Ferry to Cooperation Island Page 9

  Us? Wait—was Dean offering him a job?

  “Last June I started the Bermuda Race, right over there.” Dean pointed off to port, at the squat white and black of Castle Hill Light. “Great boat, brand new sails, all pro crew. Halfway there we were winning our class, until the GPS crapped out. The yard had stepped the mast on the antenna wire. Third time I’ve sailed that goddamn race, and I’ve never won it.”

  All that money, and there were still things Dean wanted that he couldn’t get.

  The bow was pointing between the two islands, Brenton and Bird, which looked like open water but wasn’t. “We need to bear off,” James said, already letting out the mainsheet to encourage a course change.

  “What, you don’t think we’d make it through your shortcut?” Dean was grinning again, white teeth against tan skin. “I couldn’t believe it when you took the ferry through there that time.”

  “Homer’s keel is a lot shallower than this boat.” He shuddered, remembering the sunset run years ago when he’d scraped the ferry on West Rock. Eleven minutes shorter than going out around Bird Island, but not safe below half-tide—or in low visibility.

  When Dean rounded the tip of Bird Island, he headed up again to close-hauled and a sluice of spray splashed James in the face. “Sorry,” Dean called. Then, “Tacking!”

  Back to jail again.

  They covered the distance to the end of the breakwater almost as fast as the Homer. James rolled up the jib; Dean started the engine and beelined for his rental mooring. Once the mainsail rattled down and the engine shut off, the only sounds were a rope halyard dinging the mast and water slapping the bow.

  After they’d cleaned up the lines and put on the mainsail cover, Dean headed down the steep companionway and came back up with a beer in each hand. The can was unexpectedly ice-cold; must be a nice galley down there.

  James sat down on the starboard side, putting his back to the shoreline. He was supposed to be spending the afternoon replacing rotten decking on the dock in front of his house, which would be just visible in the northwest corner of the harbor. Instead he was sitting in a rich man’s cockpit, drinking beer.

  Think of it as an interview.

  “Cheers.” Dean raised his beer to James. “I enjoyed that—we work well together.”

  James nodded.

  “You’d be a great addition to my team.”

  “Not much of a racer.”

  “I don’t need more racing experience—I need someone who can teach a bunch of overpaid yachties how to sail this boat properly. Which is why I’ve decided to hire you.”

  “But I don’t have any management—”

  “You trained that pissant deckhand, didn’t you?” Dean laughed. “I hear he wants to name his first kid after you.”

  “First? Jesus. Billy’d better grow up a bit, before they have another one.” Beer on an empty stomach—brought out his cynical side.

  “He will,” Dean predicted. “Ainsley got pregnant our senior year at Brown. Twins—we had to grow up in a hurry. Twelve years later, she wakes up all bloated—figures she’s starting menopause early, but instead we get Peter. Had to start all over again. . .”

  Dean was only a few years older than James. Three kids, successful ad agency—and a fantastic boat.

  He could get off the island, go sailing like this all the time.

  “When would this job actually start? I’ve got a lot going on at the—”

  “Like what? Critiquing your ex-girlfriend’s bagels?”

  Beyond the breakwater, the Homer’s radar and life raft appeared. Only a few minutes late for once. “The dock in front of my house needs a bunch of work. Decking’s rotten—”

  “Hire a handyman. Waste of your talents.”

  “What talents? Half a semester of college, charter boat deliveries between here and the Caribbean, running the Brenton Ferry. Not much of a résumé.”

  Dean snorted. “I can make anyone look good on paper.”

  Maybe they could do a barter.

  “Jeff Denton says you were the best shipmate he ever sailed with,” Dean continued, flicking the tab on the top of his beer can.

  “Twenty years ago!”

  “You never forget how to think on your feet. And going sailing would be way better than sitting on your ass at that coffee shop all summer.”

  As the ferry’s white bow entered the harbor, the engines stepped down from 2200 to 1000 RPM. Two diesels, slightly out of sync; there’d be a vibration in the wheel and underfoot. Didn’t she feel it?

