Ferry to Cooperation Island Read online

  “Not now,” he replied. “At the time, I figured he must’ve had you on retainer.”

  “I wish!” Courtney laughed. “He called one afternoon out of the blue, said he needed me the next day, so I got in my car and—oh man, that looks great.”

  Their food arrived, closely followed by two fresh beers. Courtney dug into her fish and chips; just what the doctor ordered to soak up the alcohol. She tried not to clean her plate before James polished off his steak; fortunately he ate fast too.

  Once they’d finished, she asked him how she could help with the sit-in.

  “First I need to make sure the islanders all agree.”

  “Why wouldn’t they? It’s to save the island!”

  “That’s how you see it. Imagine what a steady stream of golfers and their credit cards would do for the grocery store. And the gallery. Never mind this ridiculous—”

  “That’s exactly how my home town got ruined. The commissioners voted to let some big-ass developer expand because he promised more jobs and more tax revenue. Now they’ve privatized an entire peninsula, built this exclusive resort where we used to go crabbing when I was little. All that’s left for the rest of us is an overcrowded town full of tourists in the summer. And, of course, a whole bunch of no work in the—”

  “G-good evening, Captain Courtney! And—James. Quite a surprise. How w-was your meal?” Parker Dane touched Courtney’s left shoulder, but his smile was focused across the table.

  James was pushing at that scar again. Jagged-edged head wound— must’ve bled a lot. Like a bastuhd, as Billy would say. What was stressing him out now? Parker calling her “captain” but not him, maybe? Or maybe James didn’t like being caught eating at this “ridiculous” inn. She’d put him in an awkward position, she realized.

  “Was that cod in the fish and chips?” Courtney asked, to redirect Parker’s attention.

  “I’m n-not sure,” the innkeeper replied. “Chef Gretchen uses whatever f-fish she has extra, just like the old t-timers. I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Parker added, picking up their empty glasses. “Another round?”

  “Sure,” said James, just as Courtney said “No thanks.”

  James set down his glass again. “We’ll take the bill, then.” Like he was the host—or couldn’t stand another moment of her company.

  But they’d been having such a nice conversation!

  “Oh, didn’t you s-save room for d-dessert?” Parker smiled at him, man to man. “Gretchen’s been p-perfecting her flan. Think about it, I’ll be b-back in a m-moment.”

  Before James could respond, Parker flitted off to the next table and picked up a wine bottle to divide what remained in it between two glasses.

  Courtney loved flan. But she didn’t want to torture James—no more than she already had, anyway.

  “How long has Parker owned this place?” Courtney asked, to distract herself from the mouthwatering thought of dessert. “He’s obviously not a local.”

  “Bought it two years ago, right after the crash,” James said. Adding, with a sigh, “Apparently Lloyd is his primary backer.”

  “Mr. Wainwright? Why would he invest in a place like this?” Goosebumps formed on her arms; the air was cooling, fast.

  “He’s always wanted this hill for himself. Just like his grandfather.”

  The guy who’d set fire to the Wampum building, Courtney remembered. “Why did so many of the Narragansetts move ashore?”

  “Couldn’t support their families,” he replied, like it should’ve been obvious. “Hunting and fishing doesn’t cut it anymore. And a lot of ’em got talked ashore by Pierce, when he started his stupid church.”

  “Pierce?”

  “Mavis and Joe’s brother.”

  “Joe sounds like a really cool guy.”

  James looked west again, toward that monument—or maybe toward the bluffs that hid West Harbor from view. “I don’t know what Mavis and their mother will do, once he. . .”

  “Did you save room for dessert?” Their server asked, reaching for their plates.

  This time, Courtney managed to speak first. “Could you bring the bill?”

  “Oh, Mr. Dane tells me there’s absolutely no charge for tonight,” the girl said cheerily. “Though I’d be ever so grateful if you leave a tip anyway! Come back and see us again soon.”

  Not bloody likely—even if they hadn’t used up that stupid gift certificate. And any server who blatantly asked for a tip didn’t deserve one.

