AS LONG AS Parker lived, he would wish he’d been able to run fast enough to protect Mavis from the tractor. Instead he arrived just in time to see it stop short, sitting back on its enormous rear tires with the bucket only inches from those precious feet. Someone must’ve stolen Owen’s machine—but through the open side window, he spotted a red beard. What was the kid thinking, driving his tractor out into the forest? All those saplings, crushed—and the croquet court, ruined! That was it—Owen had to go.
He wanted to protect Mavis, especially once Courtney and Billy melted away into the forest. Why did those two disappear so fast? The tractor had already stopped—but then he spotted Lloyd’s head, sticking out above the far side of the cab.
What the hell was he doing up there?
In case Lloyd looked left, Parker stepped out of sight behind the other big tree—and then peeked around the rough bark to keep an eye on Mavis. She was tiptoeing away, giving the tractor a wide berth; he waved her toward his safe haven, but instead she turned to face the tree again, wrapping her arms around herself. His heart ached, but she was safe now—and if Lloyd or anyone else went after her, Parker would fight him to the death.
Blood ran down Lloyd’s face and neck—he must’ve hit his head on something. “Out of my way, Malloy!” he shrieked. “I have every right to—”
“You have no right at all.” James wiped the sweat off his forehead with the left sleeve of his suit jacket. “Land trust presidents are supposed to protect trees, not destroy them.”
Hunter Moody jogged up, panting, a bramble scratch on his left cheek and his black minister’s shirt untucked. He stopped right next to Mavis and put his arm around her shoulders; Parker bristled, but stayed put—out of sight. The harbormaster and other locals followed, gradually building a semi-circle of witnesses around tractor and tree.
Lloyd’s eyes never left James. “We’re not even on West Brenton land. We never crossed the dividing—”
“This whole area’s protected by the 1954 Watershed Act,” Hunter called. “We don’t always listen to the feds, Lloyd, but when it’s our water supply we—”
“Should’ve locked you up on drug charges when I had the chance,” Lloyd growled, like he hadn’t even heard the booming voice. Blood soaked into his white polo shirt. “You and your damned sit-in have cost me a lot of time and—”
“Jesus, Lloyd! Give it a rest!” the harbormaster said. “Don’t you know when you’re beaten?”
A steady stream of people came up the path. “What happened—is it all over?” “Looks like they saved the trees, anyway.” “Who’s the guy with all the blood?”
Barb the baker was followed closely by the gallery owner—no sign of his wife. The schoolteacher and her husband strolled up hand in hand, as if they were out on a nature walk. Patty from the Bean shifted her baby to a fresh hip. Even a couple of lawyers from ashore had made it out here; what would they make of such a crazy scene?
A flicker of white emerged from the woods: Billy, beelining for Patty to lock his arm around her. Courtney followed him, sports bra showing through her sweat-soaked Brenton Ferry shirt. Lloyd’s employees would blend into the crowd now, or be hidden by the cab of the tractor. Anyway, their boss remained laser-focused on what was right in front of him, for once—James. Who’d just shrugged off his blue suit jacket, revealing a Brenton Ferry Company logo.
“Planned that, didn’t you,” Lloyd growled.
“Planned what?” James didn’t look down; maybe that was the only white shirt he owned.
Lloyd’s face was red with both drying blood and rage. “You and me have a little unfinished business,” he said to James. “Then we can get on with things.”
“Things like running over your employees?” James asked, as casually as if they were at a company picnic. “Or attacking sit-in folks? Owen didn’t plan all this on his own.”
Owen had attacked Mavis? The crowd muttered; others must be wondering the same thing.
The schoolteacher pressed forward through the crowd, her thick braid evenly dividing the back of a lilac blouse. When she reached the tractor, she called up through the open window. “Hello again, Owen! Remember me? I just spotted Sachem Pete, up in the tree. He’s—”
“I saw him too!” Mavis moved forward to lock arms with the shorter woman.
Owen slid the window closed, but the glass couldn’t hide his red face—almost as bright as his beard. Sachem Pete—was there a third Borba brother?
“What the hell are you d-doing out here, Owen?” Parker didn’t know he’d spoken out loud or stepped out from behind the tree until everyone turned to look at him. “I—uh—this v-violates your emp-ployment c-contract.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” someone said.
