Ferry to Cooperation Island Page 17

  “I love houses—I want to be an architect,” he went on. “But I don’t think there should be any west of the Inn. We should do this sit-in— it’s the only way to keep a few people from ruining the island for everyone else.”

  “Yeah Nathaniel!” Mack’s voice was too loud for the small room. There was a scattering of applause, and several conversations started up.

  From the couch, Patty pressed herself forward, as if she was going to stand up and say something—but instead she placed her hands either side of that huge belly. Doctor Emerald turned his own belly toward her, speaking low. Billy, talking to Mack, didn’t notice.

  “Who else?” James asked. A hand went up. “Mayor Frank.”

  Knuckles pressing white into his cane, Mayor Frank stood up, with a little help from a neighbor’s hand on his left elbow.

  “James, I remember that West Brenton land deal signing like it was—”

  “Quiet, everyone!” James held up his hands, but even once the other conversations died out Courtney could barely hear the mayor’s reedy voice.

  “Your father and Joe’s father brought together two groups that had never really talked to each other—to do what was best for the entire island. I’m glad our young people understand that.” He nodded at Nathaniel, which made the kid blush.

  “I was around in the sixties, too,” the mayor continued. “And while it stayed pretty quiet out here, it was hell ashore—”

  “Isn’t it always?” said Mack. The group’s laughter was a little too loud; Mack wasn’t the only one who’d dipped into the free beer.

  “Sit-ins scare the hell out of me,” the mayor admitted. “Makes me think of free love, and drugs, and all sorts of things I’m happy we don’t have much of out here.” He paused to frown at Patty, but she was still staring at the floor and rubbing away at the side of her stomach.

  The mayor returned his gaze to James.

  “Sit-ins scare me, but a private golf course scares me more,” he said, his voice a little stronger. “So if you think camping out on that property can save those trees, sign me up for the first overnight.” He collapsed into his chair, as if he couldn’t stand up for another second.

  Applause, a few cheers, and Mack’s wolf-whistle.

  James looked around the roomful of sweaty faces.

  “Anyone else?”

  Silence fell. A ship’s clock chimed seven and a half bells in Courtney’s left ear. The plaque it was mounted on read, “Awarded to Declan D. Malloy by the U.S. Coast Guard, for twenty-four years of faithful service.”

  “. . .should set up there tomorrow, first thing,” Anna was saying. “I can be there from sunrise to—”

  “I’ll join you,” Hunter said. “We should—”

  James held up his hands. “We need a schedule, so we don’t all show up at dawn tomorrow and then there’s no one after sunset. We could post something at the Bean—”

  “Where everyone can see it—good idea,” said the doctor, nodding.

  “Terrible idea!” Lizzie the lawyer said. “We don’t want Parker and Lloyd knowing exactly who’s gonna be up there at any given time.”

  “How about doing it twenty-first century style, by email?” Hunter suggested. “Nathaniel could set up a list—”

  Nathaniel shook his head. “Half the people here don’t have—”

  Courtney raised her hand, then realized James wouldn’t see her. “I was already talking with the mayor about creating an islander email list. I can set something up and organize the shifts. A sit-in could take a while, so we can’t all burn out in a week. . .”

  A moat of silence surrounded her words, until at last a wobbly voice spoke up from the back of the room.

  “Courtney, I don’t have email,” the mayor said. “But if you’ll help me, I’ll get it for this.” His wrinkled smile was shiny with sweat, or the leaking eyes of old age—hard to tell from across the room.

  “Quite a commitment, Mayor Frank!” Anna Crosby said, nodding approvingly—but her eyes remained on James.

  The room buzzed with independent conversations until James raised his hands again.

  “Courtney’s right—it could be a long hard pull. Do we need a vote?”

  “I’m in.” Gavin, the gallery owner, had a hint of red tinging his cheeks; his wife Lizzie shook her head, obviously disagreeing.

  “I’m in too,” Anna Crosby said.

  “Me too!” “Sign me up.” “Okay, I’m in.”

  “Let’s get started!” said Mack, with an unexpected belch that made the whole room break into laughter.