  James must’ve agreed, because he stood up too and followed Courtney across the patio to the gravel drive. Retrieved his bike from where he’d dropped it in the grass. “So you’ll be there for the meeting tomorrow night?”

  “Um, I guess—if it’s not just for locals.”

  “We’re all out of our comfort zone on this one,” he responded, swinging a leg over the cracked leather seat. “Oh—and thanks for supper,” he tossed back over his shoulder, already biking away.

  He was almost to the top of the drive when she called after him. “Where’s the meeting?”

  “Malloy house.”

  Like she knew where the hell that was.

  As soon as she got away from the Inn’s lights, the stars winked like they were all in on the same secret. Small clouds darted across the sky, propelled by a wind aloft that hadn’t made it all the way down to the island.

  Letting herself into the cottage, Courtney found herself smiling. Despite the mediocre service and awkwardness, that had actually been fun. And, even though a sit-in was the stupidest idea ever, James was finally getting off his ass to do something.

  James

  THE MORNING AFTER his free steak at the Inn, James pulled open the Cochrane Gallery door and set bells tinkling. He hadn’t been inside this place since the grand opening party, five or six years ago. All he remembered was a ribbon cutting, and Barb’s gloomy prediction that the business wouldn’t last six months.

  Many feet had scuffed across the wood floor since that night, but the two windows either side of the door still sparkled like new with a clear view of Bean, dock, and harbor. Air conditioning dried the sweat off his skin.

  “Help you?” A girl with a thick braid looked up from the counter.

  “Looking for Gavin.” If he were still running the Homer, even the summer help would’ve recognized him.

  “Lizzie?” she called over her shoulder, without taking her eyes off James.

  “Feather?” A voice called from the back, in the same happy singsong. Lizzie appeared in the doorway, smile fading when she saw their visitor. “James! What a surprise.” Her tone reverted to impersonal. “How can I help?”

  “Your husband here?”

  Lizzie shook her head. “Something I can do?”

  “Town meeting at my place, tomorrow at seven.”

  “Really! What about?”

  “Something of concern to all property owners,” James replied. Never knew who this strange girl—still staring at him—might talk to after work.

  “Well that’s clear as mud,” Lizzie said. “At the bakery? Ah—no, you’re living at your parents’ house now, aren’t you?” She made a note on a pad in front of her. “Seven p.m., Malloy cottage—got it.”

  She winked at the girl, as if James was the outsider. He was glad to escape into salt-muggy unconditioned air.

  He delivered the same message to Sam Prime and picked up a quart of milk and a box of cereal. Biking out of the store’s driveway, he heard a gas engine start up at the Inn. That new tractor needed a muffler—or sugar in its tank.

  Just past the turnoff to the ferry landing, he heard someone to his left call “Captain James!” Lila McKay, president of the Historical Society, smiled down from the museum’s top step.

  “I was hoping you’d come into town today. Got something to show you.”

  Inside, a glass case taller than Lila had been filled with a strange mix of island keepsakes: several arrowheads, an ivory brooch, a quahog shell, a shiny bead of wampum. A small diary revealed old-fashi
oned handwriting. The walls were covered with hand-drawn maps and black and white photos.

  Lila led the way to the back of the room—where he spotted a face so familiar, it was like looking in the mirror.

  “That’s right—your father,” Lila said. “The new owners of the keeper’s cottage found it in the attic when they renovated, but the glass was cracked. I finally got ashore and had it reframed.”

  Below the photo was a small card: “Lighthouse Keeper Declan David Malloy, 1966.”

  “His first day,” James said. “Twenty-one years old.” Grandfather David had died the day before. Two days later, Lloyd’s grandfather would drown.

  “So handsome!” Lila glanced up at James, brown eyes twinkling. “You inherited his eyebrows.”

  “Even in black-and-white, they stick up.” He turned away. “Any records of the West Brenton land transfer in here?”

  Lila shook her head. “No, though I had a fascinating conversation with Sachem Joe last fall. Such a shame. . .”

