JOE HAD RALLIED again. Today he’d joked about playing hide-and-seek with death. Then, in a segue only James could appreciate, he’d asked how their trees were doing. So James had promised to check on them on his way home.
Standing on his pedals to climb the path that connected West Harbor with the rest of the island, he wished he’d been able to sit with Joe a little longer. Dean had been riding him hard to finish several boat projects before a family cruise planned for mid-August. James had trouble visualizing the whole family sailing for an entire week; Dean’s wife preferred golfing, and Peter spent his afternoons on MoreSea playing video games, glancing up only when a little spray threatened to reach his phone. James had tried to explain that a twelve-year-old boy might like sailing better with kids his own age, but Dean claimed lessons from the family captain were the only way his son would be ready for the big race next summer. How did you teach a kid who didn’t want to learn?
The monument and its view of open horizon beckoned, but James turned left toward the trees; a promise was a promise. Sitting down now but still breathing hard, he tried to remember how he and Joe had learned to sail. Dad sure hadn’t taught them; the only time James could remember his father leaving the lighthouse property was the day he was automated out of a job.
What he did remember was talking his way onto whatever boat was leaving the harbor. And, on windless days, endless afternoons of hide-and-seek with Joe, out here in the fields of West Brenton. Back then, the trees their fathers had planted were still just skinny saplings, so they’d hidden themselves behind rocks or gravestones. Now, even the scrub oaks ahead had grown up into what could be called a forest—at least according to the Inn’s glitzy brochure.
The tree planting was supposed to be a symbolic mixing of white and Narragansett “blood” across the path dividing East and West Brenton. It had worked for James and Joe and Mavis, but the rest of the kids had refused to cross “the line.” Joe’s brother Pierce had even painted a black stripe down the middle of the schoolroom floor, threatening his cousins with some dreadful disease if they stepped over to the whites’ side.
The most direct route from the road to the dividing path would be across the Inn’s perfect lawn—but that would leave tire marks. Instead he veered off the hard-packed dirt early and bumped across open field. This land belonged to the West Brenton Land Trust— and its self-proclaimed president, Lloyd Wainwright. James had wanted to ask Joe how that could’ve happened, and how important a website really was. But his friend’s waning energy shouldn’t be wasted on regret; better to spend it replaying happier memories, like hide-and-seek.
A croquet court! Had he already missed the dividing path? No, he was definitely still on public property—though a few seconds later, he spotted the turn too late and had to turn back onto the overgrown path. Brambles grabbed at his handlebars and bare arms, the tree-shaded air smelled like soil and pine needles, and the bike bumped over roots and rocks. James let the bike’s knobby tires take the impact, raising his right hand in front of his face to protect it from the swat of undergrowth. Perfect for hide-and-seek now—if only he and Joe were still up to it.
He could barely see the wide trunk of his Douglas Fir through the thick wilderness that had flourished under its sheltering canopy. How many years since he’d been through here? As his heart rate slowed, he remembered climbing onto Joe’s shoulders to grab its lowest branches—and how he’d taunted Mavis, who’d followed them up to the trees only to look up, silently yearning for limbs that remained stubbornly out of reach. He hadn’t been very nice to her.
Before he reached the tree, he heard a pop—quickly followed by a hiss. Damn, must’ve run over a thorn. James swung his leg off the bike; walking would be easier through here anyway.
The scent of pine made him pause beneath the huge tree to look up, remembering two skinny nine-year-olds. One warm afternoon, inspired by their schoolteacher’s stories of the Revolution, he and Joe had run out of the classroom and straight to this tree, just to spy on an imaginary campsite of British soldiers. Their own bare chests and cutoffs had blended in with the wilderness so much better than the enemy’s red coats—though not nearly as well as his current gray-green T-shirt and tired khaki shorts.
Ahead was Joe’s tree, a proud oak. Those bottom limbs were within easy reach, but his tree-climbing days were over. So quiet in here; he could just barely hear the rumble and hiss of ocean—
Voices: two men, somewhere beyond Joe’s tree, growing louder. James stepped behind the Douglas Fir’s broad trunk, trying to quiet his breathing.
“. . .in the plan,” the deeper voice was saying.
“We can’t cut down the two biggest ones,” said the second man. “There’s a p-path, right over there. It’s on the Skye View w-walking tour.”
That stutter—Parker Dane.
“Send your guests somewhere else,” the other voice said. “This is the ideal spot for the first tee.”
Parker’s famous afternoon tea, moving to the middle of the woods? Those old biddies would never make it this far.
“And that lake we passed a minute ago—perfect water hazard,” the guy continued.
Not “tea”—“tee,” James realized. They were planning a fucking golf course!
“That’s not a lake, it’s a r-reservoir—the island’s only source of drinking w-water.”
Easing the bike to the ground, James crept forward—until a twig cracked underfoot. He crouched low to stay out of sight.
“What was that?”
“N-not sure.”
Silence fell.
“Probably a d-deer,” Parker said at last. “Last week one completely shredded all the new p-plantings around the p-patio.”
“How do they make it all the way out here?”
“Apparently they’re g-good s-swimmers.”
A bead of sweat tickled its way down James’s cheek, but he didn’t dare wipe it dry.
“Maybe you need to organize a hunt,” the unknown voice said.
“All part of the island’s natural a-p-peal. . .” Parker’s voice tightened again. “Look, J-justin, I’m sure you’re very good at d-designing golf courses, but you’ll just have to rethink the l-layout. James Malloy g-goes by here every—”
“Mr. Wainwright told me about that guy,” the other man replied. “Said he could have him arrested him on drug charges if he got in the way.”
“Really! Lloyd’s tales are getting t-taller every day. But it’s not just James; all our guests l-love this forest. The birdwatchers—”
“So put up no trespassing signs. Or better yet, tell ’em it’s hunting season. Tourist season—same thing, isn’t it?” His laughter made James’s skin crawl.
“Shall we c-continue our t-tour?” Parker suggested, his stutter worsening. “I’d l-love to show you our n-new t-tractor barn. After that, I’ll treat you to a B-brenton punch. D-distilled l-locally, you know. . .”
Branches snapped underfoot as the voices faded away.
James stood up again, feet and ankles tingling as blood returned. Local rum! What BS.
He picked up his bike, walked it as far as Joe’s tree—and let it fall out of his hands, because the oak’s trunk was ribboned with orange surveyor’s tape. Behind it, sunlight glinted off the reservoir; all the undergrowth along its edge had been trampled. A path marked by wooden stakes with orange ribbons veered off to the right, toward the new tractor barn. It was the first time James had seen the building from the front; the two men were walking toward it, Parker proudly pointing out its shiny metal roof to a stockier man in bright green shirt and shorts.
More damned improvements!
Fuming, James turned to check the west side of the dividing path. Ten scrub oaks had been marked with surveyor’s tape—though even bundled together, they wouldn’t be as wide as Joe’s tree was on its own. The undergrowth was relatively undisturbed—but a matching row of beribboned stakes faded off into the distance. Spears right through the heart of the only wooded property on the island.
James bent down to retrieve his bike—and then dropped it once again. Reached for the multitool on his belt, flicked open the blade. Scar throbbing with each heartbeat, he sliced away every single tree ribbon and pulled up all the stakes. Using the long tape that had encircled Joe’s tree, he strapped the very large bundle to his bike’s rusty rack and walked it all the way home. Stuffed the orange tapes deep in his kitchen garbage, built a bonfire in the backyard with the wooden stakes.
Staring into the flames, he had no goddamn idea what to do next.