THE MORNING AFTER his free steak at the Inn, James pulled open the Cochrane Gallery door and set bells tinkling. He hadn’t been inside this place since the grand opening party, five or six years ago. All he remembered was a ribbon cutting, and Barb’s gloomy prediction that the business wouldn’t last six months.
Many feet had scuffed across the wood floor since that night, but the two windows either side of the door still sparkled like new with a clear view of Bean, dock, and harbor. Air conditioning dried the sweat off his skin.
“Help you?” A girl with a thick braid looked up from the counter.
“Looking for Gavin.” If he were still running the Homer, even the summer help would’ve recognized him.
“Lizzie?” she called over her shoulder, without taking her eyes off James.
“Feather?” A voice called from the back, in the same happy singsong. Lizzie appeared in the doorway, smile fading when she saw their visitor. “James! What a surprise.” Her tone reverted to impersonal. “How can I help?”
“Your husband here?”
Lizzie shook her head. “Something I can do?”
“Town meeting at my place, tomorrow at seven.”
“Something of concern to all property owners,” James replied. Never knew who this strange girl—still staring at him—might talk to after work.
“Well that’s clear as mud,” Lizzie said. “At the bakery? Ah—no, you’re living at your parents’ house now, aren’t you?” She made a note on a pad in front of her. “Seven p.m., Malloy cottage—got it.”
She winked at the girl, as if James was the outsider. He was glad to escape into salt-muggy unconditioned air.
He delivered the same message to Sam Prime and picked up a quart of milk and a box of cereal. Biking out of the store’s driveway, he heard a gas engine start up at the Inn. That new tractor needed a muffler—or sugar in its tank.
Just past the turnoff to the ferry landing, he heard someone to his left call “Captain James!” Lila McKay, president of the Historical Society, smiled down from the museum’s top step.
“I was hoping you’d come into town today. Got something to show you.”
Inside, a glass case taller than Lila had been filled with a strange mix of island keepsakes: several arrowheads, an ivory brooch, a quahog shell, a shiny bead of wampum. A small diary revealed old-fashioned handwriting. The walls were covered with hand-drawn maps and black and white photos.
Lila led the way to the back of the room—where he spotted a face so familiar, it was like looking in the mirror.
“That’s right—your father,” Lila said. “The new owners of the keeper’s cottage found it in the attic when they renovated, but the glass was cracked. I finally got ashore and had it reframed.”
Below the photo was a small card: “Lighthouse Keeper Declan David Malloy, 1966.”
“His first day,” James said. “Twenty-one years old.” Grandfather David had died the day before. Two days later, Lloyd’s grandfather would drown.
“So handsome!” Lila glanced up at James, brown eyes twinkling. “You inherited his eyebrows.”
“Even in black-and-white, they stick up.” He turned away. “Any records of the West Brenton land transfer in here?”
Lila shook her head. “No, though I had a fascinating conversation with Sachem Joe last fall. Such a shame. . .”
“I’m sure he has a lot of records,” James said. “Have you talked to Mavis? She may already have a plan.”
“She scares me,” Lila admitted. “I never know what she’s thinking.”
“She’s just quiet.”
“And Joe. . . do you think he’d let me interview him? About the trees?”
“He’s not. . . up to visitors.”
“Oh. So sad.” She clasped her hands together.
Way the hell south of sad.
“I’m having a town meeting tonight,” James told her, when the lump in his throat receded. “You and Willie—”
“Doesn’t Mayor Frank usually call town meetings?”
“I’m taking charge of this one.”
“Something important?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’ll definitely be there.”