OWEN HAD FINISHED mowing only minutes before afternoon tea began, and grass clippings still littered the patio. Mentally filing away another “room for improvement” staff note, Parker stepped out through the doorway. The morning’s rain showers had faded off to the southeast, leaving behind some very promising clouds along the horizon. It was a perfect afternoon for the next Skye sighting, and the woman in the skirted bathing dress seated nearest the door was the best candidate by far. (Last summer, even such a modest swimsuit wouldn’t have been considered proper attire for afternoon tea; this year, he’d consciously let standards slip. Next year, he wanted guests to flow naturally from swimming to drinking and back again.)
“A little p-pick me up, Ms. Woodley?” He held up the rum bottle, adding with a careful wink, “on the house of course!” The label had faded already, so he hastily covered it up with his palm. Over the winter, Sylvia had designed and printed Brenton Rum stickers—skull and cross bones, outlined by Brenton’s shoreline—which they’d used to cover over each bottle’s original label. They weren’t holding up as well as she’d promised.
“It’s Jane, remember?” Such a stunning depth of tan wrinkled cleavage. “After three days here, I feel like a local! Though I was disappointed you couldn’t join me for dinner last night.” She polished off her tea and held up her teacup with both hands for a refill. “Oh, Parker, that’s just too tasty!”
“Did you enjoy the b-beach?” he asked.
“Yes, once the rain finally stopped. But I’d barely dipped my toe in before I had to rush back up here for high tea. And your famous Widow’s Walk tour, of course!” Her mascara was so thick, he was amazed she could still flutter her eyelashes.
And it was afternoon tea, not high tea.
“Do you think I’ll be able to see Skye? I do have excellent distance vision. Isabella will be veddy, veddy jealous if I do! Teehee!”
Isabella? Ah, yes—the last decent sighting prospect. June’s weather had not cooperated.
“I went to Scotland on my first honeymoon, you know—we had a divine week on Skye, though the actual marriage turned out to be a complete disaster.”
Placing copies of Seeing Skye—a surprise bestseller, even ashore— in every room had led to guest inquiries about visiting the widow’s walk, so Parker added a weekly private tour to the price list. Those quickly filled up, so he’d bumped up both the frequency and the price—and still they were sold out right through July. The author of Seeing Skye was going to get a very nice thank you note—or maybe he should offer her a complimentary one-night stay, after Labor Day? He filed away that thought as well.
Molly brought around a tray of scones. “Made right here on the island,” she told Jane proudly, in that lovely Irish brogue. “Every morning—before I’m even up from my bed!” She was his best summer helper yet. (Shana, on the other hand, was nothing but trouble.)
Parker carried his bottle to the next table. Samantha Irons had also signed up for today’s tour, but she waved away the rum. “Still recovering from last night’s punch. What was in that, anyway? I don’t recognize the—”
“Private reserve,” Parker replied, already moving on. “Enjoy your tea!”
The corner table held a family of four, so he skipped them and headed over to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. They’d arrived yesterday afternoon; he hadn’t yet heard a pleasant word from either of them.
“Little pick-me-up?” They both nodded eagerly, so he topped off Mrs. Weston’s tea first.
“It does need something,” she said. “No one takes the time to brew tea properly anymore. Where do we meet for the tour? And is it true—”
“Four-thirty sharp, outside the elevator.”
Worst case, they’d get a nice view of the ocean. Best case, maybe he’d get another sighting. Rum definitely increased the odds; right before the author of Seeing Skye had her sighting, she’d downed three rum punches.
He skipped the honeymooners staring at their phones and circled back to refill Ms. Woodley once more. She’d freshened her lipstick, replacing the pink left on the china teacup. “Now tell me the truth, Parker—do you really think we’ll be able to see Skye today?”
“Perfect weather,” he replied. “But after so many disappointments, I don’t like to make promises. We haven’t had a single sighting since last fall.” He sighed, theatrically. “I’m beginning to fear they’ve moved Skye even farther away.”
She tittered, and he laughed with her, waiting until she set down her cup again so he could top it off.
“Maybe you need to add a prize,” she suggested. “Free drinks for the next person to see Skye.”
“Great idea. Now, don’t be l-late!”
