FRIDAYS WERE ALREADY long enough without a surprise inspection from Mr. Wainwright. When she first spotted him scurrying down the ramp, all Courtney could think was: What’s he gonna moan about now? Billy hadn’t been late once since the baby was born. All the Homer’s lines were neatly coiled, and Courtney’s shell was tucked well out of sight. She’d even remembered to top off the engine oil this morning, not that he gave a rat’s ass about that.
Or—maybe he’d found out she was helping with the sit-in?
By the time he ducked into the wheelhouse, her heart was pounding beneath her bra-captured shell.
“Just had a call from a licensed captain,” he said. “Ned Porter. Know him?”
She shook her head, stomach beginning to churn.
“He’s looking for work, wondering if I needed anyone.”
Instead of answering, she started the starboard motor. The clock already showed four thirty-two. If he was the cause, would her boss fine her for a late arrival? Absolutely, she realized; the guy was nuts. She goosed the port throttle forward so it wouldn’t stall, and started that one up too. “I need to get underway,” she told him—though that should’ve been obvious.
“What you need to do,” her boss hissed, “is to stop them! Or I’ll fire your ass so fast, you won’t know what hit you.”
On his way out, he whacked that bald head against the top of the door frame—again.
Mr. Wainwright’s “them” was the sit-in group, of course. How exactly did he think she could singlehandedly halt the protest? And for what—so he could clear-cut a whole bunch of trees? Even if it cost her this job, there was no way she was going to help him gentrify Brenton.
“Ready to go, Mrs. Captain?” Billy’s upbeat voice told her he’d overheard Mr. Wainwright’s threat. “Pair of honeymooners back aft, anxious to get to the inn.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
“Chase isn’t on board yet.”
“Oh, so we’re watching out for Chase now?”
Billy must’ve heard about their dinner last night. She’d managed to put him off for almost a week, but in the end it had been a nice evening with only a little flirting. “Not like that, it’s just—”
“Didn’t he tell you this morning? Said he had some black-tie thing tonight, out at the—”
“Then let’s get the hell out of here.”
She let routine take over: toot the horn, back out into the channel, power out of the harbor and push throttles forward to cruising speed. The bay was glassy, and the sun was lowering in the western sky.
Billy stayed aft, playing bartender to the honeymooners and commuters. Too bad, she would’ve enjoyed the distraction of aimless chatter today. Instead she tweaked the starboard throttle, trying to get the two diesels to exactly match RPMs, and trying not to worry about Mr. Wainwright finding out that she was helping “them” with the sit-in—until the VHF radio crackled with Mack’s deep voice.
“Courtney, switch down one.” As soon as she changed channels and responded, he spoke again.
“Mayor Frank’s house caught fire,” Mack said. “I’m running him ashore, just rounding Bird Island now. EMTs will meet us at the dock.” Ahead, she spotted his boat speeding toward her. “Could you make sure Jenna knows I won’t be back for supper? She took the kids to the beach, didn’t bring her cell phone.”
“Roger, will do. What’s the. . .” but more information wasn’t important right now. “Best to Mayor Frank. . . Homer S. Morgan, switching back to thirteen, sixteen.” By the time she hung up the handset, he had already whizzed past.
A fire! Those three cottages were so close together. . .
Bird Island’s population squawked away, unconcerned with human dramas. Courtney had already found the half-sunk nun and lined up the bow with the end of the breakwater when Billy finally stuck his head in the wheelhouse door.
“That middle fender’s not holding air,” he reported. “I’ll see if Mack has a spare, or maybe I can fix it between—”
“Mack just passed us, on his way to Newport Hospital.” Courtney relayed the news.
“Right next door to our place.” Billy’s eyes jumped ahead, but the houses up on the bluff were still too far away to pick out.
“Perfect ending to a shitty afternoon,” Courtney muttered.
“Boss Lloyd is such a bully. I’m glad I’m not—”
“Spying for him any longer?” Courtney finished. “Me too—he hasn’t figured out I’ve been helping with the sit-in. Though somehow, he always knows to the minute when we tie up out here.”
