Ferry to Cooperation Island Page 4

  Yes it was lonely at times, but way better than her sister’s life: chained to the house, sprouting another kid every thirteen months— while dear old husband escaped out onto the bay every morning. Working on the water beat cooking, laundry, diapers—and pretty much everything else on shore.

  The oven was warming up the kitchen, but the heat didn’t extend to the couch. She found a wool blanket in a cedar footlocker to wrap around herself, and by the time the timer pinged she was almost asleep. There were no forks, so she stood over the sink and scooped up seafood pie with her fingers, burning the roof of her mouth— hotter in the middle, just like her mom’s crab cakes. But the taste was completely different: bland fish with too many potatoes, instead of rich crabmeat with just enough bread to hold it together.

  She washed up the aluminum plate and set up her laptop, trying to ignore her thirst. That Inn at the top of the hill must have a bar—and a website. Yup, there it was; the Skye View Inn, owned and operated by some guy named Parker Dane.

  But when she opened the front door, darkness had fallen and the unfamiliar road off to the left was already in shadow. She could barely make out the square of Prime’s Grocery next door. Didn’t they know about streetlights out here? Sighing, she pushed the sticky door closed again.

  Two weeks, she reminded herself, dragging her blanket up the ladder; that’s all her contract specified. Thirteen days from now, she’d take her license, and her shiny reference, and head back where she belonged.

  Parker

  HE WAS JUST about to open the Inn’s beautiful new French doors onto a sunny spring morning when a woman called his name. Parker turned to see Barb the baker clomping in through the service entrance, and his mouth began to water—but she carried only one tray of scones. The honeymooners in room four would devour that many all by themselves, once they finally came down for breakfast— unless he squirreled away this tray for afternoon tea.

  “Thanks for coming up the hill—I would’ve sent someone.” Crossing the inside dining room and bar area in three strides, he met Barb in the dim hallway and took the tray into his storage room, where he set it down on a stack of rum boxes. Back out in the hall, he locked the door behind him.

  “I needed some air,” Barb said, reaching up to twist her cinnamon-colored hair into a fresh bun. “Only twelve scones today—I got a late start this morning. Had to clear out a closet first.”

  “Spring c-cleaning?” Parker nodded. “Mavis just started on—”

  “No, tossing out all of our druggy ferry captain’s clothes. You heard he attacked his boss? I gave him a piece of my mind two nights ago, yes indeed. Drugs are a red line for me—which he knew.”

  Parker had ignored the staff chatter. “Doesn’t really s-sound like—”

  “So I tell him it’s over, right? Figure he’ll see the error of his ways, and we can talk it through like grownups. Instead he runs away from me, down the hill like a goddamn coward. And then sunset last night, not even twenty-four hours later—I see him knocking on Anna’s front door with a bottle of wine! Right across the street. That rat bastard jumped out of my bed, right into hers.” Shaking her head loosened that thick hair again. “Rat bastard,” she repeated.

  “Well, I’m quite s-sure it will all b-blow over—” Parker’s phone vibrated, so he slid it out of his front pocket. “S-sorry, I’d b-better get this. Let me know when you have more s-scones—I’ll take everything you can b-bake!”

  He held the phone to his ear like it was a call instead of a text, until the back door slammed behind her. She was a fantastic baker, and mostly she was easy to talk to—until some switch flipped in her brain and she started shrieking at everyone. He’d never understood what made James put up with such a grouch. Though James could be a bit of a grouch himself. . .

  Parker would never say it out loud, but in his opinion Anna would be a major upgrade.

  The bar hadn’t been cleaned up properly last night, but Sylvia would show up any minute—and she’d have a fit if he touched any of her bottles or cleaned any glasses. Besides, his shiny French doors still beckoned. So he strolled—strutted—across the room again, pulled up the handle, and stepped down at last onto sun-washed patio.

  He was already enjoying a series of deep, cleansing breaths when he remembered to read the text message: “Ferry dock. Heading your way.” Just like that, the morning’s sweet potential—fresh concrete, new shrubs, nine of ten rooms booked tonight—was instantly replaced by the sour-tasting dread of another petty, time-wasting meeting with his biggest creditor.