  “Ah, here comes the sweet young thing driving your ferry,” Dean said. “Right on time for once. She’s getting better every day.”

  James drained the beer, crushed the can, and stood up.

  Dean emptied the rest of his own can overboard. “Ten percent over your ferry salary. I’ll even pay cash, at least until you’re allowed back on the mainland. Whaddya say—”

  “For a summer sailing job?” The guy must have more money than God.

  “Oh, I’m talking year ‘round! We’re already behind, if we’re gonna win next year’s race. How does Christmas in the Caribbean sound?”

  Jesus, the guy was serious.

  “Where do I sign?”

  Dean grinned. “Handshake’s fine with me.” His long-fingered grip was firm. “How about taking Ainsley and Peter and me sailing tomorrow afternoon? They can take the ferry out here—that’ll give me an excuse to spend the night on the boat.”

  “Doesn’t he have school?”

  “They got out last week. Besides, sailing teaches life skills.”

  “Sounds good to me,” James said, feeling his lips stretch into a smile almost as wide as Dean’s. A sailing job again! The Homer’s wake washed the inflatable dinghy against the stern, but now that he had a better offer it almost didn’t bother him to see Courtney standing behind his wheel. (Could she even see over the Homer’s bow?)

  They talked through a few more details before Dean chauffeured him back to the dinghy dock. “Nine o’clock tomorrow? We can go through the boat, before the ferry comes in.”

  “Perfect. I’ll meet you right here.” They shook hands again.

  Courtney was walking up the gangway, so James ducked behind the fish shack. “Afternoon,” he heard Mack say as she walked by the small doorway. Time to celebrate, James decided, so once Courtney was safely up the hill and he’d stolen one more glance out at the dark blue sleekness that was his new job, he ambled around the front of the small building and stepped inside.

  Mack and Fisher Marty had already cracked open their after-work beers and sat themselves down on a couple of lobster traps. The shack smelled of dried mud and the tiny fridge stank of bait, but the top shelf held two full six-packs. Clinking bottles with both men, James took a seat on a nearby upended bucket and told them about his new job. Though he made sure to downplay the best part of all: escape from his island jail.

  Courtney

  HALFWAY OUT OF Narragansett Bay, Courtney could already see steep white-topped waves at the entrance. Wind against tide—again. And Billy, slamming open the wheelhouse door, bringing with him cold and damp and the faint odor of marijuana—again. A tardy seasick deckhand with an attitude problem; could it get any worse?

  Twelve days ago, her two-week trial had ended—with no word from Mr. Wainwright. She’d stayed on to wait for her first paycheck, but once that finally appeared (last Friday, after the banks closed), her mom had suggested she just sit tight. The Oxford ferry was running smoothly—though her dad might say otherwise, if he ever got on the phone. She hadn’t called the past few nights, dreading the stilted conversation that made home seem even farther away. After so many years of sharing the same view, she didn’t know how to distill the differences of her new world into something her parents could understand.

  So this morning she’d stuffed her paycheck into an envelope and mailed it home, without even adding any sort of personal message. Mom would deposit it in Courtney’s account—she kept her promises—and once it
cleared, Courtney would finally be able to buy a fresh pair of khakis.

  “Guess who I met this afternoon?” Billy asked.

  “Not someone I know.” Unless he’d teleported down to the Eastern Shore.

  “Alison Wainwright. I went to see my fishing buddy, and she was just stepping off the boat. White short shorts, some strippy-strappy tank top. Man, I do love summer!”

  “As in, Mr. Wainwright?”

  “Yup, his daughter. I recognized her from all those pictures in his office—she was a champion golfer in college.”

  “So what was she doing on a fishing boat?”

  “I guess she, um—knows Frankie too.” Frankie must be the source of Billy’s smoky odor. “So she sees the logo on my shirt, asks if I work for her dad’s company. When I say yes, she tells me she’ll wait, so we can walk back to the office together.”

  “She walk real slow? That why you were late again?”

