside was blessedly empty, except for Hunter Moody.

  “Happy Fourth, Captain Courtney! Buy a raffle ticket?”

  “I bought five.” Courtney slid onto the seat next to him and pulled over a small dish of cheddar fish. She planned to take her beer back outside, but she might as well take a load off while she waited for Sylvia. “Seems a little strange, though. Where I come from, raffles support a cause—not a business.”

  “The proceeds go toward next year’s fireworks,” Hunter replied. “Think of it as an investment in our island’s future. And the buffet was free.”

  “Which is why there’s nothing left. Aren’t you gonna watch the show?”

  “Probably not.” Hunter nodded at Sylvia, who was doing her octopus act—serving drinks so fast, it seemed like she had eight arms. “I like the view inside just as well.”

  Courtney didn’t understand the strange connection between minister and bartender, but she was grateful when Hunter caught Sylvia’s eye and raised his glass, twice. Without his help—backed up by his too-generous tip—she might’ve missed the whole show just waiting for her beer.

  She took the first refreshing sip—ah, that was better—before stepping out through the open doors. There was no place to sit down, so she went around the corner of the building and leaned against the shingles between two evergreen bushes. The red-bearded bartender at the outside bar was busy cle
aning up two spilled glasses of red wine rather than serving; when Courtney realized several of the men waiting in line were staring curiously at her—wondering, no doubt, why she was hiding in the shrubbery, drinking alone—she pushed away from the building and headed out to find a spot on the lawn.

  The first local she recognized was Chester the dog, leaping up for a thrown hotdog. That must be Harbormaster Mack’s son then—ah, there was Mack himself, sprawled on a blanket between a sweating bottle of beer and a small dark-haired woman.

  The mayor sat by himself in a folding chair. Courtney spotted the other Bean regulars as well; the gallery owner and his wife (he waved, she stared down at her phone). Anna Crosby and her nephew. Doctor Emerald, napping beside his wife—who was knitting and sipping a cocktail. Patty leaned against Billy, rubbing her huge belly. Typical Fourth of July family scene.

  The only one missing was James. What an odd duck he was—so curmudgeonly around people, yet almost kissing those two ornery diesels. Courtney shuddered again; the remembered scrape of rock along steel hull had woken her up several times the last two nights, even though Mack had reassured her that there was nothing more than a fresh scratch on the outside of the hull.

  Nobody invited her to join them. Just like nobody had saved a plateful of food for her. She sat down on the grass and slurped at her beer, belly grumbling with a potent mixture of hunger and homesickness. Back on the Eastern Shore, there’d be no need for the sweatshirt she’d tied around her waist—just a shitload of bug spray, and maybe a cooling shower before bed.

  Tonight would be the first Independence Day she’d watch the annual celebration from anywhere but home—or rather, a neighbor’s waterfront yard. She’d called her parents just before she walked up the hill, but they were already heading out the door. By now they’d be settled in side by side, sweaty glasses of daiquiris in hand, chatting with the other oldsters and waiting for the sky to darken.

  Just before she rang off, her mom had said, “We’re so proud of you, Captain Farris.” Courtney hadn’t told them about hitting West Rock—or about not adding oil to the diesels. How was she even supposed to know that was her responsibility? The Oxford ferry had a mechanic to take care of that stuff.

  “Can I h-have your at-tention?” Parker Dane waved from the west end of the lawn, silhouetted by the sunset, which had faded to gray-pink behind the distant shoreline. He was holding a small basket by its handle.

  Mack’s whistle silenced everyone, allowing Parker to continue. “Before the f-fireworks begin, I’d like to announce the w-winner of this year’s r-raffle. The prize is dinner for two, right here at the Skye View Inn. Everyone memorize their numbers?”

  Pockets were patted, and several hands rose clutching red tickets.

  “I’ve asked our youngest inn guest to p-pick the winner. Ashley, could you come up here?”

  Barefoot and bare-legged in a stars and stripes sundress, a girl with two blond pigtails left her mom’s side to join Parker. He bent down, held out the basket, and she reached inside.

  “Thank you. Everyone r-ready?”

  Courtney never won stuff like this, but it was always fun to dream.

  “The f-first three numbers are. . . three, four, three.”

  All five of her tickets started with that combination; maybe the whole roll did, because everyone went quiet.

  “Five. Two. Four.” A collective groan of disappointment.

  “That’s me!” Courtney said, to no one.

  “D-do we have a w-winner?” Parker shaded his eyes. “Captain Courtney, c-come on up!”

  “Yeah Courtney!” Mack’s whistle shrieked above the clapping and cheering, which lasted almost as long as it took for Courtney to walk up and shake Parker’s hand.

  “Congratulations!” The Inn’s owner handed her an envelope. “All you need is a d-date.”

  “I’m available, Captain Courtney!” “Pick me!” “I’ll eat a free dinner with you!”

  She didn’t recognize any of the voices, which made it easier to keep her eyes on Parker’s face—and to laugh off the comments. “Thanks,” she got out, before stumbling away, cheeks aflame, drowning her embarrassment with the last gulp of beer.

  Mack gave her a thumbs-up—but then he had to separate his two boys, who were shredding their useless tickets into red confetti. Everyone else had already resumed their earlier conversations.

