FROM ACROSS THE dining room, Parker spotted Sylvia manhandling a silver cocktail shaker. In one of her moods, with a big spender sitting at the bar! Parker strode over and held out his right hand.
“Good to see you again, Mr. M-Moreland.”
“Please—it’s Dean!” The hand was cool and slightly damp from a bourbon and soda, and the tip of his nose was sunburned. He wore a dark blue polo with “MoreSea” written on the left chest, the name Dean gave all his boats.
“Were you planning on s-staying with us again tonight? We’re—”
“I know, you’re all booked up ’til Labor Day—despite your tiny advertising budget.” Dean’s wide smile took the sting out of his words. Setting down his bourbon and soda, he waved toward a nearby armchair, where a skinny kid with Dean’s blond cowlick pinged thumbs into a tablet screen. “Peter and I are staying on the boat. My new captain says we have to get used to the bunks. No detail too small if you want to win the Bermuda Race! And he loves it—we split a can of cold baked beans for dinner. Just came up here to borrow some of your electricity.” Winking, he pointed to the glass before picking it up and emptying it against his white teeth. “Think thirteen’s too young to go offshore? Ainsley doesn’t want me to take him.”
Parker knew better than to take sides between husband and wife.
Dean raised the empty drink at Sylvia, who nodded without actually making eye contact. Despite her sour face, she was keeping up with the orders tonight.
“I love that old photo,” Dean said, waving to the wall behind the bar, “but here’s what I don’t get. Indians put up this cool Wampum building. Then they let some white guy turn it into an inn. Why?”
“The villagers agreed to b-build a school big enough to include the Indian kids. And the bar was open to their parents—even had a private entrance.” Parker pointed to the hand-lettered “INDIANS ONLY” sign. He’d replaced it after the renovation, as a hint toward the building’s rough history.
“Oh yes, the good old days.” Dean made air quotes with his fingers around the last three words. “Don’t you have a cleaner who’s a Narragansett? She must love that classy reminder.”
Mavis would see the sign as a slight, Parker realized. How insensitive he was! He’d take it down tomorrow morning, first thing.
“I’m anchored in West Harbor,” Dean said. “Lovely spot. And it’s a great way to do a little research for our project.”
“P-project?”
“Oh you don’t have to be coy with me, Parker!” Dean lowered his voice. “The West Brenton golf resort?”
“Ah.” He hadn’t heard it referred to as a resort before. “So, you’re one of Lloyd’s in-v-vest—”
“He says there’s room for six condos, but that’s way too many. Four, maybe? Or even two—that would keep it more exclusive.”
Condos, down on West Harbor? Mavis would never speak to him again.
Dean leaned in so close, Parker could smell the bourbon on his breath. “Personally, I’m beginning to think twice about this whole golf resort plan. We don’t want to lose the wild feel of West Brenton, just so Lloyd’s daughter can come out here and hit little white balls into the ocean.”
Parker tried to keep his face neutral. “Our guests do love their nature w-walks.” After glancing outside to check on the patio diners he added, “Your w-wife’s into golf, right? She must l-love the idea.”
“She would—if I’d told her about it. Every other damned island has a golf course! This is the only one left with any real wilderness.”
“T-true enough.”
“Though everything has its downside; Sylvia was just telling me she wouldn’t walk down to West Harbor after dark.”
Sylvia wouldn’t talk to Mavis either. “You’ll be fine,” Parker assured Dean, “as long as you have a f-flashlight. No streetlights out here.”
“Didn’t think to grab one off the boat.” Dean pulled out a thin wallet and pinned a fifty under his empty glass. “We’ll head back now, while there’s still some light. Thanks for the electricity.” He leaned in once more, his voice just above a whisper. “You and I should chat— maybe between us, we can keep Lunatic Lloyd in check.”