  “Yeah, and also Frankie was busy so I had to wait a bit.” Billy was immune to sarcasm. “But when she heard I lived on Brenton, she told me something real interesting.”

  Courtney took her eyes off the bow long enough to glance over at him. “Interesting?”

  “She says she’s building a new website for some island land trust. I didn’t even know we had one!”

  “Why her?”

  “That’s what I asked. But she got all secretive, made me promise not to tell anyone else—”

  “So you instantly tell someone!”

  “Just you,” Billy said, shrugging. Then his ears reddened. “I mean, you’re not a local.”

  “No I’m not,” Courtney replied. “And where I come from, land trusts aren’t usually a secret.”

  “Yeah it’s a little strange, but whatever. She told me I should take a course on website building—easy money. Man, she’s hot!” he repeated.

  Once they got beyond the mixed-up waves and out into more predictable open water, Courtney engaged the autopilot.

  “Want me to steer?” Billy asked, hopefully.

  “Not a chance. But let me know if you spot any other traffic out here.” After one more look around the empty horizon, Courtney pulled out her phone.

  Searching for “Brenton Island Land Trust” didn’t bring up anything at all, so she searched for “Alison Wainwright” instead. Address on Ocean View Drive, which sounded richer than expected compared to that dumpy ferry office. Nothing else.

  Something sure didn’t add up.

  Her stomach lurched, so she put her phone away and shut off the autopilot. She’d search again after work, on a bigger and more stable screen.

  Later that evening, when Courtney found the site Alison had built, it was hardly impressive: just a stock “under construction” image. But at the very bottom of the page, in text so faint and tiny she easily could’ve scrolled right by, were the words, “Lloyd Wainwright, President.”

  Christ on toast! Now what?

  Two afternoons later, Anna Crosby sat down with Courtney at the Bean. Well, okay, Courtney had to practically beg her to do so, and the first thing the artist said was, “I’m so sorry—I’ve forgotten your name,” in that posh way that implied she wasn’t sorry at all. But as soon as Courtney asked where she lived, Anna opened up. Her grandfather had built the house right across from the bakery. She’d added a deck so she could dine overlooking the ocean. And she must’ve dropped the name “James” at least ten times, like the whole island revolved around him.

  Hoping Anna could explain why Mr. Wainwright was president of a secret land trust, Courtney lowered her voice. “I found something quite strange. . .” She explained the website.

  Anna sighed. “Lloyd’s schemes never amount to anything. West Brenton’s well protected. My father drew up an iron-clad agreement years ago to keep it forever wild; James’s father was the other witness.”

  James again.

  “He won’t even talk to me,” Courtney muttered. “It’s not my fault he attacked Mr. Wain—”

  “Oh, James didn’t attack anyone,” Anna replied. “He just—well, that’s his story to tell, not mine.”

  “I’ll probably never hear it then!”

  Anna lifted a round shoulder. “Try a different table tomorrow.”

  “Different table!” Courtney reached up to rub her lucky shell. “Why?”

  “Because this one still belongs to him.”

  So the very next morning, after an easy round trip to Newport, Courtney sat down at the square table to the left of the Bean’s door-way—and then stood up again, to drag it beyond banging distance of the screen door. The buzz of conversation stopped; all the regulars were staring at her.

  Ignoring the silence, Courtney took her first sip of coffee—too much soy milk—and slid out her phone to check her email. So far there’d been no response from Mr. Wainwright about signing a longer-term contract—or about when she could expect her next paycheck.

  “Nice day at last, Captain Courtney,” Doctor Emerald called over, from his seat on the far side of the big table.

  “Finally warming up,” she agreed, keeping her eyes on her phone.

  “How’s the Homer running?” Mack asked next.

  “Fine, I guess.”

  None of the regulars had ever addressed her before—except the mayor, who told her every single morning that she reminded him of his late wife, “God rest her soul.” Anna Crosby had been spot on—a different seat instantly made everyone a whole lot friendlier.