  Parker stepped off solid patio onto squishy new sod, waving his arms. “Owen!” The landscaper was digging a garden bed along the west side of the building, riding proud on the used tractor he’d talked Parker into buying. Deafening contraption, but it tossed away tough island grass like a penny flipped for a bet. Supposedly there was some island prohibition on motorized vehicles, but so far, nobody’d made an official complaint; Mayor Frank was losing it, and Sachem Joe had one foot in the grave. The only remaining obstacle to making this place truly first class was cash flow—and if this summer went as well as expected, that would be solved as well. By next May, he could be standing out here admiring a gorgeous infinity pool.

  Owen finally shut the engine down; blessed quiet. Removed his earmuffs, leaned out of the cab.

  “Mr. W-wainwright just texted,” Parker called. “Could you go down to the dock and p-pick him up? And while you’re there, check to see if Billy scored us any more g-gas.”

  “Will do, Mr. Dane.”

  Minutes later, the Inn’s ten-seater golf cart was spitting gravel back at that gorgeous new arbor.

  Sending Owen down to the ferry landing bought Parker a few minutes of peace, so he returned to the empty patio. Tomorrow, eight tables and thirty-two chairs—powder-coated, much nicer than the Bean’s—would arrive. Weather permitting, they’d serve Friday’s afternoon tea out here. It made all those lawyer’s letters complaining about westward expansion seem so trivial—and those should be stopping quite soon, whether or not Lloyd Wainwright had really taken control of West Brenton like he said he had.

  Lloyd. The tongue-curl of a name made him want to spit. Taking on a partner had been the only way Parker could buy this place two years ago. But before the ink was even dry on their agreement, Lloyd started threatening to call in his loan if Parker didn’t support a string of crazy ideas: that second ferry line, which hadn’t lasted a month before the boat was impounded by the Coast Guard. Another inn, out on Bird Island, which even the architect had laughed at. Harassing the inn’s senile neighbor to sell her cottage—and then, when she died, harassing her heirs.

  Lloyd’s latest scheme, though, actually sounded like a moneymaker; transform the prickly wilderness just west of the Inn into a putt-putt golf course. There would still be room for the pool, plus Owen’s next project: a croquet court—especially if they ignored the official property line.

  The distinctive whine of hill-climbing golf cart brought Parker back to the present. Stepping in through the new doors, he had to feel his way back to the bar until his eyes adjusted to the dimness.

  “Lloyd’s paying us a visit,” he said to Sylvia.

  She stopped cleaning up just long enough to pour Parker’s usual and set it down on the varnished bar, rippling that tattooed bicep. “What’s he want?”

  “M-money, probably.” Thinking about the pile of overdue invoices on his desk made Parker’s tongue lock up, so he lubricated it with seltzer. Extra lime made it a touch too tart—just like Sylvia.

  “Offer him a glass of Brenton punch, on the house,” she said. “Maybe tipsy, he’ll be easier to deal with.”

  But as soon as Lloyd scuttled in through the front door, he disappeared to the right without even looking at the bar. The guy moved like a fiddler crab—faster sideways than head-on. Parker followed carpet-muffled muddy footprints down the hall to his own office door, which Lloyd insisted on closing—even though it required sliding two stacked boxes of last year’
s financial records out of the way.

  “Build a bonfire with those,” Lloyd said. “Never know who might be spying on you.”

  “Not much to h-hide,” Parker replied, pressing the wooden door shut; it never quite latched. “Those are all h-headed for storage, once Owen’s done digging the croquet court. Not a top priority at the—”

  “Priorities—exactly what I came out here to talk about.” Lloyd sidled over to the window behind Parker’s desk, sliding hands into trouser pockets to jangle his loose change. “Mm, nice view.”

  The girls from room five had spread themselves across bath towels on the front lawn, and their bikinis didn’t leave much to the imagination. Once he was finished with Lloyd, Parker would ask them to move; sunbathing teenyboppers should not be his guests’ first impression.

  (Next year’s sunbathers would be lounging poolside, within easy refill range of Sylvia’s Brenton Punch.)

