THE ROAD IN front of the Malloy house was pitch black. Mavis stepped carefully, waiting for her eyes to adjust after the bright lights of the bedroom. Her aunt always said babies came quick near a new moon, and Patty had produced a healthy red-faced dark-haired baby boy after only two and a half hours of labor. So much easier for young mothers. Mavis would have a tougher time, if—
She wouldn’t think about that tonight.
Instead of taking the most direct route home, she turned left just before the reservoir and headed up the hill. She told herself the detour was safer (she could easily twist an ankle on the unpaved northern road), but what she really craved was the rare chance to gaze up at the Inn’s gabled grace uninterrupted, without spooking any white guests.
Mr. Dane would be asleep in his private suite by now, off behind the kitchen. Parker. He’d asked her to call him that when she’d picked up last week’s pay check, which should’ve been creepy but instead set off a warm glow in her belly. Joe wouldn’t approve; months ago, while sorting through his papers, he’d made a point of showing her several letters he’d written, citing Parker’s various incursions onto West Brenton property. Even then, Mavis had wondered if he was taking too narrow a view; the Narragansetts weren’t likely to hold any more festivals here on the island. And if they did, they certainly wouldn’t stage them on the original location, right next to the inn, where all those guests would be gawking. So why not replace some of that prickly field—weeds that spiked like a poker against bare feet— with velvet grass? Better for everyone. A vision of toddlers, all giggly-falling-down in little blue and pink overalls, came to her. Babies on the brain tonight.
When she’d tentatively shared with Joe this line of thinking— about the lawn, not the toddlers—he had snorted in disgust, predicting, “Give him an inchworm, he’ll stretch it into a snake.” So Mavis hadn’t followed up with her next thought: that Parker had as much respect for the land as Joe, even if he showed it by digging and planting rather than by leaving it be.
Though Parker’s new tractor barn, on her right—vertical siding, metal roof glinting even in the dark—was a complete eyesore.
At the end of the road, she turned right. A spotlight illuminated the Inn’s fancy sign, which was much too big. Parker was shouting, when a whisper would suffice.
His stutter disappeared when he talked to her; had he noticed?
When the Inn’s lights faded behind her, Mavis stopped at the edge of the darkness to look back at the building’s witch-hat silhouette. Her people had built a strong foundation; the whites had added on, turning it into something that more people could enjoy. Just like this island, she realized.
She would help James with the sit-in, she decided. Even though such close proximity with the whites might be even scarier than her ex-husband.
She let herself into the big house as quietly as she could, surprised to see the kitchen table empty. Mémé had promised to wait up for her.
“Sent her home,” Joe mumbled, when she checked on him. “How’s Patty?” Behind his bed, the oval of West Harbor sparkled through the picture window.
“Happy mother. You okay?”
There was no reply, so she let herself out the door again to follow the path next door. Her mother’s house was dark and smelled like cumin.
“Mémé?” Mavis called softly, just before she spotted the figure sitting in the kitchen, shoulders shaking.
Mavis dropped onto the other chair. “Joe’s okay. He even—”
“Not Joe. Pierce called. . . twice.” Tears had carved a wet path down the deepest wrinkle from chin to temple, the one that appeared right after that bolt of lightning took Pa. “He wants our houses.”
Mavis sat down, stomach churning, and took her mother’s hand.
“Pierce doesn’t think we can continue living here, once. . .” she paused. “I don’t see how it’s possible either. You already work much too hard, and I’m not good for anything much anymore—”
“You take care of Joe,” Mavis replied firmly. “You cook and clean up after us. Makes the rest possible.”
“But if Pierce thinks. . .”
Pierce only thought about what was good for Pierce.
“He promised to pay for improvements to the Sachem’s cottage,” Mémé continued, “and it would stay in the family. You and I would always be welcome, of course. . .”
They both knew that wouldn’t work.
“And this house?”
“He says we’ll have to tear it down—too expensive to repair.” Mémé wiped at her face.
“It’s fine!”
“You know it isn’t,” Mémé said gently. “It’s half rotten. All the cottages are, except the big house. Thanks to Joe.”
Pierce didn’t want to live out here—he just wanted control.
“I think someone is paying him to get us out,” Mémé added. “Must be—he’s given everything he has to that church ashore.” She paused. “He also asked for another loan.”
“He didn’t!” Mavis rubbed at her face, the euphoria of bringing a new life into the world ebbing away. Lord, please damn your servant Pierce. “What did you say?”
“He’s my child,” her mother said, matter-of-factly, wiping away her tears. “I’ll give him whatever I have. When you’re a mother, you’ll understand. And how’s the new baby? A boy, like you thought?”
“Nursed right away!”
“Just like you and Joe. Mama must be so happy.”
“Father is too.”
Mémé shook her head. “I wouldn’t’ve liked having your Pa around. When you three came, my sisters took care of me. Whites are so different.”
Would Mavis want the father there? Only if he were as helpful and positive as Billy had been tonight.
Outside, waves lapped at the beach and crickets chirped. Sounds of West Harbor; the only place she’d ever felt completely safe.
Mavis stood up. “Next call, tell him no,” she told her mother. “No money, no house.” Meanwhile, she’d do whatever she could to help the whites stop this crazy golf course.
“I’ll try,” Mémé promised. “Good night, my dear.”