  Courtney was headed inside for a refill when she decided to leave instead. She’d already tossed her cup on top of an overflowing trash can and stepped off patio onto gravel when she heard her name.

  “Courtney—Captain Courtney! Wait.” The banker who rode the morning and afternoon ferries scurried across the grass. Chase, she remembered. Casually dressed for once, he stopped right in front of the doorway, smiling at her.

  “’Scuse me,” a server said behind him. When Chase didn’t budge, she repeated more loudly, “Excuse me!” She was carrying a full tray of drinks.

  “Oh, sorry!” He stepped down onto the gravel, close enough she could hear his wheezing.

  “Aren’t you staying for the fireworks?” he asked.

  “I’ve gotta work tomorrow.” And I’m too homesick.

  “Well, congratulations on winning the raffle! Food’s fantastic. I’ve actually been meaning to invite you up here for dinner, so let me know if you want to. . . well, not that I wouldn’t pay my own way of course. . .” All those chins, usually propped up by a shirt collar, shimmied.

  “Thanks, Chase,” she said, reaching for her captain’s smile. “See you Tuesday morning, bright and early!” Before he could respond, she dodged between two golf carts and away, up the darkening drive.

  The only other folks already heading back down the hill were a young family with a crying toddler; once they turned off into a front yard, all Courtney could hear was crickets chirping away on either side of the narrow road. At home, her belly would be full of crabs and beer and she’d be laughing at one of her dad’s jokes. Here? Just another hungry night of loneliness.

  Mavis

  MAVIS LOVED FIREWORKS. This year, Mr. Dane had offered her the tiny balcony outside his office, away from the crowd. So sweet— though surely it was just a way to butter her up, so she wouldn’t complain about that new croquet court he’d built on public land. She was Joe’s sister, after all.

  And as Joe’s sister, she needed to stay by his side tonight. Mémé had already gone to bed, exhausted by a string of sleepless nights tending her son.

  When James knocked, hope bubbled inside her—maybe she could sneak up to the Inn after all. She opened the door, letting in the sound of crickets chirping—a pleasant change from hour after hour of jagged breathing.

  James looked first at the red armchair—which Joe hadn’t sat in for several days. Giving his arm a squeeze, Mavis steered him over to the hospital bed and the ladder-back chair. James dropped onto it, though he didn’t slip his hand inside Joe’s like Mavis would’ve done.

  Underneath the shiny bed frame, Gumbo’s tail thumped in welcome—but he didn’t raise his head from his two paws. He’d been there all day, as if trying to soak up some of Joe’s pain.

  James had to clear his throat a few times before asking, “How you doing, brother?”

  Joe didn’t respond. He’d been grouchy all afternoon, the pain talking, but twenty minutes ago when Mavis had offered him another shot, he’d said no—because James might stop by. So she couldn’t leave just yet; James wouldn’t know what to do if Joe asked for more pain pills or just started thrashing around again. Instead she melted away, back into her laundry room, where Hunter Moody’s second-best black shirt had been lying half-pressed since noon. Moving the iron mechanically over heavy cotton, she’d be able to hear if Joe needed her.

  James tried again. “I came to get your approval on something.”

  “Why?” Joe’s voice was reedy. “Can’t exactly take you out anymore.”

  “Never could.”

  Joe didn’t rise to the ancient challenge.

&nb
sp; “Sheila thinks I should organize a sit-in to protect the trees,” James continued. “I don’t—”

  “Sheila’s usually right.”

  “So you think it’s worth doing then?”

  “Who cares what I think?”

  “I’m just—”

  “Jesus Christ, handle this yourself!”

  Mavis gasped. Joe never swore—he needed more pain meds.

  She was just about to go to him when James spoke again, so softly she had to angle her ear toward the doorway to catch his words.

  “Remember the first time we got drunk? We met on the dividing path, just before sunset. . . I’d stolen a measly two beers from the fridge. You brought a whole bottle of rum.”

  “Uncle Martin. . . never noticed.”

  “How old were we—fifteen?” James chuckled. “Surprised we both made it home that night.”

  “I threw up. Burial ground,” Joe said. “Sacrilege.”

  “You never told me that!”

  Mavis smelled scorching—and quickly lifted the iron off the black fabric before it burned a hole right through the cloth. She set it down, shut it off, and crept over to the doorway, wrapping her arms around herself.

  “Next morning,” James was saying, “Dad made me cut firewood. Man, that hand saw screeched! Felt like I was sawing apart my brain. I never got that drunk, ever again.”

  “Me neither. Too bad—might’ve kept the cancer germ away.”

  Tell more old stories, Mavis begged James silently.

  “Skinny-dipping in the reservoir,” James said. “How did we ever get away with that? Mavis followed us that one night, but we bought her silence with raspberries. Even though she’d probably already eaten her fill.” Mavis, remembering, felt warm tears divert to follow her smile lines.

  “My mother almost caught us once too,” James continued. “One of those full moon swims. Such a great swimming hole, especially since it was off limits. Only place you and I went on the east side of the island. . . it always seemed nicer over here.”

  “Fewer people.”

  “And your family accepted me. Mom. . .”

  “She outgrew her prejudice.”