When the gong boomed to signal the tour, Parker headed over to the elevator and waved his four guests in ahead of him. Jane’s eyes were the brightest; Parker, winking, let his eyes drop to her wrinkled chest. She blushed, smiled, and looked away.
On the second floor, he crossed the hallway and unhooked a safety rope, leading his guests up a narrow staircase. Repetition had perfected his delivery; a stutter-free summary of Inn history divided into two sections of six steps each, with a pause on the landing in between so everyone could catch their breath. With each step up the air got hotter and stuffier, so the final reveal—opening the old door, to let in the breeze from the widow’s walk—was always its own sweet reward.
On the top step he turned to face them, already cooled by drafts sneaking between the ancient planks. “What you’re about to see was added only twenty years ago. In fact, the only visible piece of the entire building that’s original is—” he pressed his palm against rough-sawn wood “—this door! It was—”
“Is it true you’re putting in a golf course?” Mrs. Weston asked, only two steps below him.
“Where’d you h-hear that?”
Mrs. Weston turned to her husband. “Told you so. Another damned golf course—on one of the last decent nesting grounds in New England!”
When her husband shushed her, Parker gratefully picked up where he’d left off. “Are you all r-ready. . . for the best view on the entire east c-coast?”
Jane Woodley held up her arm as if signaling a cavalry charge. “Let us through that door, Parker!” Her bangs were sweat-stuck to her forehead.
He pulled the door open with a creak, letting in a wash of cool salt air, and awkwardly stood back so they could climb the final steps ahead of him. (Eventually the door would open outward, but that wasn’t in this year’s budget.) Mr. Weston let the women go first; once everyone was out on the open deck, Parker latched the door behind him.
“Isn’t it fantastic?” he waved north toward the mainland, surprising his guests—who were already staring south and east at open ocean. The group dutifully turned to follow the arc of his left hand, admiring the Newport Bridge and Beavertail Lighthouse. After establishing what the closest land looked like, he pointed west to show them a more distant piece.
“There’s the mainland you all escaped. And Block Island—I can almost smell the coconut oil from here.” Samantha Irons tittered.
Three times a week for the past six weeks Parker had given this tour—and he was only halfway through the summer. Better get another sighting soon, before he had to be carted off in a straitjacket.
“People say this is the best view on the east coast,” Parker continued automatically, even as his mind puzzled out the latest staffing challenge. (Yet another cat fight between the two Irish girls last night; Shana had to go, but not until they got through the weekend.) “I say it’s the best view in the entire w-world! Which is Right. Out. There. . .” He pointed southeast, toward open horizon.
“If ever there’s a day to see Skye, this is it,” he added, in honor of a raincloud hanging on the horizon, just the right size to be mistaken for a Scottish island.
Ms. Woodley—Jane—had already climbed up onto the platform to their left. It had been built to hold a telescope, but actual magnification had proven much less effective than carefully laced cups of tea.
Samantha Irons exclaimed over a nearby sailboat. Soon it would pass the outbound ferry, which was the only reliable sighting during these—
“Look, Parker—there it is!”
Jane pointed out to sea, well to the left of his chosen raincloud. A collective gasp went up, and the others quickly shifted their focus to follow her outstretched arm.
“Where?” “Can you really see it?” “Are you sure—”
“It’s right there!” Jane told them all. “Well—it may not be visible to the rest of you. I do have excellent distance—”
“Let me up there,” Samantha said, starting toward the platform.
“One at a time,” Parker replied firmly, moving between Jane and the rest of the group. “Could you point to it again, Jane? I don’t quite—” He raised one hand to his forehead, shading his eyes for a better view.
Sure enough, a second vague smudge bumped along the horizon—either smoke from a distant car carrier, or another leftover storm cloud. Parker didn’t know who to thank; some unknown captain, or the weather gods?
“The Isle of Skye—such a mystical place. Oh Parker!” Jane’s cleavage was heaving with emotion. “There’s simply no need to leave this country ever again—your scones are way better than any I had over there!”
He grinned up at her before turning his gaze east again. Brenton rum was paying him back in spades. Just as he was about to add something appropriately reverent, Jane took care of that too.
“It makes the world seem veddy veddy small, doesn’t it?”