Ferry to Cooperation Island Page 2

  She’d just started to think she was home free when she spotted a string of rocks dribbling out into the channel, the outermost one topped by a cormorant with black wings spread like judge’s robes. No sign of the red nun marking deep water, though. How close to those rocks was too close? Smelling ammonia, she’d first thought it was her own fear. But no, it was the reek of bird shit—of course. Even with the wheelhouse doors firmly closed against morning chill, she could hear all those gulls laughing at her—they knew exactly where the damned buoy was.

  Just as two cups of diner coffee backed up in her throat, she’d spotted it at last—faded and half-sunk, safely off the starboard bow— and almost cried with relief. Minutes later, she’d rounded the end of the harbor jetty and pulled the ferry’s scarred throttles back to idle.

  This last quarter mile across empty harbor would be a walk in the park, no matter how unfriendly or territorial the natives were. Fingering the shell at her throat, Courtney heard her dad’s baritone inside her head: Run her like you own her. After five years of covering for his failing eyesight, she knew how to handle a boat like this. But that was on the Chesapeake, where if you happened to go the wrong side of a buoy it was just a gentle mud-bump, quick back down, and Bob’s your uncle. The Homer S. Morgan already had plenty of rock-sized dents in her rusty hull. It wouldn’t be hard to punch a hole right—

  The starboard wheelhouse door slid open, letting in a blast of cold air. Her new deckhand was a tall drink of water, with a seaweed-limp handshake. Billy, she remembered.

  “Want me to take us in?” he offered, jaw smacking away at a piece of pink gum. “Like the back of my own hand, this harbor.” His accent turned the word to “hah-buh.”

  Yeah, right. If the kid was so skilled, why would Mr. Wainwright dig up an out-of-work outsider to run his damn ferry?

  She shook her head, dislodging the Brenton Ferry Company cap she’d grabbed off a hook on the aft bulkhead—way too big, but still a better first impression than the light brown tangle of her unbrushed hair. “All set, thanks,” she told Billy. “Could you close that door? Losing all the heat.”

  “Heat running, in May? Boss Lloyd won’t like that. He’s—”

  “Door! Now!” she barked. It slammed shut against the wood frame.

  Touching her lucky shell again, Courtney took in a deep breath and blew it out, trying to quiet her racing heart. She could do this— safely pilot six passengers from fancy-pants Newport out to cold gray Brenton Island, with nothing to count on but her own navigational skills.

  A string of golf carts had already lined up along the pier. She could also see a ramshackle building with outside tables, all full despite the cold. Thirty-six year-round residents, she’d read somewhere. Did every single one always come down to watch every single ferry docking, or only when the new captain was so scared she might puke?

  The pier was long enough for two ferries, but her goal was obvious; the six open pilings at the end. Once she’d brought the starboard side alongside those well-padded posts, gentle as eggshells, she’d be bow to bow with a white powerboat that said “Harbormaster” on the hull. Just a walk in the park, she repeated to herself.

  Not sure of the ferry’s handling, she started her turn a little early. The driver in the first golf cart instantly threw his arms up in the air: what the hell are you doing? “Bringing in your stupid ferry,” Courtney muttered. But she slid the throttles back to neutral, suddenly uncertain. Local nutcase?

  Or maybe James Malloy—trying to confuse her! Gritting her teeth, Courtney shifted into gear again.

  A black dog ran out to the corner piling, barking at her. The wheelhouse door opened.

  “Um, we need to go in port-side-to,” Billy said. “Only way the gangway works.” He slid the door closed without waiting for a response.

  “Shee-it, Billy! Coulda told me that before I made an ass of myself!” She threw both throttles into reverse, sending prop wash swirling around the pilings, and eyed the new approach. Putting the port side of the ferry against those sturdy pilings required a tight U-turn between moorings to port, rocks ahead, and the harbormaster’s boat. So much for that walk in the park.

  Was it really enough open water to spin a fifty-two foot ferry?

  Must be, unless Billy was lying.