  Sam Prime stood up. “I can’t be part of the sit-in.”

  Courtney gasped, and a rumble of disapproval circled the room.

  “I have a store to run!” he said, looking around him. “But I—I. . .”

  The murmurs continued.

  “Oh what the hell!” He threw up his hands. “I’ll provide free lasagna, for the lunch shift.”

  Another cheer went up, and everyone stood to applaud. The mayor looked left, needing help again—but the neighbor who’d supported him before was staring at Patty, who had somehow pressed herself up and off the couch.

  A shriek rang out. Fluid gushed out between Patty’s legs, darkening the faded Oriental back to its original colors. The kids all scurried backward like crabs, away from the spreading stain—the dark-haired girl stepped right onto Nathaniel’s bare foot. Everyone else backed away too—except Doctor Emerald, who leaned into Patty to say something private.

  Billy’s mouth was hanging open.

  Shrugging off the doctor’s meaty hand, Patty said calmly, “James, could you call Mavis? I think the baby’s coming.”

  Mavis

  THE ROAD IN front of the Malloy house was pitch black. Mavis stepped carefully, waiting for her eyes to adjust after the bright lights of the bedroom. Her aunt always said babies came quick near a new moon, and Patty had produced a healthy red-faced dark-haired baby boy after only two and a half hours of labor. So much easier for young mothers. Mavis would have a tougher time, if—

  She wouldn’t think about that tonight.

  Instead of taking the most direct route home, she turned left just before the reservoir and headed up the hill. She told herself the detour was safer (she could easily twist an ankle on the unpaved northern road), but what she really craved was the rare chance to gaze up at the Inn’s gabled grace uninterrupted, without spooking any white guests.

  Mr. Dane would be asleep in his private suite by now, off behind the kitchen. Parker. He’d asked her to call him that when she’d picked up last week’s pay check, which should’ve been creepy but instead set off a warm glow in her belly. Joe wouldn’t approve; months ago, while sorting through his papers, he’d made a point of showing her several letters he’d written, citing Parker’s various incursions onto West Brenton property. Even then, Mavis had wondered if he was taking too narrow a view; the Narragansetts weren’t likely to hold any more festivals here on the island. And if they did, they certainly wouldn’t stage them on the original location, right next to the inn, where all those guests would be gawking. So why not replace some of that prickly field—weeds that spiked like a poker against bare feet— with velvet grass? Better for everyone. A vision of toddlers, all giggly-falling-down in little blue and pink overalls, came to her. Babies on the brain tonight.

  When she’d tentatively shared with Joe this line of thinking— about the lawn, not the toddlers—he had snorted in disgust, predicting, “Give him an inchworm, he’ll stretch it into a snake.” So Mavis hadn’t followed up with her next thought: that Parker had as much respect for the land as Joe, even if he showed it by digging and planting rather than by leaving it be.

  Though Parker’s new tractor barn, on her right—vertical siding, metal roof glinting even in the dark—was a complete eyesore.

  At the end of the road, she turned right. A spotlight illuminated the Inn’s fancy sign, which was much too big. Parker was shouting, when a whisper would suffice.

 
His stutter disappeared when he talked to her; had he noticed?

  When the Inn’s lights faded behind her, Mavis stopped at the edge of the darkness to look back at the building’s witch-hat silhouette. Her people had built a strong foundation; the whites had added on, turning it into something that more people could enjoy. Just like this island, she realized.

  She would help James with the sit-in, she decided. Even though such close proximity with the whites might be even scarier than her ex-husband.

  She let herself into the big house as quietly as she could, surprised to see the kitchen table empty. Mémé had promised to wait up for her.

  “Sent her home,” Joe mumbled, when she checked on him. “How’s Patty?” Behind his bed, the oval of West Harbor sparkled through the picture window.

  “Happy mother. You okay?”

  There was no reply, so she let herself out the door again to follow the path next door. Her mother’s house was dark and smelled like cumin.

  “Mémé?” Mavis called softly, just before she spotted the figure sitting in the kitchen, shoulders shaking.