  “What priorities?” Parker asked, to distract him. They’d remain standing—Lloyd liked towering over people.

  “We need to move on the golf course, ASAP.” Lloyd turned his gaze to Parker’s blotter—or rather, to its teetering pile of invoices.

  Parker crossed to his desk, turned the top sheet—a bill for that lovely new arbor—face down, and forced himself to smile up at Lloyd. “Your plan to activate that old land trust worked then? Great news. Though it won’t please the Indians.” Especially Mavis—and she was the only one he trusted to clean this office. He’d caught her citrus-pine scent when they’d first come in here; now all he smelled was greed.

  “Joe Borba’s practically dead,” Lloyd replied, pocket change still jangling. “Rest of the family’s coming around. Soon as I clean up a few details, we can start taking down trees. Which gives us room for a full nine holes. Much—”

  “Nine h-holes! Where are you g-going to—”

  “Get rid of the forest and that old Indian cemetery, there’s plenty of room.”

  “But Mavis would n-never—”

  “Not the silent baby sister! Pierce—the forgotten middle child.” Lloyd winked. “Left the island when he was sixteen, started an Indian church down in South County. Twenty years of resentment about big brother’s success—all I’ve been doing is fanning the flames.”

  “But that path through the forest loops around the Indian graveyard—it’s the Inn’s most p-popular nature walk!”

  “Keep it then. We’ll put the fairway just west of the Inn. Cheaper— and more convenient to the bar.”

  Parker shook his head. “Golfers like to g-get away from their wives.” And he was saving that open field for his infinity pool. “Why c-can’t we work those two big trees and the cemetery into the c-course design? I just saw a piece on TV about naturally wild golf—”

  “Designer says all the trees have to go. We just have to find a day when the locals won’t notice. My investors—”

  “Wait—inv-vestors? This was supposed to be our p-private deal!”

  Lloyd pulled his phone out of his right trouser pocket, glanced down at it, slid it back out of sight. “They’ve asked to remain anonymous.”

  “At least tell me how many—”

  “Oh Parker, don’t worry so much! You and myself, we still make all the big decisions—like when to go after those trees with that tractor of yours. We’ll need a distraction, lots of noise—what about fireworks? Memorial Day’s in a few weeks. Don’t you usually—”

  “Fireworks aren’t till F-fourth of J-july. And cutting d-down trees is d-daylight work.”

  “Owen says your tractor has work lights. Great ideas, that kid— you paying him enough?”

  “He does just f-fine.” Parker crossed both arms over his chest.

  “Good, because I asked him to make sure the machine is ready. We’ll need to start—”

  “You gave orders to my employee?”

  “Proper planning leads to perfect performance.” Even by Lloyd standards, the smile was too perfectly pompous.

  Parker made a mental note to remind Owen who paid his salary. “Speaking of employees,” he said, trying to redirect the discussion, “I’m hearing good things about your new c-captain.”

  Lloyd’s smile disappeared. “She wears a creepy shell.”

  “What’s w-wrong with shells?”

  “I don’t allow jewelry—that’s how I got Malloy to stop wearing that silly pirate earring. She promised to take it off, of course.”

  Parker shook his head. “I even think of asking Sylvia to l-lose one of her rings or cover up that c-cleavage, she’d pack her b-bags so fast I’d get w-whiplash.”

  “Leave the cleavage—get her to cover up that serpent instead. Tattoos give me the creeps.” Lloyd checked his phone again.

  Outside, the two girls were picking up their towels, so that was one chore crossed off the afternoon to-do list.

  “How are bookings?” Lloyd asked.

  “Sold out, right through L-Labor Day!” Parker said proudly. “Thanks to Seeing Skye.”

  “Seeing what?”

  “One of our guests wrote a b-book about catching sight of Scotland from the widow’s walk. C-crazy, right? But we’ve added p-private tours to the online registration, and they sold out in—”

  Lloyd raised a hand. “Never mind the nitty-gritty. When can you make your next payment?”

  “When it’s d-due—last day of the month.”

  Lloyd picked up Parker’s letter opener. “Write me a check today, I might forget the extra interest from that late payment last spring. . .” He was cleaning under his fingernails with the silver blade!