“We all figured you’d planned this whole thing, Parker,” the harbormaster said, turning to stare at him over the crowd. “A little blood sport, to entertain your guests. So they wouldn’t realize you can’t possibly see Europe from here, or wonder why there’s no Brenton rum distillery tour. Were we all wrong then?” His smile was loose, pleasant—teasing, Parker realized, even as humiliation heated his cheeks and locked up his tongue.
A woman tittered. A man guffawed. James chuckled. Soon everyone was laughing at him—even Mavis, though she half-covered her smile in apology.
Parker clenched his fists, but he didn’t retreat behind the tree. He’d take their scorn like a man—hoping his silence came off as strength, not mortification.
When the tractor revved up again, all the laughter died—as quickly as if some invisible conductor had cut it off with a baton. Lloyd ducked his bloody head back inside the cab and slammed the door.
The only thing standing between that shiny front blade and the tree was James, so the crowd pressed forward to join him. The big machine began to move—but it was backing away from the tree, beeping a warning, along the same path it had flattened on the way in.
Parker almost collapsed with relief—even as he made a mental note to cancel Owen’s last paycheck.
“Excitement’s all over, folks,” James called out. “The trees are safe.”
A cheer went up, and Parker watched people hug their neighbors. Mavis was smiling right at him—an orchid’s bloom—until her eyes jumped left. Her mother was shuffling up the dividing path at last, escorted by a hefty black woman with a thick strand of purple hair. Mavis went to meet them and tucked her arm through her mother’s, gently rotating her to walk back to the schoolroom.
“Mavis,” James called over the crowd. He spread out his arms and cocked his head to the side, as if asking her a question. After a moment, she nodded in agreement.
“Okay folks, we’re gonna continue Joe’s service right here,” James announced. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep it short and sweet—just what he would’ve wanted.”
A buzz of surprise ran through the crowd. “Really, out here?” “I can’t stand up that long.” “How strange.” Meanwhile Courtney calmly walked forward, picked James’s blazer off a nearby bush, and held it up so he could slide his arms into the correct sleeves. By the time he’d turned around to thank her, she was walking back to Billy and Patty. So she missed the look of gratitude and—devotion. Like she was the only one who mattered.
Was James in love with Courtney then, rather than Anna? So confusing. Maybe they should call this place Copulation Island. He swallowed a laugh.
The crowd was already quieting; time to leave them all to their memories. Parker turned, stumbled, and apologized to the woman— Mack’s wife, carrying a squirming toddler—whose foot he’d stepped on. He’d almost reached the last row of mourners, where Mavis stood arm in arm with her mother, when James called his name. “Hey Parker, why don’t you stick around? I think Joe would be honored.”
Mavis was smiling at him too, so he took the place right beside her. Birds chirped and oak leaves rustled, accompanied by the island’s bass drum of waves pounding on a distant rocky shore. This was such a perfect place to honor the man who’d defended this island’s natural beauty, email after email; it was almost possible to think they’d all gathered out here intentionally.
James reached into his jacket pocket—but when his hand came out again, it was empty.
“I prepared a speech last night, but you all know I’m not much good with those. So instead I’ll try to explain what these trees mean— meant—to Joe.” He obviously didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he stuffed them into the pockets of his dress pants.
“Years ago, that old path most of you took to get here was cleared as a boundary between natives and whites. There was no violence, but plenty of suspicion—on both sides.”
The crowd was silent. Even Mack’s toddler had stopped squirming and stuck his thumb in his mouth.
Parker shifted right, close enough to feel the warmth of Mavis— though not quite touching her bare forearm with his own.
“Joe and I were born a week apart,” James continued. “His father decided that was reason enough to finally make peace with the whites. There was no mayor in those days, so Sachem Tony walked up to the lighthouse and shook hands with my father—the white man’s Sachem, he called him. A few days later, someone suggested they mark the occasion by planting two trees—one either side of the—”
“My father,” Anna Crosby interrupted. “It was his idea.”
Mavis cocked her elbow out until it touched Parker’s. His stomach flipped. Accident, or intentional? Tentatively, he pressed back; she didn’t pull away.