  Once she was as close to the moorings as she dared, Courtney spun the wheel to starboard until it stopped—three full turns—and pressed the throttles forward. Nope, that would take her bow straight into the boat. Back into reverse.

  Any pointers? she silently asked the dark-haired harbormaster— tan shirt, khaki pants—who’d jumped down onto his boat. The dog had followed, and now he barked twice at Courtney, front paws up on the rail. Pulling both throttles into neutral again, she slid open the port door in case his owner said anything in a language she—

  Both throttles. . . two propellers!

  Starboard throttle reverse, port throttle forward. Bow turned tighter this time. Harbormaster guy nodded, but also crossed his arms over his chest. Worried about his boat, or just trying to stay warm? The breeze coming through the open door felt like a blast from her dad’s bait freezer. At least the dog had stopped barking.

  When the guy turned away to help his canine assistant up onto the pier, Courtney knew the ferry’s bow would spin through without hitting anything. The rest was routine: slide throttles into neutral until the Homer coasted in close enough to catch a thick line. Watch out the port doorway for Billy to cleat it off and give her a nod. Push port throttle into gear again to pull the steel hull in against those six well-padded pilings. Done.

  Through the blood pounding in her ears, she heard a distant cheer. Seventeen minutes late, but she’d made it. Thanks, Dad. Rubbing a finger along the jagged edge of her lucky shell, she watched the dog— nose down, tail wagging—lead his owner back across the pier and up the steps onto that crowded deck. Just like her father’s black dog yesterday afternoon, when she’d glanced in the rear-view mirror as she drove away, and spotted him leading the way up the front steps of their house.

  (Only yesterday? Really?)

  Billy pulled a sturdy aluminum ramp down onto the side deck and tied it off just aft of the wheelhouse door. Passengers had already queued up, and as soon as the safety rope dropped the first couple pressed forward.

  “Thanks for riding with us,” Courtney told them. Tourists, for sure.

  The next woman stopped so suddenly the passenger behind bumped right into her. “Where’s James?”

  “Been asked to replace him,” Courtney replied.

  “Is he ill?” She was clutching a leather tote bag with all ten polished fingers.

  “You’ll have to ask ashore.”

  “We just left ashore,” Designer Bag Lady answered cryptically, before heading up the steep ramp at last.

  A stout blue-hair followed. “Very nice ride, my dear.” She had rum on her breath, and it wasn’t even noon yet. “Did you stay in that awful hotel last night too? Such a relief to be home. . .” Her equally stout but sober husband grabbed her elbow to help her off the ferry.

  Courtney could do with a few pulls at the rum bottle herself. Landing wrong-side to, in full view of all her customers!

  As soon as the final couple got off—birding binoculars already hanging around their necks—an acne-faced kid pushed away from a rough-shingled shack on the pier and swung himself down the metal railings. “Hi! Patty asked me to grab today’s papers.” He headed aft, reappeared with two twine-tied bales, and followed the passengers up the pier, whistling.

  The first golf cart pulled up, dark green with a scattering of gold script right at Courtney’s eye level: “Everything’s Prime at Prime’s Grocery!” Billy dropped an armful of plastic crates onto the cart’s back ledge, and by the time he’d stepped back onto the gangway, the pot-bellied driver—the guy who’d waved at her like she was a total idiot, for coming into the dock the most obvious way—had turned around and headed back up the pier. Not a word had been said.

  The
next cart stopped inches from the end the gangway. Billy laid a hefty brown bag labeled “All Purpose Enriched Flour” gently on the back seat.

  “Careful, Billy!” The woman turned, frowning. “Remember how you busted open the last bag.”

  “Wasn’t me, that was—Jesus!”

  Billy had to jump out of the way to avoid the backing golf cart, which reversed into a tight turn and then zoomed off. At the top of the landing, it screeched left onto the main road, forcing a smaller cart to slam on its brakes and swerve onto the grass. A wimpy horn tooted.

  Billy came back down the gangway, shaking his head. “Miss Barb’s even grumpier than usual today.”

  Courtney pointed forward, to the bow deck full of gray cylinders. “What about all those propane tanks?”

  “Grocery’ll be back to pick ‘em up.”