  Parker shook his head. “I’m barely going to m-make p-payroll this week. F-furniture store wanted p-payment in full before they’d d-deliver the new—”

  “That patio was completely unnecessary.” Lloyd tossed the letter opener back onto the desk. “This place was built by the goddamn Indians—you’re just putting lipstick on a pig.”

  “It’s a great b-building! And one day it will be a f-first class resort.”

  Lloyd spread out his hands, palms up. “Which is why you need a nine-hole golf course. Think of the greens fees! You could even set up a pro shop, in that dead space behind the bar.”

  “I thought of that too,” Parker admitted.

  “Always said you were a smart businessman,” Lloyd said. Then his smile faded.

  “Look, even a partial payment would help me out a lot right now. It’s gonna cost some serious dough to get this project off the ground.”

  “Well, I guess that’s what all those in-v-vestors are for,” Parker said, turning to pull open the door. “Now if there’s nothing else, I need to get back to w-work.”

  “Any chance Owen. . .”

  “He’s b-busy,” Parker replied, standing back to make sure Lloyd crabbed his way back outside without any more snooping. “And it’s a lovely d-day for a w-walk.”

  Lloyd

  STRIDING UP THE Inn’s driveway, Lloyd kicked fresh gravel off into the grass with every step of his suede bucks—just so Parker would have to pay Owen overtime to pick it out again. Walking back to the ferry! His time was more valuable than that. Besides, as the owner of the Brenton Ferry Company—and soon enough, the owner of half this godforsaken island—he shouldn’t be seen hoofing it down the hill like a low-life local.

  Despite his embarrassing form of transportation, Lloyd found himself grinning as he turned left onto the main road. All his long-term planning was finally paying off, and Pa-pa-parker— that stuttering cog in the smooth wheel of progress—was now aware of the golf course plan. Golf is the future, that banker had predicted, just before he’d authorized Lloyd’s most recent loan— secured only by the Homer. Every time the guy called now to beg for a payment, Lloyd’s answer was to repeat back those words: “Golf is the future.”

  A glimpse of red-topped lighthouse above the concrete-and-rock wall on his right reminded Lloyd of James Malloy, which made him smile even wider—finally, after sixteen years of trying, he’d gotten that son-of-a-cr
iminal-lighthouse-keeper off his payroll! Striding down the hill, ignoring the string of cramped cottages and that ramshackle bakery, Lloyd mentally replayed his victorious wheel-house scene from two days ago. . . one more time.

  James had already started up both engines for the afternoon run when Lloyd stepped from Newport dock to ferry for his weekly safety inspection. He’d just happened to glance in through the narrow wheel-house doorway, just happened to spot the small baggie on the counter in front of the wheel—with what looked like two dried-out caterpillars inside. If he hadn’t found an identical baggie a week earlier, on his daughter’s vanity table, he wouldn’t have even known what it was. (He could still hear Alison’s bored tone; “Duh! It’s marijuana, Dad.”)

  Once he’d realized what he was looking at, his first thought had been: Could James possibly be that stupid? Before the other man came to his senses, Lloyd stepped into the wheelhouse (remembering, for once, to duck so he didn’t hit his forehead on the low doorway). Grabbed the baggie. Dangled it between thumb and forefinger. “What have we—”

  “That’s private property!” James went to grab it.

  Lloyd raised it over his head—whacking the back of his knuckles on the sharp edge of a ceiling beam. Yowza! that stung. “Don’t make me call the cops,” he warned, trying to hide his glee. Caught red-handed!

  Sixteen years ago, Lloyd had hired James to make one final ferry run, right out into the teeth of a hurricane. James’s father had killed Lloyd’s grandfather, so it was the perfect revenge—and the insurance payment would’ve made Lloyd a rich man. Instead of foundering, though, James made it safely to Brenton Island that afternoon—and, with the harbormaster’s help, had kept the Homer running on time ever since. Now—finally—Lloyd had him. By the short and curlies, as his father would’ve put it.

  Lloyd slid the plastic baggie into a jacket pocket, careful not to brush his stinging knuckles against the zipper. “I can’t have my captains carrying an illegal—”