  “I’m sure he has a lot of records,” James said. “Have you talked to Mavis? She may already have a plan.”

  “She scares me,” Lila admitted. “I never know what she’s thinking.”

  “She’s just quiet.”

  “And Joe. . . do you think he’d let me interview him? About the trees?”

  “He’s not. . . up to visitors.”

  “Oh. So sad.” She clasped her hands together.

  Way the hell south of sad.

  “I’m having a town meeting tonight,” James told her, when the lump in his throat receded. “You and Willie—”

  “Doesn’t Mayor Frank usually call town meetings?”

  “I’m taking charge of this one.”

  “Something important?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’ll definitely be there.”

  Courtney

  HOW SHE ENDED up as bartender for the meeting at James’s house Courtney wasn’t quite sure, unless it was just because she’d showed up first. When he nodded over that he was ready to start, she placed her right arm across the doorway into the dining room. “Time to sit down,” she told the latecomers. “If you can find a seat. . .”

  Man, it was hot in here. Eight windows, all closed; the only air movement came through the sliding glass door out to the back deck— now mostly blocked by the grocer. On his left, the mayor looked a little. . . lost. A whole town, trying to fit into one stuffy room. Even though James had rounded up every chair in the house, several folks had to perch on windowsills or lean against wood paneling. Better not be a long meeting.

  She actually recognized most of folks, she realized. And they all sure knew who she—

  Harbormaster Mack pushed past Courtney’s arm to dig into the cooler on the floor. Chester the dog followed, sniffing out the room’s corners. “James is gonna try to give a speech,” Mack said, popping open the can. “So I need another beer.” He’d already had at least two.

  By the time Mack got back to his seat someone else had taken it, so instead he leaned against an empty wall between two windows and Chester settled in at his feet. If only Mack-of-all-trades could figure out how to open those windows and let in some fresh air.

  This place felt more like a museum than a home. On every small table, shell-covered picture frames surrounded either embroidery or pressed flowers—definitely not James’s handiwork. The one hanging next to the fireplace to her right had shifted, uncovering a rectangle of brighter wood; its two embroidered panels had also faded. In the top one, colored thread picked out a pair of tethered donkeys, pulling against each other, trying to eat the hay bales just out of reach. In the bottom panel, the two stood side by side, chewing contentedly on the same bale. Across the bottom, the embroiderer had added: “Hungry? Then learn to cooperate.” The black signature had long-since bleached to yellow: “EDM, Cooperation Island, 1980.” James’s mother? Courtney reached out to straighten it—but dropped her arm when James moved toward her, frowning.

  He stopped right in front of the fireplace, turned to face the room, cleared his throat. “Um, can I have. . .”

  Mack whistled.

  “Thanks.” James smiled into the sudden quiet. “I’ve asked—”

  “Sorry we’re late.” Billy came in, hand in hand with Patty; out from behind the Bean’s counter, that huge belly looked even bigger. Hadn’t she said July fourth was her due date? A week ago already.

  The writer dude motioned to his daughter that she should give Patty her seat on the sofa, so the girl joined the rest of the kids on the thin carpet that stretched from couch to fireplace. The doctor raised up his left arm to help Patty control her drop. “Oof!” So wide, she took up two spaces all by herself. Billy squeezed in against the wall, next to Mack.

  A drip of sweat tickled down her spine, so Courtney rounded her shoulders to pull her shirt in against it. Just like childhood, before everything was air-conditioned.

  To her right, James was pushing on his scar. “Sorry about the tight quarters,” he said. “But thanks to Prime’s Grocery, there’s something to drink.” There was a scattering of applause, and Mack raised his beer bottle to the sweaty-faced grocer.

  “We’re meeting here because the classroom is too close to Parker Dane, and I don’t want him to—”

  “Why not?” the grocer asked. “He lives here too.”

  “Please hear me out, Sam.”

  Sam frowned, before raising his soda can to his lips and tilting back his head for the last few drops. As the island’s most successful business owner, he would certainly be in favor of more visitors.

