THE STAIRCASE UP to the widow’s walk seemed twice as steep as it had a week ago. Climbing up the last two steps, just before turning to face his guests again, Parker allowed himself a yawn. He hadn’t slept much last night, trying to puzzle out why Mavis’s sheepdog had showed up at the back door of the Inn just as he was locking up. The dog had barked only once before turning to run back down the hill on the back side of the Inn, toward the woods. Halfway across the croquet court he’d stopped, turned back to face Parker, and pawed at the perfect grass. “Hey, get away from there!” Parker had yelled, slapping the doorway trim. The dog had cocked his head at Parker, as if inviting him to follow, and then disappeared into the untamed undergrowth.
He’d never seen that dog without Mavis. Was something wrong? But he couldn’t think about her now—his four guests were waiting for him to finish the Inn history lesson.
Parker rushed through the last bit about the makeover, managed to pry open the moisture-swollen door, and waved the two couples through without mentioning its status as original equipment—who really cared?
Promising free drinks for any successful Skye sighting had instantly increased their occurrence—so much so that the novelty completely disappeared. Nobody bothered to toast the latest sighting at the bar anymore, and Sylvia hadn’t updated the Facebook page in almost two weeks. Partly because every supposed sighting since Jane Goodley had been completely unconvincing.
And then there was the sit-in. For the past ten days, six a.m. to six p.m., one local or another had occupied a rickety lawn chair just beyond the edge of the Inn’s lawn. The lively afternoon croquet games had stopped immediately; none of his guests wanted their shots critiqued by what the wife in room eight had taken to calling “Brenton’s great unwashed.”
Lloyd had been calling twice a day, shrieking at Parker to shut it down—until Parker finally lost patience and yelled back that the sit-in was Lloyd’s own fault, which made Lloyd hang up on him. Slow but steady, beautifying as they went; that was the best way to take over property. Creep, don’t bulldoze. But that hadn’t been fast enough for Lloyd, so he’d hired that golf course designer who’d put ribbons around all those trees. Now the locals had rallied together to protect their island.
He’d been so hopeful when he spotted James dining on the patio with Captain Courtney—locals at the inn, just as he’d always wished! He’d thought James was with Anna now, a major upgrade from the baker—but two captains would have a lot more in common.
That gift certificate had been Mavis’s idea.
Had she been on the sit-in last night, and that’s why Gumbo was out roaming?
When he first heard about the protest, he’d thought it wouldn’t affect Inn business at all. A huge misjudgment—just like these stupid widow’s walk tours. Harmless fun, he’d predicted. Instead they’d quickly become a pain in his personal ass—even before Sylvia waltzed into his office to report a new hashtag: #skyeviewhoax. Parker didn’t really understand the concept, but it sure sounded bad for business.
At today’s afternoon tea, he’d been quoted the exact distance and direction from Brenton to Skye—by one of the wives now standing against the railing of his beautiful widow’s walk. Maybe he should invent some safety hazard up here.
“Welcome to the famous Skye View widow’s walk,” he began. “Newport Bridge, Beavertail. . .”
He was just about to repeat the Block Island coconut oil joke when a yell came up from below.
“Hey Mr. Dane! Down here!”
Confused, he looked down—right at that sit-in chair, visible through an unfortunate gap between two dormers.
“How’s the view up there today?” the woman continued. “See any other islands?” Thanks to some strange auditory twist, Parker could hear every word, as clearly as if she were up here right next to him.
“Who’s that talking so loud?” Mrs. Saunders peered through the gap. “Oh—”
“Nice jugs!” Mr. Walker said. Which is when Parker recognized Patty Hubbard—brazenly nursing that brat of hers.
“Watch your mouth.” Mrs. Walker slapped her husband’s shoulder.
Keith Walker had skipped the tea altogether and asked for rum on the rocks, so Parker had been quite hopeful they’d have their first-ever male sighting. Instead, the guy was gawping down at Patty like he’d never seen such a pair. Maybe he hadn’t—quite impressive, even from three stories up.
“Like I said, there’s always a great view from here,” Parker said, ostentatiously swiveling his gaze and his shoulders around to the southeast. “Now, looking east, the unique combination of light and height sometimes makes it possible to see great distances. . .”
But he already knew that Patty’s bare breasts had destroyed any chance of mistaking a cloud on the horizon for a distant Scottish island.
Damn that sit-in!
Wednesday’s forecast called for rain. By next Saturday, he’d figure out an excuse to cancel the tours for the rest of the summer, even if he had to rip out a railing himself.
“Isn’t this the best view in the world?” Parker told the two couples, sweeping his hand along the watery horizon. “If only the Indians had built another story on their Wampum building, they never would’ve given this up. . .”