HE TOSSED THE paperback onto the ground next to his sagging beach chair and stood up, stretching hands overhead, yawning. MoreSea was motoring out of West Harbor, that tall shiny mainsail creeping up her black mast. Oh to be steering that sweet boat again— or even grinding a winch. August Sunday afternoons were meant for wind on the cheeks, water soaking deck shoes, and making tiny sail adjustments to go two-tenths of a knot faster. . .
Not sitting on his ass, guarding a fucking forest.
Two shifts every twenty-four hours was too much. Hell, this one six-hour afternoon shift was too much if it wasn’t going to make any difference. Last night, Sheila had called to report that Lloyd was suing the Newport Daily News for defamation of character. Maybe Courtney was right; you couldn’t stop a bully with something as passive as a sit-in.
Then again, summer was more than half over and the trees were still standing—tall and ribbon-free.
He’d told Lizzie the lawyer about Lloyd’s next move during their shared ten p.m. to two a.m. shift, but all she’d done was snort. “Only thing that’ll do is convince the judge it’s all true.” Then she’d asked if the rumor circulating the island was also true: that he was leaving them. He’d nodded, but dodged her requests for detail until she reverted to her favorite topic: her own work. She’d spent the rest of their shift talking about how much she’d enjoyed working with Joe on his will—made it sound like a big project. Maybe for her, it was.
She blathered on even more than usual, but didn’t mention any trouble at home. Could James have imagined the intimacy between Barb and Lizzie’s husband?
An engine whined, so James turned to check behind him. Ideally they’d have a third sit-in site on the dividing path during the day; if that damned tractor decided to tear into the middle of the forest right now, there wasn’t much James—or Patty, who’d be nursing baby Declan, as close to the Inn as she dared—could do to stop it.
When the source of the noise appeared, James shook his head—so tired and paranoid, he couldn’t tell the difference between a tractor’s growl and the electric buzz of a golf cart! He watched the cart bump off pavement onto unpaved track. Dark pink—Anna. Going to the monument to paint?
Instead she turned right and bounced across open field. James let out a sigh. Anna’s sandwiches were delicious, but her food came with a boatload of expectations.
All the traffic across this field had flattened a new path. Trying to save this wild land, they were actually damaging it; Joe would be disappointed. But there would be no more letters, complaining about this new white man’s shortcut.
Ah, Joe. How many more days could he hold on? Somehow it felt like when he died, the sit-in would too—even though that was totally irrational.
Anna parked her cart right next to James’s bike and carried over a pair of stainless mugs. “Brought us iced coffee today.” She sat down and picked up the paperback he’d dropped. “Murder on the Manhattan Bridge—our local author’s bestseller. Any good?”
“I already know exactly what’s going to happen.”
She pointed to a folded over page corner, about a quarter of the way through. “But you still read all the way to—”
“My mother must’ve done that.” He’d given her the book as a birthday present—her last, as it turned out.
“How’s everything here?” She put her hand on his left arm. “You look exhausted.”
He scratched at his beard, dislodging her carefully careless touch. “I’ve been here since nine this morning.” His stomach growled. The coffee was refreshing, but he’d been hoping for a sandwich. All he’d eaten today was a piece of stale toast.
“I thought Hunter was on the morning shift at this end.”
“He was, until Chase’s security system went off.”
“Can’t believe he leaves his house empty in August! Crazy.”
“Everyone needs a vacation from work and house projects. Especially the commuters.”
“Oh, Chase loves that ferry ride! Though maybe it’s really Courtney he’s in love with.” She winked.
She had mixed a little cream into the coffee—and something else. “Cinnamon?” he guessed, mostly to distract himself from her casual comment about Courtney and Chase.
“Yes. Special treat. For a special guy.”
Before Anna could touch him again, James raised his mug to take another sip, ice clinking against stainless. “I’m not feeling so special,” he admitted. “I’ve been sitting here wondering if we’re actually accomplishing anything.”
“Of course we are! West Brenton would’ve been—”
“But how long can we hold out? Another week, maybe? As soon as we stop, they move in.”
“Isn’t that lawyer ashore making any progress?”
“Sheila.” James smiled. “She filed an injunction to have Lloyd’s name removed from the West Brenton Land Trust, but the judge is on vacation until after Labor Day—and that tractor’s ready to go anytime.”
“No matter what happens, we’ve proved the islanders can work together. . .” She glanced at her phone. “Shoot, I’m due at the gallery. One of the Inn guests brought in a painting Gavin thinks might be valuable.”
James handed her his almost empty mug. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“Want to go for a sail when you’re done here? Perfect day for it. I could bring a picnic. . .”
James dropped his eyes to the suspension bridge spanning the cover of his book. Tried to remember what he’d read, less than an hour ago.
“Pretty complicated right now,” he said, once he realized Anna wouldn’t leave without some sort of response.
“Complicated,” she repeated.
He kept his eyes down, swallowing, until he heard her spin the cart around to bounce back toward town.