  James started again. “Joe Borba—” his voice stumbled briefly “— Sachem Joe is no longer able to stand up for West Brenton. Certain folks have been taking advantage of that.”

  A whole roomful of eyes focused on him.

  “Most of you know the old dividing path.” Heads nodded; Courtney had no idea what he meant. “It’s pretty overgrown now, which I consider a good thing. A few weeks ago I rode my bike through there. Got a flat tire.”

  Jesus, James, get to the point already. The grocer’s two hands began to clasp and unclasp each other, as if shaping burger patties. Mack downed the last of his beer.

  “So, I was walking past the trees and heard two men talking. Parker Dane, and a golf course designer—”

  “What’s a golf course designer doing on Brenton?” Hunter Moody asked.

  “Planning a nine-hole course.”

  Gasps, and then chatter. Lizzie the lawyer’s piercing voice asked, “Got proof, James?”

  “Yes. Plans are available online, if you know where to look.” James looked right at Anna’s nephew, who nodded his agreement.

  “Designer told Parker Dane the two big trees had to go to make way for a tee,” James continued. “Then Parker took the guy off to admire his new tractor.”

  “Where’s he hiding a tractor?” someone asked.

  “Inside that new barn, behind his illegal hedge,” Hunter said. “Haven’t you heard it? Louder than an eighteen—”

  James held up both palms. “That’s not what’s most important right now. We could lose control of West Brenton. Because of things that happened a long time ago. . . so read Frank’s book if you haven’t already.”

  The mayor perked up, gave James a big smile, and waved like the queen. Next to him, the grocer’s hands washed themselves.

  “I’ve been meeting with a lawyer,” James continued. “She suggested—”

  “Just tell us the plan, James,” Mack interrupted. “Nobody wants a damn golf course. But we don’t want to sweat to death either.”

  Laughter erupted, punctuated by Hunter’s loud guffaw. The mayor pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his face.

  James glanced around the room. “I propose a sit-in, to guard the trees. It’ll have to be—”

  “Sit-ins don’t work!” someone scoffed. “Whaddya think this is, the goddamn sixties?” Several heads nodded.

  “That’s a great idea, James!” Anna
Crosby was smiling up at James, as if ready to follow him anywhere.

  James held up his hands. “It has to be a community effort, and we’d have to be on-site 24/7 for it to work. That’s why I called this meeting—to find out what you all thought.”

  A meaty hand shot up.

  “Sam?”

  “Parker Dane will arrest us for trespassing,” the grocer predicted. “You’re too young to remember the 1960s, James, but I do. We need to sue, let the courts do their—”

  “Parker doesn’t own that land!” Hunter said. “We do.”

  “And a lawsuit won’t bring those trees back once they’re gone,” the schoolteacher added.

  Hunter nodded. “That guy will just tear up the land and worry about the legality later. That’s how he—”

  “But why would they build a golf course in the forest, when there’s all that open space already?” asked the girl who’d given up her seat on the couch.

  “Great question, Amy.” James smiled down at her. “Lloyd Wainwright’s plans don’t always make much—”

  “I heard Lloyd owns West Brenton now,” Doctor Emerald said. “If that’s true, how can we stop him?”

  “He’s elected himself president of the land trust,” James explained. “We’re asking a judge to rule his takeover illegal, but until then we need to make sure that tractor doesn’t dig up everything in sight while the lawyers fight back and forth and rack up their enormous bill.” Coloring, he nodded to Lizzie. “No offense to our local legal expert, of course.”

  Anna’s nephew raised his hand.

  “Nathaniel?”

  That sharp Adam’s apple bobbed twice before any words came out. “I’ve been studying the history of this island ever since I moved here. Whether it’s indigenous people and whites, or rich and poor, or sailors and fishermen, there’s always been, like, a get along approach. Cooperation Island, right Ms. McKay?”

  The schoolteacher nodded.

  “We all take West Brenton’s open space for granted now,” Nathaniel continued. “If we let this golf course happen, there’s gonna be, like, McMansions popping up all over.”

  Around the room, heads nodded.