“It’s your phone—transmits some sort of beacon. Boss Lloyd set it up when you first started.” Billy shook his head. “The guy’s a whack job! But I can’t quit right now—not with the baby and all.”
“Get paid yet this month?”
“I signed up for automatic deposit a year ago.”
“Smart move.” Courtney pulled her phone out of her pocket. “How do I shut off the tracking thingy?”
“No idea—ask Nathaniel.” One more worried glance through the windshield, and Billy headed aft again.
She tossed her phone on the counter, wishing she could throw it overboard instead. But until her next paycheck came through, she couldn’t afford a replacement.
Once inside the harbor, she checked that there were still three houses lined up on the bluff before focusing on her landing. The gangway dropped onto the deck only nine minutes late, and the smiling honeymooners filed ashore, hand in hand. “Best wishes!” she called after them. Beautiful afternoon, not too hot, perfect for a pre-cocktail walk down to the monument. Or a swim. Or whatever just-married folks did. . .
Courtney left her damned phone right where it was and followed the rest of the crowd up to the Bean, fists stuffed deep into her shorts pockets. Lloyd, stalking her! Where could she find Nathaniel, the island’s resident geek, on such a perfect summer late afternoon?
James would know, and he was sitting on the outside deck, staring at his own phone—even though he was supposed to be on the noon to six sit-in shift.
“Shouldn’t you be—”
“So, you’re stepping out with Chase now?”
“Stepping out?” Courtney snorted. “Hardly.”
Eyes remained on his phone. “Dinner at the Inn,” he growled. “Last—”
“You and I ate there—was that a date? Shee-it, why can’t everyone just leave me alone today!”
She let the door slam behind her before remembering she’d wanted to ask about Mayor Frank’s accident, and how to find Nathaniel. On Fridays and Sundays, she allowed herself an extra jolt of caffeine to get her through the evening run, and usually at this hour she was the Bean’s only customer. Today, though, a line of tourists ran from cash register to door—too long a wait for the half hour turnaround. Damn summer crowds! She felt like kicking something.
Patty’s mother Ruby, the owner of the Bean, waved from the right end of the counter. “Usual, Captain Courtney?”
“Yeah, but easy on the soy milk. And what happened to Mayor Frank?”
The woman assembled an iced coffee while bringing her up to date. The mayor had heated up some soup and forgotten to turn off the stove; while he was slurping away out on his porch, the curtain in the kitchen window had blown over the open flame. He’d escaped down the back stairs, but a rotten tread broke under his weight. Hand burns, sprained ankle.
Ruby set down the coffee. “Patty smelled smoke, called the Irreverend, and took the baby to my house just in case the fire got out of control. By the time the fire truck made it up there, Mack had already put it all out with a couple of extinguishers. But I’m starting a petition; Mayor Frank shouldn’t be allowed to live on his own anymore.”
Courtney headed outside again, her own problems shrinking to trivial. And James was gone—a tourist couple had already snagged his table—so she couldn’t ask him where Nathaniel might be.
Everyone had been on edge the past few weeks; not enough sleep, all their routines upended by the sit-in. And now the fire.
The seat at the head of the big table was empty. Poor Mayor Frank.
She’d last seen him yesterday afternoon, when the mayor had screeched down the pier in his golf cart to meet the ferry. “You need to give James a pep talk,” he’d rasped.
“Me!” Courtney snorted. That’s Anna’s job, she wanted to say.
“He is tired and frustrated,” Mayor Frank replied, sounding much more with it than he had lately. “Someone needs to convince him to keep the sit-in going. He doesn’t suffer fools ashore, and he likes them even less on the water—he’ll listen to you.”
She’d scoffed away his words. And then tucked them away, deep inside, a shiny gem of thought to pull out whenever she needed something nice to think about. Like right now.
She was slurping down ice from her coffee when a text pinged: James. “Supper my house since UR so desperate for free meal.” So many words must’ve taken him forever.
She grinned. Not here for a long time, just here for a good time, as the mechanic at home would say, whenever he was trying to justify going out with yet another girl. She hit reply and then stared out unseeing at the harbor; this required just the right response. But after several attempts at a witty retort, all she could think to ask was, “What time?”