“HI DAD.” ALISON sounded bored, as usual.
“Ally-pal, my favorite girl! How are you?” Outside Lloyd’s office window, Newport Harbor was sparkling this first morning of June, the month of pure potential.
“What do you need?” she responded.
“Jeez! Can’t a guy just call his daughter to say hello?”
“A ‘guy’ might. Never you.”
“Well thanks very much. Actually, I do have a thought. . . any chance you could build me a simple one-page website?”
“You already own the URL?”
“The what?”
“Oh never mind—I’m just about to head into town. Be there in twenty.”
He hung up, grinning. His idea was so simple, it was hard to believe no one else had done it already.
Of course, no one else thought and dreamed and yes obsessed about gaining control of West Brenton. Ever since Lloyd’s sixteenth birthday, when his mother had explained how his grandfather drowned, he’d promised her he would reclaim the old family house—though he never shared with her his plan to take over all of West Brenton as interest due. Those damned Indians thought they owned the best half of the island—just because it was handed to them on a plate by the red-loving Malloys.
The mayor had warned James not to leave the island. But Lloyd still worried that James would show up here one morning, psycho-mad, and attack him again. If only he’d learned sooner how to put a tracker on a cell phone! (He was definitely gonna put one on Courtney’s, next time he got the chance.)
If James’s father was still alive, Lloyd would’ve gone after him instead. But the key to hurting any Malloy was to hurt their precious island—so by gaining control of West Brenton, Lloyd could kill two birds with one stone.
And this new plan was so simple, so cunning, so—modern! The Indians had wrangled a deal with the whites back in 1978, which led to the formation of the West Brenton Land Trust—but thirty-two years later, that was just a name. And how did everyone judge whether anything actually existed these days? By web presence—not by some stupid paper document, filed away and forgotten in the City of Newport’s storage basement.
Lloyd had checked: there was no website, or any sort of online mention, of a land trust protecting any part of Brenton Island. So all he had to do was create one—or rather, get Alison to do so. He hadn’t told her mother about that marijuana, so she owed him one.
Wait until he told her he was building her a golf course. She’d discovered golf at college, and since graduating a few weeks ago she’d played every afternoon.
When Alison breezed in, she pulled his second office chair up to the far side of his desk and sat down. When she slid her laptop out of its bag, her wide-necked shirt slipped off one shoulder, brazenly revealing a bra strap.
“What address do you want?” she asked, already typing. She hadn’t even said hello.
“Um. . . it’s for the West Brenton Land Trust.”
“Okay, we’ll start with westbrentonlandtrust.org. . . Yup, that’s available. I’ll need your credit card to purchase the URL.”
He handed it over, praying it wouldn’t be rejected.
Pierce Borba had inspired this whole website idea, though the dolt hadn’t even realized. The previous week, right after cashing the Inn’s May loan payment, Lloyd had gassed up his car and driven down to Narragansett. Forty minutes of Friday traffic each way, just to talk to an Indian priest. Or whatever his tribe called him.
Pierce’s office smelled like cat piss. The culprit—a short-haired patchwork of whites and tans—curled up on the only chair, a velvet-seated number that looked like it dated back to the nineteenth century. One high window let in a blinding shaft of sunlight.
“Been a long time, Lloyd.” Half-standing behind his cluttered desk, Pierce held out a handful of sausage-like fingers. Had they ever actually met? He was almost as tall as Lloyd, but twice as wide—with the tight skin of a heart attack waiting to happen. And a braid, of course—already streaked with gray.
“What brings you down this way?” Pierce angled the chair enough to dislodge the cat, which turned out to be tail-less. As soon as Lloyd sat down, the creature tried to jump up into his lap.
“Shoo, get away!” He batted at the front paws, trying not to actually touch any fur. His nose was already beginning to itch.
Pierce grabbed the animal around its middle, tossed it out the door, and returned to his creaky desk chair.
Lloyd smiled in thanks. “I just wanted to bring you up to date on our plans for the West Harbor property. Such a cool location—”
“Plans?” When Pierce frowned, those basset-hound eyes half-closed. “You said on the phone that you’re going to build a miniature golf course in the field next to the inn. How does West Harbor even come into it?”
“The investors have decided to build a nine-hole course instead, which is great news—but more golfers than the Inn can handle. And these guys want their own places. They like West Harbor best—the added expense of running power and water doesn’t even scare ‘em.” With a little creative design work, they could fit in six new houses; that wouldn’t leave quite enough open property for a helicopter pad, but he’d worry about that later on. “Thing is, I need your help.”
“Because my family’s in your way.” Pierce toyed with a silver pen. “Narragansetts used to outnumber the whites on Brenton, you know—two to one.”
“I know that,” Lloyd responded, trying to be patient. “My grandfather, rest his soul, went to your grandfather, trying to make peace, back when—”
“Setting fire to a building isn’t exactly what I’d call making peace!”