James continued as if Anna hadn’t spoken. “Most people assume that this tree was planted by my father, since it’s on the east side of the path. But this oak was actually planted by the man I called Uncle Tony—”
On the opposite side of Mavis, her mother let out a low moan— and Mavis’s elbow retreated.
“My father planted the Douglas fir, over on the west side of the path.” James pointed over their heads. Parker took the opportunity to glance at Mavis—she was smiling, right at him! He smiled back, heart singing.
“The idea was that we should all cross this path—that we should be one family here on Brenton. Cooperation Island, as the Irreverend was just reminding us.”
A warm forearm pressed into Parker’s; this time, Mavis arched her hand back too, until they were skin to skin from elbow to fingertips. He didn’t move.
“Dad and Sachem Tony didn’t worry about who was white and who was Narragansett,” James was saying. “What they worried about was off-islanders taking over. Joe took on that battle after they passed, though he was very discreet. I only found out a few weeks ago that he’d been a thorn in the side of anyone trying to develop West Brenton. Right Parker?”
Parker nodded, feeling his face flush as eyes swiveled toward him once again. Mavis pulled away, leaving his skin tingling with abandonment.
“If Joe was still here with us,” James said, “we wouldn’t have needed a sit-in. No one would’ve dared to go after this land, as long as he stood in the way.”
Parker stretched his fingers back as far as they would go, aching to renew contact—but he found only air. Keep talking, James.
“So today, I pledge to carry on Joe’s struggle to protect our island. I can’t outrun a tractor, but I will do my best to stand up for what I believe in, just like the man who was once as strong as this oak tree.”
A pinky finger intertwined with his own, shooting a zinger of joy through him. What nerve she had; flirting, at her brother’s funeral!
“If Joe were still with us,” James was saying, “he’d be very proud of the three brave islanders who saved his tree today. Thank you, Billy Dean. Thank you, Mavis Borba.” James nodded to each of them, before focusing on the other ferry captain. “And Courtney Farris— you are now an honorary citizen of Cooperation Island.” The back of Courtney’s neck flushed beet red.
James tore his gaze away to seek out Mavis—but that strong finger stayed linked with Parker’s.
“And unless anyone else wants to say a few. . .”
“James?” The purple-haired woman raised a handful of sparkly fingernails. “If I may. . .”
They all swiveled to face her, which forced Mavis to let go of Parker’s pinky but put her right in front of him. He leaned in, closing his eyes, to inhale her distinctive pine-bay scent. The crowd was growing restless, but all he could feel was gratitude to the large woman for extending his time beside Mavis.
“I’m Sheila Rhodes, Joe’s law partner. . .”
The ferry’s horn tooted, shorter than usual. Courtney frowned at Billy in question; he just shrugged.
“. . .how important Joe Borba was, even on the mainland,” Sheila was saying. “Even in the few short years he had between law school and cancer, he gained respect around Boston as a lawyer who played fair—and believe you me, that’s not the first assumption people make about us.” Laughter. “He saved people’s homes, made a few corporations behave. But in his mind, the one reason he was put on this earth was to keep this island open to all.
“He’s gone now, and them’s big shoes to fill. Luckily, he has friends.” She smiled over at James and inhaled again, as if she had something more to say, but all she choked out was, “God speed, Joe— we’ll miss you,” before dropping her head to her hands. The lawyer next to her patted her shoulder.
“Thanks Sheila.” James was trying to catch Mavis’s eye, but she had wrapped her arms around her mother; even though he was no longer touching her, Parker could feel her whole body shaking with tears. James’s lips pressed together, and he looked right, reaching a hand out to the tree.
Everyone else had run out of words, so Hunter Moody stepped forward. “I think we’ll leave it there.”
There was a collective murmur, and some people turned to shake their neighbor’s hand—as if they were in church. Parker forced himself to step back, away from Mavis; he was pivoting to leave when James spoke again.
“Sorry—I forgot the most important thing!” James raised his voice to carry over the bustling crowd. “Joe would like us all to have a drink at the Inn, on him.”
A cheer went up, and everyone turned to head for the bar. James cocked his head and looked right at Parker, clearly saying: Sorry to spring this on you.
Locals at the bar, at last! He pulled out his phone to text Sylvia the good news. But—would Sachem Joe’s estate be able to cover the cost? Screw it—he’d pick up the tab himself if necessary. After today, the guy was practically family.