  “And the gas cans?” Before leaving Newport, she’d walked around the ferry’s entire deck. Three red jerry jugs had been tucked almost out of sight, between the wheelhouse and the passenger area.

  Blushing, Billy mumbled, “Those are for the Inn.” What could possibly be embarrassing about delivering gas?

  “You always carry more cargo than passengers?”

  “Spring stock-up. Just be glad you missed last Friday’s run. Irreverend’s new guinea hens squawked like a bastahd!”

  Irreverend? Guinea hens?

  “Billy! Where’s my contract?” a skinny blonde called, fingers drumming impatiently against the white plastic capping a nearby piling. “Fedex package? Supposed to be here yesterday. . .” Courtney smiled up at her, but the woman didn’t notice; she was too busy frowning down at her right hand, and then pulling a brown paper napkin out of her pocket. More bird shit, no doubt.

  Billy stepped into the wheelhouse and came out with an overflowing mail crate. “Right on top, Miss Lizzie.” She waltzed down the gangway just far enough to grab the large envelope. “Hey, wouldja mind. . .” but the woman had already headed off again, so instead Billy held the crate out to Courtney. “Can you manage this? It’s heavy—needs to get up to the Bean.”

  “The Bean?” The plastic handles were cold. She set the crate down on the deck long enough to slide her jacket cuffs over her hands.

  Billy had picked up two jugs of milk from somewhere, so he raised one to point at the nearby building.

  “Brenton Bean. My girlfriend’s mom owns the place. Best coffee on the island!” He seemed to be smirking, though the words were friendly enough.

  “Okay. I’ll, um. . . see you for the afternoon run.”

  Deck shoes squeaking, she trod up the ramp, inhaling first the sharp creosote smell of wood pier and then a far more tempting aroma: fresh-brewed coffee. Pausing to glance back at the ferry, all she could see was the top of the wheelhouse; faded blue paint, chipped life raft canister, chalky radar dome. The two-week trial she’d signed on for might be plenty, especially since the air creeping inside her jacket collar felt more like March than mid-May. You’d definitely have to be desperate to sign on for this gig year-round.

  And when Mr. Wainwright called out of the blue yesterday afternoon, Courtney had been desperate with a capital D. Thirty-four, living over her parents’ garage, still working as a deckhand six months after earning her license. She’d been too excited to haggle; now she wondered if she should’ve held out for more money.

  Two weeks, she reminded herself. And the hardest part—her first solo run—was already behind her.

  The coffee shop was only a hundred yards away, just past where wood planks ended and clamshell parking area began, but to get inside she’d have to navigate across that crowded deck. A whole island’s worth of eyes tracked her progress, and the crowd fell silent enough to hear the creak of wooden steps.

  “Welcome to Brenton!” a white-haired man called, trying to swivel around enough to smile right at her. Courtney smiled back, vaguely, at that table of six—until she noticed the wild hair and ragged sweatshirt just to the left of the doorway. Out of uniform, face hidden behind a newspaper—the only guy sitting solo had to be Captain James Malloy.

  Make friends with the old captain, her dad had said, and your life will be much, much easier.

  Four steps across the deck; Courtney readied a smile for when he dropped the paper. There wasn’t room to set the heavy mail crate down on his round table, so she shifted it onto her left hip and slid her right hand out of its jacket sleeve.

  “Captain Malloy?” she said, reaching around the paper. “Courtney Farris.” Captain Courtney Farris, she remembered—too late. Her heart was pounding.

  James kept all ten fingers and both eyeballs locked on the news. All around her, she could feel the eyes on them—everyone waiting for him to respond.

  “Love to pick your brain,” Courtney blundered on, bringing the mail crate back in front of her, like a forward guard. “That nun off Bird Island was a bitch to find, and they make the rocks kinda hard up this way.” She nodded at the other seat. “Got room? I’ll grab a cuppa, be right out.”

  She waited. He snapped the newspaper even higher.

  “Say hello at least, James!” someone called from the big table.

  When one of her passengers held open the door for her, Courtney gave up and carried the mail inside. What an ass! Mr. Wainwright was right—she’d driven her new ride right into enemy territory.