  Everyone except Captain Punctual, of course. When she’d first stepped onto the deck this morning, James had been frowning down at a smart phone—until he looked up, she smiled at him, and he stood up to push past her down the dock. He’d sped out across the harbor in an inflatable dinghy, which was now tied up to that fancy blue race boat. New job, or new girlfriend?

  Well James and his empty table could go fly a kite. She’d already figured out the ferry’s quirks—no thanks to him.

  When Patty came out with a fresh pot, she was so startled to see Courtney in a different seat that she stumbled on a chair leg, spilling hot coffee right through the grated table top. “Darn it, so clumsy!”

  Courtney angled her knees to the side to keep clear of the hot liquid, but her only decent pair of pants now had a fresh splatter right on the thigh. You’d think a professional waitress would be a little more coordinated. Maybe once she gave birth to that enormous bump in her belly, she would be.

  “I’ll grab a mop, be right back,” Patty promised. As soon as the door closed, Mack strode over and picked up the coffee pot. Courtney waved him off, so he refilled all five mugs at the big table. By the time Patty returned, Mack was back in his seat, feet either side of Chester the dog.

  While Patty mopped up the spill, Courtney asked her when the baby was due.

  “Three weeks, an Independence Day baby!” Patty replied. But when she started blathering on about a natural home birth and some midwife named Mavis, Courtney held up a hand.

  “Too much information! If I ever give birth—and that’s a big fat IF—I want a sanitary hospital, and all the drugs they allow.”

  “Each his own,” Patty replied cheerily. “By the way—smart move, changing tables.” Then she picked up the coffee pot—lighter than expected, because it was empty—and smiled over at Mack before heading inside again.

  Courtney’s home town used to be tight like this, everyone watching out for each other. Now her parents only recognized a few of their neighbors. Anna said this island was protected from more development. . . but Courtney’s parents had been promised that their new neighborhood had an iron-clad rule against development, too.

  Mr. Wainwright was way too greedy to volunteer for anything. So why, Courtney wondered for the thousandth time, was he listed as the president of the West Brenton Land Trust?

  She almost asked him directly the very next morning, when her boss climbed aboard at the last minute for the ten-thirty run. But first she was too distracted, and then she was too damned mad. The narrow channel ou
t of Newport Harbor was a seething mass of boats, and just as a huge sailboat cut across the ferry’s bow he asked for her cell phone so he could type in his private number. Ten minutes later, out in East Passage, she finally remembered to ask for it back.

  Gripping the counter in both hands even though it was glassy calm, he yammered away about some fancy-pants yacht club party he’d gone to the night before. “Maybe I’ll take you to the next one,” he suggested, raising one eyebrow. Um, ick, no thanks—sir.

  Then he threw a tantrum about her shell and wouldn’t shut up until she took it off and slid it into her shirt pocket. Shee-it, her lucky shell! And finally, idling into Brenton Harbor, Mr. Wainwright waved his right arm around the entire shoreline. “My island,” he said, proudly. Double-ick, sir.

  By the time all the passengers offloaded, her boss was nowhere to be seen. Where did he go on his island visits, anyway? And why did he care so much about West Brenton? Following the crowd up to the Bean, Courtney decided to work up a few casual questions to ask him on the run back to Newport. She didn’t trust her new boss as far as she could throw his tall bony ass, so someone should definitely look into this land trust thing.

  Carrying coffee back to her table, Courtney stole a glance over at the locals’ table, wondering who to ask about all this. Mayor Frank didn’t have email. All that pudgy doctor did was complain, and Mack claimed he never read anything besides a chart. Gallery owner? He wouldn’t know anything about property stuff. His lawyer wife might—but lately she hadn’t been joining the morning kaffeeklatsch.

  Courtney’s gaze swiveled right, to the vacant table on the far side of the doorway. Anna seemed to think James was the key to everything; maybe he was the one she should tell?

  Hard to tell him anything when he wasn’t speaking to you.

  She had his phone number, she realized—she’d stored it when Mr. Wainwright gave it to her, that very first day. Would James read an anonymous text? She lifted her coffee, forgetting it was already empty, heart beginning to pound.