“That wasn’t ever proved—”
“Whatever.” Pierce shook his head. “God dealt with him, better than we ever could. What’ve you got in mind?”
Ignoring the niggling suspicion that Pierce was referring to his grandfather’s drowning, Lloyd said, “I’d like to bring you in as an investor. That way, we’ll be able—”
“Investor! Every penny I have goes into this.” Pierce waved around his cramped office, just as the door pushed open again. The cat strutted in, circled Lloyd once, and finally jumped up onto the wide windowsill, where it sat down to lick its front right paw.
“Just thinking out loud here, but considering your influence. . .” Lloyd spoke slowly, even though he’d already figured out to the exact penny what Pierce’s support would be worth. “My investors might be willing to waive your down payment. They’re keen to break ground this year, and we don’t want any bad press about booting out the last of the island’s Narragansetts.” His nostrils began to tickle and burn; this better not take too long.
“Joe’s only got a few more weeks at most,” Pierce responded. “Until he passes, Mavis and my mother aren’t going anywhere.”
“But surely they’ll come ashore after that—maybe move in with you?”
Pierce snorted so loudly the cat paused its washing to stare. “Mavis tried living ashore. It didn’t take. And Mom thinks her daughter needs her—even though she doesn’t need anyone, as far as I—”
“They can’t stay where they are!” Lloyd pressed at the bridge of his nose, hoping to contain the sneeze building up inside it.
“Don’t be so sure.” Pierce stared at his desk, then looked up again, eyelids fully open for once. “But I can try to make both of ‘em see some sense. What would that be worth?”
Finally, they were getting somewhere. “How about. . . a seat at the table?” Lloyd suggested. “I’ve already told the investors that you’re a key part of this, so I’m sure. . .” The sneeze could no longer be denied. “A-choo!” He wiped at his nose, then surreptitiously dried his fingers on the side of his pants.
“I want the Sachem’s cottage,” Pierce said, as if there’d been no interruption. “As is—I’ll take care of the renovations myself.”
“That will drastically change our plans.”
“Then change ‘em.” Those black eyes were pebble-hard.
Lloyd pretended to ponder for as long as he could stand that stare; then he nodded. “Okay, I’ll make that happen. Somehow.” He turned away to look out the window, trying to hide his grin; not tearing down the biggest cottage would reduce his up-front costs significantly, and as long as he didn’t tell the others their payments would remain the same.
“Who are these investors?” Pierce asked.
“Some yacht club buddies. An advertising guy. And. . . a banker.” That sounded impressive.
“Banks aren’t exactly rolling in cash at the moment.”
“Private money,” Lloyd assured him. “No problem there.”
“And you really have full control of West Brenton?”
Lloyd nodded. “We registered the land trust trademark last week.”
Which is when Pierce asked his key question.
“Got a website?”
“Of course!” Lloyd nodded, even as he thought: Website! We need a website? “This ain’t my first rodeo,” he added, crossing one knee over the other and opening his mouth to breathe; both nostrils were now completely clogged.
“And you think all of that will be enough to blow up that ancient agreement?”
“Your brother thought he was so smart, sending all those letters,” Lloyd said. “But all that time, he never actually activated the land trust. So I did.”
“Wish I’d thought to do that myself.” Pierce rose from behind the desk. “Now I’d love to chat further, but I’ve got parishioners to call on this afternoon. . .”
So Lloyd managed to escape that cat-infested office without sneezing again. On the drive back to Newport, once his sinuses dried out, he’d cranked up the stereo as loud as it would go to sing along: We. Are. The. Champions. . .
“Dad. . . earth to Dad! You are SO not listening to me.”
Lloyd reluctantly came back to the present to find Alison pointing across the desk at his computer. “Type it in.”
The new site didn’t look like much; just the text “West Brenton Land Trust” above a yellow and black image that stated, “website under construction.”
“Great job!” he told her. Would this kind of work ever support all of her expensive habits?
“Not quite done,” she said. “You’re trying to declare ownership of this site, right?”
“That’s the plan. Own the site, own the land.” He itched to share his brilliant plan with her, but he didn’t want to seem too eager.
“Then your name has to be visible somewhere. It’s already in the metadata, but to stand up in—”
“Fine—put me down as president.” A title like that would totally frost Joe Borba’s balls. Maybe even more than hearing—and unless he was already dead, Joe would surely hear—that his brother Pierce had signed on with Lloyd.
“There, done.” She closed her laptop, stood up, and waved. “Later, tater!” And before he could suggest lunch—assuming his credit card limit would stretch that far—she was gone again.
He clicked again on the new website. Was that really all he needed? His simple plan seemed almost too simple now.
His inbox beeped with an email from his new captain; the title stated “2 wk trial complete.” Already?
He wasn’t going to sign a new contract, of course; without one, there’d be fewer complaints about late paychecks.
And sooner or later, she would screw up—but he couldn’t think about that right now. Golf was the future, not that stupid ferry. Pierce was on board at last, so it was time to get this party started.