THE SILENCE AT the bar was heavenly. Once the ferry arrived and everyone came back from the beach or the historical museum or wherever they’d chosen to spend their afternoon, somebody would need him to do something. Until then, Parker could sit here and enjoy the scent of garlic and onion wafting through the swinging door to the kitchen. Tonight’s special was his favorite: fisherman’s stew.
August was always the hardest month; the dewy potential of early summer had long since been bleached away by humidity and heat, but the Inn was booked solid with needy guests—all trying to fit in a few days of sun and fun before Labor Day. He couldn’t wait for September.
The back screen door banged shut: Sylvia, an hour earlier than expected. So much for peace and quiet.
“Get the m-mussels?” he asked.
She raised the twenty-five-pound bag with one arm.
“How busy was the f-ferry?”
“Not sure—I got a ride back.” Sylvia tossed a newspaper onto the bar on her way to the kitchen. “Might want to read that.”
His Inn, on the front page of the Newport Daily News! The north side, though; trash cans and TV antennas. The headline stretching over the photo read, “Brenton Islanders Halt Golf Course Development.”
“Locals have organized a round-the-clock vigil to protect the two tallest trees on Brenton Island,” the story began. After a historical summary, it moved onto recent happenings. “A few months ago, Brenton Ferry Company owner Lloyd Wainwright (who refused to comment for this story) elected himself president of the West Brenton Land Trust and subsequently hired a company to develop a nine-hole course on the property. The proposed course would require the removal of the island’s only forest.
“‘A golf course is development,’ Captain James Malloy explained. ‘It is not the preservation of nature, which is the stated purpose of a land trust. This is just Lloyd Wainwright’s latest attempt to gain control of West Brenton. That land belongs to everyone who lives here, so we’ve banded together to protect it from anyone who wants to clear-cut the trees and then profit from it.’”
None of it sounded a bit like James—more words than he would string together in a month.
“Malloy has a personal interest in preserving the island’s only forest,” the story went on. “The two trees that are the focus of the sit-in were planted by his father and the Sachem of the local Indian tribe. ‘They are a symbol of cooperation between the Narragansetts and whites,’ Malloy said. ‘We’re not going to let them come to any harm.”
Sylvia’s name leapt out of the next paragraph. “The bartender at the nearby Skye View Inn claims the sit-in is ‘not impacting our business,’ though Inn guest Amelia Saunders said she saw a local woman flashing bare breasts while on a widow’s walk tour. . .” Who wrote this? Definitely not an inn-lover.
Wait—that one guest back in May; the guy Parker thought might be an undercover reviewer. He dug out his phone and scrolled back through their reservations. Yup! Same name as the byline. Sent back his fisherman’s stew, complained about the pillows, took two widow’s walk tours in a row and caught Parker repeating himself. . .
Widow’s walk tours had been cancelled until further notice, aided by a few strips of yellow caution tape and a carefully spread rumor of rotted railing. When guests asked when they’d open up again, Parker smiled and said, “We’re working on it, thanks for your interest.” The real answer was “never.”
Next the story described the Inn’s “uninspiring” food and the Skye sightings as “a harmless #skyeviewhoax,” rewarded by free drinks.
“Not so harmless, however, is an accusation of sexual harassment by former Skye View Inn employee Shana O’Neill. ‘I really should press charges,’ she said. ‘But that would mean staying in this godforsaken country, and I’m catching the next plane home to Ireland.’”
The writer had dug deep for that one; Shana’d left a week ago, with a bonus that should’ve been big enough to keep her quiet. Once she was safely on the ferry, Parker had explained to Owen that Irish servers were not summer play toys. But beach sex with a fellow employee wasn’t harassment! That implied the boss was involved. . .
Did Mavis read the Newport papers?
Swallowing hard, Parker flipped to page five—and there she was! Mavis. Sitting in a beach chair, alongside the schoolteacher. Pert nose, full lips. . .
Parker drew in a ragged breath. This morning she’d emailed to say she wouldn’t be available until “further notice.” At first he’d taken it personally—she’d heard about the West Harbor condo plan, and blamed him for not standing up to Lloyd—but then he realized that it must be Joe’s time at last. For the past two years, her brother had written a letter or called—or both—every time Parker so much as trimmed a single blade of grass west of the Inn. Next year, Parker would be able to put in his infinity pool without an infinite stream of complaints.
But losing him would hurt Mavis.
Parker dropped the paper down to the bar and stared off into space, not seeing the line of bottles or the old photo or even the ratty fishing net hanging from the ceiling, more dusty than rustic at this point. All day he’d been out of sorts, wishing everyone would just leave him alone. Ever since her email.
August fatigue: an annual curse, he reminded himself. Mavis made his life easier, that was all; she was the best worker he’d ever had.
He snapped the paper up again. She blended in with the trees behind her, but you could still pick out the way her bottom lip covered over her top one whenever she was uncomfortable. . .
STOP. He’d never dated an employee, and he never would. He turned the page.
Criminy—another bad picture of the Inn! Backlit by red sunset, the silhouetted dormers looked like a tight bevy of witch hats. Sighing, Parker reached behind the bar to flick on the overhead lights. Better read it all.
The final section spelled out Lloyd’s precarious financial situation. Terrible writing, but at least that dirty laundry was finally getting a little air.
He paged back to look at Mavis again. Should he—
“Bartender on duty yet?” the husband from room two asked.
“Sylvia comes on at five. Can I get you something?”
“Nah, that’s okay—I’ll come back then, drown my sorrows. No bobolinks today.” Without waiting for a reply, he wandered out through the doorway and punched the elevator button.
“You’ve got a gem here, Parker,” the same man had told him the previous evening, between two double scotches and dinner with his wife. “Great birding, within easy walking distance of hot showers and cold drinks! Nothing like it, anywhere else. . .”
Is that why so many of his guests were cheering on the sit-in? Even the whiny woman in room three had taken a glass of cold water out to Patty yesterday afternoon, staying long enough to cluck at her baby.
Lloyd wouldn’t like this newspaper story, but it wouldn’t stop him—he’d just scuttle sideways and go around the obstacle. Say what you wanted about his methods; the guy got things done. James and his band of merry men—and women—couldn’t keep up this round-the-clock thing much longer.
He would miss it, Parker realized. Glancing out his bathroom window this morning, he’d smiled to see Anna Crosby huddled in that crappy beach chair. He hadn’t even complained when she moved onto the lawn to escape those calf-tickling weeds.
Two nights ago, he’d actually sneaked out to the dividing path to watch over Mavis, in case that madman came back. He’d asked her twice to name her attacker, but both times Mavis just shook her head.
Should he call Lloyd, try to end the stalemate? He studied the photo again, wishing he could ask Mavis what she thought.
“You’ve got it bad, dontcha.” Sylvia slid in behind the bar, nodding down at the picture.
Parker folded up the newspaper. “N-nice t-time ashore?” he asked, wishing she’d fasten up one more button on her blouse.
“Yup.” Sylvia kept her eyes on the circling white bar cloth, like she needed to make sure it was doing its job.
“Do anything special?”
“None of your business.” Her lips pressed together into one firm line.
Hunter Moody had a new powerboat, Parker remembered; that must’ve been Sylvia’s private ride back from Newport. The previous evening, Parker had just delivered three fresh bottles of Brenton Rum to the bar when Hunter came in through the patio doors—and Sylvia poured punch into a white wine glass. What an odd pair—milquetoast Irreverend and ornery tattooed bartender!
Then again, who’d ever have thought that the Skye View Inn’s owner would be pining after his Native American cleaning girl?