HONORARY CITIZEN OF Cooperation Island! What the hell did that even mean?
Courtney followed the stream of people up the hill toward the Inn, barely noticing the broken brambles on either side of her. James wasn’t the mayor—and he was leaving soon. What nerve he had! Was he trying to convince her to stay and do his dirty work, just so he could run off on that damned sailboat to that gorgeous blonde in the Caribbean?
A woman’s chuckle just ahead brought her back to the present: Barb, walking with the art gallery owner. Most of her hair had fallen out of its bun and angled toward his shoulder, just like—
Just like that girl’s braid had angled toward Lizzie the lawyer’s shoulder, down on the beach.
At dawn this morning, Barb had opened her blue door and invited Courtney in for another cuppa. The shades were up in the kitchen, letting in the sunrise—though, sadly, there were no fresh scones to test.
“I wanted to apologize for talking your ear off about James a few weeks ago,” the baker told her, smiling across the rim of a heavily glazed mug. “I spend a lot of time alone these days, so I tend to talk too much whenever I do get a chance.”
“That’s okay,” Courtney replied, burning her tongue on the coffee. “It’s helpful to understand him, since I’ve been. . . working with him.”
“He must hate you,” Barb said.
“Oh no!” Courtney said, blushing. “He did at first. . . then I think he kinda forgot I was female.”
“I doubt that!” Barb seemed much more animated—maybe it was her second cup of coffee. “He’s a total throwback, thinks of women as, you know. . . mothers, cooks, cleaners. Even though there was way more to his mom than that.” She rolled her eyes. “Malloy men were raised to be the perfect lighthouse keepers; strong and aloof, no room for friends or feelings or—heaven forbid—expressing those feelings. I once dragged out of James that his father died of a broken heart after he was forced to retire. So when he lost the ferry job, I figured he needed a talking-to.” She gazed out the front window, staring at the house right across the road. “Of course, instead of dealing with his problems, he just ran off to—”
“Are you quite sure about him and Anna?”
Barb’s head turned so fast, it freed several wisps of hair from her hand-twisted bun. “You’re sweet on him too? Jesus, that guy has all the island women chasing after him! Except me—the one who knows him best.” Her eyebrow cocked up into a V. “I’ve got a better option.”
Maybe the gallery owner was Barb’s “better option,” Courtney thought now, studying the way their strides matched, two hands not quite touching. He was a married man. . . but his wife was having her own summer fling. Courtney shook her head, tired of trying to puzzle out all the interwoven relationships on this tiny island. Maybe it was time to go home, where she knew everyone so well that there were fewer surprises.
Shortly after brambly undergrowth ended and smooth lawn began, Barb and Gavin veered left and disappeared around the back side of the Inn. Either they weren’t drinkers, Courtney thought, following the crowd up to the small door that led into the bar, or they didn’t want to be seen in public together.
Courtney didn’t particularly want to be seen drinking in the middle of the day, but after all that sprinting and emotion, only a beer would satisfy. Just one; there was still the afternoon ferry run.
The small door had been wedged open with a garden rock. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim coolness inside, but a rumble of voices told her it was far busier than a typical Friday night. All eight seats at the bar were taken, and the room was already full of chattering people, drinks in hand.
No James. As she’d left the forest, he and Mavis and a bent old Native American lady had encircled the big tree, holding hands. Surely he’d come up here, once they finished paying private respects; what would she say to him? Too many unanswered questions.
Sylvia the bartender was standing still for once, arms crossed over her cleavage, listening to the large man who’d blocked the schoolroom door. When she finally shook her head and turned away to pull two beers, she didn’t seem any grumpier than usual. Courtney tried to step into the opening to order, but Parker beat her to it.
“S-scuse me, Courtney.” He leaned across the bar to talk to Sylvia. “See my t-text? Drinks on Sachem Joe, for anyone at his s-service.”
A free beer! Even better.
“His brother just told me he was broke,” Sylvia said.
“Let me w-worry about—”
“Summer ale, Courtney?” Sylvia’s left hand pulled down the tap. Courtney raised her foaming beer in thanks, but the bartender was already filling glasses for the pair of suits who’d bellied up behind her. Two glasses clinked together: “To Joe.”
One of the lawyers tapped her on the shoulder. “Hey, aren’t you the ferry captain? What time is the last run today?”
Courtney glanced at her watch. “It was supposed to go twenty-five minutes ago. . . but today, we’ll leave when you’re all ready to go.” After Lloyd’s foolish attempt to bulldoze an oak tree, he could go fly a kite as far as she was concerned.
Mack stood next to his wife in the middle of the room, a half-full beer in one hand and toddler pulling hard on the other. Hunter waved from his usual spot at the bar before returning to his conversation with Anna Crosby and her nerdy nephew. Who was probably too young to be sitting there, but that wasn’t Courtney’s problem.
Locals and visitors alike were ducking through the low door, single file. Doctor Emerald and his wife; two Native American couples. Then a string of lawyers, suit jackets slung by fingers over right shoulders as if someone had choreographed them all, herded to the bar by a large woman in a very loud dress.
Her phone rang: Billy. She walked over to the fireplace for a little privacy. “Hey, you’re missing free—”
“Boss Lloyd tried to steal the Homer!” Billy said. “I was taking Patty and DJ back to the house when I noticed the bow line was untied. I guess he couldn’t get the engines started, so he’s taking the harbormaster boat. Owen’s with him, and—”
“Be right there.” Courtney hung up, set her beer on the mantle, and strode over to Mack. His toddler was now wrapped around one leg, pulling sideways. “Lloyd’s stealing your boat,” Courtney told him. “What do—”
“So that’s why the Homer’s horn sounded!” Mack handed his beer to his wife, shook off his son—who instantly started to wail—and called across the room, “Hunter, borrow your keys—and your golf cart?” A floating key ring flew overhead; Mack caught it neat as a sac fly. “Let’s go.” Without waiting to see if Courtney was following, the harbormaster strode out through the French doors.