  Mavis dropped onto the other chair. “Joe’s okay. He even—”

  “Not Joe. Pierce called. . . twice.” Tears had carved a wet path down the deepest wrinkle from chin to temple, the one that appeared right after that bolt of lightning took Pa. “He wants our houses.”

  Mavis sat down, stomach churning, and took her mother’s hand.

  “Pierce doesn’t think we can continue living here, once. . .” she paused. “I don’t see how it’s possible either. You already work much too hard, and I’m not good for anything much anymore—”

  “You take care of Joe,” Mavis replied firmly. “You cook and clean up after us. Makes the rest possible.”

  “But if Pierce thinks. . .”

  Pierce only thought about what was good for Pierce.

  “He promised to pay for improvements to the Sachem’s cottage,” Mémé continued, “and it would stay in the family. You and I would always be welcome, of course. . .”

  They both knew that wouldn’t work.

  “And this house?”

  “He says we’ll have to tear it down—too expensive to repair.” Mémé wiped at her face.

  “It’s fine!”

  “You know it isn’t,” Mémé said gently. “It’s half rotten. All the cottages are, except the big house. Thanks to Joe.”

  Pierce didn’t want to live out here—he just wanted control.

  “I think someone is paying him to get us out,” Mémé added. “Must be—he’s given everything he has to that church ashore.” She paused. “He also asked for another loan.”

  “He didn’t!” Mavis rubbed at her face, the euphoria of bringing a new life into the world ebbing away. Lord, please damn your servant Pierce. “What did you say?”

  “He’s my child,” her mother said, matter-of-factly, wiping away her tears. “I’ll give him whatever I have. When you’re a mother, you’ll understand. And how’s the new baby? A boy, like you thought?”

  “Nursed right away!”

  “Just like you and Joe. Mama must be so happy.”

  “Father is too.”

  Mémé shook her head. “I wouldn’t’ve liked having your Pa around. When you three came, my sisters took care of me. Whites are so different.”

  Would Mavis want the father there? Only if he were as helpful and positive as Billy had been tonight.

  Outside, waves lapped at the beach and crickets chirped. Sounds of West Harbor; the only place she’d ever felt completely safe.

  Mavis stood up. “Next call, tell him no,” she told her mother. “No money, no house.” Meanwhile, she’d do whatever she could to help the whites stop this crazy golf course.

  “I’ll try,” Mémé promised. “Good night, my dear.”

  Parker

  OWEN HAD FINISHED mowing only minutes before afternoon tea began, and grass clippings still littered the patio. Mentally filing away another “room for improvement” staff note, Parker stepped out through the doorway. The morning’s rain showers had faded off to the southeast, leaving behind some very promising clouds along the horizon. It was a perfect afternoon for the next Skye sighting, and the woman in the skirted bathing dress seated nearest the door was the best candidate by far. (Last summer, even such a modest swimsuit wouldn’t have been considered proper attire for afternoon tea; this year, he’d consciously let standards slip. Next year, he wanted guests to flow naturally from swimming to drinking and back again.)

  “A little p-pick me up, Ms. Woodley?” He held up the rum bottle, adding with a careful wink, “on the house of course!” The label had faded already, so he hastily covered it up with his palm. Over the winter, Sylvia had designed and printed Brenton Rum stickers—skull and cross bones, outlined by Brenton’s shoreline—which they’d used to cover over each bottle’s original label. They weren’t holding up as well as she’d promised.

  “It’s Jane, remember?” Such a stunning depth of tan wrinkled cleavage. “After three days here, I feel like a local! Though I was disappointed you couldn’t join me for dinner last night.” She polished off her tea and held up her teacup with both hands for a refill. “Oh, Parker, that’s just too tasty!”

  “Did you enjoy the b-beach?” he asked.

  “Yes, once the rain finally stopped. But I’d barely dipped my toe in before I had to rush back up here for high tea. And your famous Widow’s Walk tour, of course!” Her mascara was so thick, he was amazed she could still flutter her eyelashes.

  And it was afternoon tea, not high tea.