  James

  ON ANY OTHER day, James would’ve sat at the Bean until noon and then walked up to the bakery for lunch with Barb. Kale and chorizo soup, maybe, with a slice of bread still warm from the oven. Today, he’d stormed off the outside deck right after that girl captain— replaced by a girl!—had the balls to ask for navigation pointers. On auto-pilot, he’d already climbed to the top of the ferry landing and turned left, stomach growling, before remembering that the bakery and lunch were now off-limits. Damn.

  Anna Crosby rushed out of the art gallery across the road, leather shoulder bag slapping against her hip, calling, “James, wait!” So he couldn’t turn around and head back to his mother’s house—his house—without looking like a goddamn idiot. Eyes firmly forward, he strode up the main road, breath shortening, as if focused on an actual destination. As long as he kept moving, Anna wouldn’t catch up—not in those heels.

  Just past the captain’s cottage and Prime’s Grocery, the road bent away from the harbor to parallel the island’s eastern shoreline. Shingled cottages clustered together, overlooking Bird Island, protected from winter winds by the big hill. James knew the owner of each and every place—even “the rental,” currently occupied by Patty and Billy, which stood between the mayor’s house and the schoolteacher’s.

  Tucked into the road’s next curve to the right was the bakery, an old bait shed that Barb had tacked onto the north side of her house and fitted out with ovens and a kneading table. The blue door was shut tight, and uncut grass tickled the legs of the empty garden table. The left downspout had fallen down again. All Barb’s problem now— she could fix her own goddamn gutters. Mow her own grass, too, after the nasty things she’d screamed at him last night.

  Diagonally across the road was Anna’s house, a lone sentinel guarding its bluff-top ocean view, with every blade of grass trimmed to perfection. Anna always headed straight home after coming in on the ferry, so she’d stop following him now. He strode past her house without looking back, following the road as it turned right again and inclined up the steep hill.

  Two head-high concrete walls ran like motorcycle escorts up either side of the gray pavement. The left wall hid the lighthouse and keeper’s cottage, where James had grown up. Waves groaned against the bluffs, the soundtrack of childhood. It had all been so simple back then, because everything he needed—boats, meals, an open horizon for dreaming—had been right here on this tiny island.

  The open horizon was still available, at least. He’d go down to West Harbor, check on Joe—maybe even score lunch.

  He was still panting from the steep climb when the two walls ended. On the left was the lighthouse drivewa
y. On the right side, a squared-off hedge took over—the only pruned privet on the entire island.

  “Morning, Captain James!” one of the commuters called out from above the hedge. He’d already changed out of his pinstripes for this forced day off. “I was hoping to see you. What happened—”

  James increased his pace—though his lungs were burning.

  “James? I heard you were fired, for dealing drugs! That doesn’t sound right. . .”

  Two lousy buds of pot. For Joe, to help ease his dying. James had tried to talk through the whole mess with Mack on the ride back to the island yesterday afternoon, but all the harbormaster said was, “Lloyd’ll get over it.” Then he’d asked James how often to change the spark plugs in his four-stroke outboard—as if James knew anything about modern motors.

  When they got back to the island, Mack had invited him for a birthday beer in the fish shack on the dock. Somehow that had turned into a six pack each, which made James late for Barb’s birthday supper. . . and gave Mayor Frank time to make the rounds with his over-dramatized version of events, so now James’s reputation was on the rocks locally as well. Dealing drugs, my ass.

  The privet faded away to the right, paralleling the side road that would eventually circle back to the Malloy cottage and the quieter side of the harbor. James forged on straight ahead. He hadn’t been up to the very top of the big hill since last fall, partly to avoid the Inn’s makeover—the old building had been gussied up like a Newport mansion! A sign blaring its new name, the Skye View Inn, arched over raked gravel. The long driveway curved around under a portico, ending at the concrete patio that everyone had been grousing about all spring. Poured without any permits—Parker Dane’s latest improvement.

  Now that Joe was dying, who would protect West Brenton from that creep?