  “Do you think I’ll be able to see Skye? I do have excellent distance vision. Isabella will be veddy, veddy jealous if I do! Teehee!”

  Isabella? Ah, yes—the last decent sighting prospect. June’s weather had not cooperated.

  “I went to Scotland on my first honeymoon, you know—we had a divine week on Skye, though the actual marriage turned out to be a complete disaster.”

  Placing copies of Seeing Skye—a surprise bestseller, even ashore— in every room had led to guest inquiries about visiting the widow’s walk, so Parker added a weekly private tour to the price list. Those quickly filled up, so he’d bumped up both the frequency and the price—and still they were sold out right through July. The author of Seeing Skye was going to get a very nice thank you note—or maybe he should offer her a complimentary one-night stay, after Labor Day? He filed away that thought as well.

  Molly brought around a tray of scones. “Made right here on the island,” she told Jane proudly, in that lovely Irish brogue. “Every morning—before I’m even up from my bed!” She was his best summer helper yet. (Shana, on the other hand, was nothing but trouble.)

  Parker carried his bottle to the next table. Samantha Irons had also signed up for today’s tour, but she waved away the rum. “Still recovering from last night’s punch. What was in that, anyway? I don’t recognize the—”

  “Private reserve,” Parker replied, already moving on. “Enjoy your tea!”

  The corner table held a family of four, so he skipped them and headed over to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. They’d arrived yesterday afternoon; he hadn’t yet heard a pleasant word from either of them.

  “Little pick-me-up?” They both nodded eagerly, so he topped off Mrs. Weston’s tea first.

  “It does need something,” she said. “No one takes the time to brew tea properly anymore. Where do we meet for the tour? And is it true—”

  “Four-thirty sharp, outside the elevator.”

  Worst case, they’d get a nice view of the ocean. Best case, maybe he’d get another sighting. Rum definitely increased the odds; right before the author of Seeing Skye had her sighting, she’d downed three rum punches.

  He skipped the honeymooners staring at their phones and circled back to refill Ms. Woodley once more. She’d freshened her lipstick, replacing the pink left on the china teacup. “Now tell me the truth, Parker—do you really think we’ll be able to see Skye today?”

 
; “Perfect weather,” he replied. “But after so many disappointments, I don’t like to make promises. We haven’t had a single sighting since last fall.” He sighed, theatrically. “I’m beginning to fear they’ve moved Skye even farther away.”

  She tittered, and he laughed with her, waiting until she set down her cup again so he could top it off.

  “Maybe you need to add a prize,” she suggested. “Free drinks for the next person to see Skye.”

  “Great idea. Now, don’t be l-late!”

  When the gong boomed to signal the tour, Parker headed over to the elevator and waved his four guests in ahead of him. Jane’s eyes were the brightest; Parker, winking, let his eyes drop to her wrinkled chest. She blushed, smiled, and looked away.

  On the second floor, he crossed the hallway and unhooked a safety rope, leading his guests up a narrow staircase. Repetition had perfected his delivery; a stutter-free summary of Inn history divided into two sections of six steps each, with a pause on the landing in between so everyone could catch their breath. With each step up the air got hotter and stuffier, so the final reveal—opening the old door, to let in the breeze from the widow’s walk—was always its own sweet reward.

  On the top step he turned to face them, already cooled by drafts sneaking between the ancient planks. “What you’re about to see was added only twenty years ago. In fact, the only visible piece of the entire building that’s original is—” he pressed his palm against rough-sawn wood “—this door! It was—”

  “Is it true you’re putting in a golf course?” Mrs. Weston asked, only two steps below him.

  “Where’d you h-hear that?”

  Mrs. Weston turned to her husband. “Told you so. Another damned golf course—on one of the last decent nesting grounds in New England!”

  When her husband shushed her, Parker gratefully picked up where he’d left off. “Are you all r-ready. . . for the best view on the entire east c-coast?”

  Jane Woodley held up her arm as if signaling a cavalry charge. “Let us through that door, Parker!” Her bangs were sweat-stuck to her forehead.