TWELVE MINUTES BEFORE Joe’s will reading was due to start, James walked into the Sachem’s cottage to find Lizzie—white blouse, creased gray slacks, black heels—already organizing a large stack of papers on the square table. That explained the golf cart tracks along the path; walking down the bluff in those pumps, carrying that box, wouldn’t have ended well.
Giving James a grateful smile, Mavis retreated to the kitchen. Gumbo followed, so close he was almost underfoot.
Only six days since he’d last stood in this room, but everything— even the sound of Joe’s coffee grinder—was different. The red armchair had been pushed off into a corner under the eaves to make room for the table where Lizzie sat. No more hospital bed against the window; instead there was Pierce, admiring his boat on the dock in West Harbor. Must be his aftershave James smelled.
Lizzie was lifting folders and papers out of a cardboard box and dividing them into two stacks, each already two inches tall. How had she managed to create so much paperwork from such a short life?
“How’s Mayor Frank?” she asked.
Like a shrunken gnome, James thought. All summer, Newport had beckoned as an escape from his island worries, but yesterday’s trip ashore had been a nightmare. First, the hospital visit, where a bandaged Mayor Frank insisted he could still live on his own. Next, the police station, where Mack signed a statement about the boat theft and they learned Lloyd had made bail. (“Should’ve left him to drown,” Mack muttered, as they headed down the dock to reclaim the harbormaster boat.) And finally, the long tow home. Over beers at the fish shack, Mack explained the steps to rebuild the outboard. But even his tasty sea stories about other heat-fried impellers couldn’t wash away James’s black mood.
He’d texted Courtney last night, knowing she’d understand how a destroyed mayor and a destroyed motor would be too much all in the same day, but she hadn’t responded. And thanks to Joe’s will reading, he’d miss this morning’s ferry arrival. The surest way to read Courtney’s mood was how hard she reversed the starboard throttle on the turn into the dock. . .
“What happened to the mayor?” Pierce asked, turning away from the window to shake James’s hand. Before anyone could answer, he added, “Thanks for everything you did for my brother, James. I understand you were here every day.”
“Did you stay over, since the, uh—since Saturday?” What did you call a memorial service that turned into a tree-hugging standoff? For the first time in days, James felt his mouth stretch into a smile.
Pierce was shaking his head no, dislodging a few strands of carefully swept-back hair. “I was needed at home for Sunday service.” He sat down so heavily on Lizzie’s right that James winced, wondered if the spindly chair would collapse; instead Pierce knitted his fingers together and bowed his head. For sure those eyes were wide open— darting across Lizzie’s papers, looking for clues. The lawyer didn’t seem to notice—or maybe she just didn’t care. Joe’s wishes would soon be clear, though the single hour Lizzie had scheduled for this will reading didn’t seem like enough time to get through all that paperwork.
Pierce was the only Borba James didn’t trust. What had really gone on between him and Lloyd? Didn’t matter anymore, James realized. Lloyd had made bail, but no Newport judge would let a boat thief off lightly—even one claiming to be a pillar of the community. West Brenton was safe, for a month or two at least. By then, surely Sheila’s injunction would finally be heard and Lloyd would be removed as president of the West Brenton Land Trust.
Mavis set down the coffee tray at her place on Lizzie’s left and nodded for James to sit down too. Four for bridge? he heard his mother say, totally out of context.
Mavis poured thick black coffee from Joe’s pot into a small cup, which she placed in front of Pierce.
“Cream and sugar?” he asked.
Mavis shook her head, lips pressing firmly together. So one thing would remain the same around here; black coffee only, at least as long as Mavis was in charge.
Last winter, Joe had said everything he had would go to her, which would make Pierce mad. Was James here to play go-between? He rubbed his scar, frowning.
“All right, James?” Lizzie asked.
“Just—thinking about the big shoes I have to fill. Though Joe really liked to go barefoot.” He reached for a chuckle, but the lump in his throat turned it into a cough.
Mavis placed her hand on his forearm, fingers warm from the coffee pot. “All of us. Together. Not just you.”
Her eyes were red, but her gaze was steady. She pulled her hand away to divide the rest of the bitter brew evenly between two remaining cups. Mavis didn’t drink coffee.
“Thank you,” Lizzie said, taking time for a tiny sip. “Everyone ready?”
Gumbo lay down between James and Mavis. Where was Mémé— shouldn’t she be here?
Setting her coffee aside, Lizzie reached down into her handbag and extracted a single sheet of lined legal paper, densely covered on both sides with a familiar scrawl. Pierce instantly swiveled his eyes to read its back; Lizzie just calmly lifted up a folder from the right-hand stack, hiding the words.
“Joe told me that the only language he didn’t like was legalese,” Lizzie said, looking at each one of them in turn. “So he spelled out his final wishes in simple English and asked me to read it to the three of you. All backed up by official documents, of course—” she tapped a fingernail against the left-hand pile. “And I’m happy to answer any questions after I finish. Clear so far?” She looked around the table again, waiting for three separate nods.
“Okay, here we go.” Lizzie cleared her throat. “This is the last will and testament of Joseph Flannery Borba, dated June 29, 2010. Witnessed by. . .”
So Joe had updated his will in those final days. Was that why James was here then? He didn’t want anything from the guy—unless all those people smarts could somehow be transferred.
“Dear Mavis,” Lizzie read. “You showed me how to express myself well in only a few words, so here goes. First, I know I don’t have to ask you, but take care of Mémé. Second, you’ll find I’m leaving behind more money than you might have expected from such a simpleton brother. I didn’t tell you sooner because I wanted you to know you could support our family when called upon to do so. Thank you for working so hard for us these past few months.
“Now I’m going to ask a big favor. I’d like you to use some of what I’m leaving behind to formalize the land trust, and I think you should run it. Everyone who depends on you for clean laundry, clean rooms, and safe baby deliveries will just have to learn to get along without your help.”
Mavis swallowed, her eyes widening.
Lizzie continued. “I know you don’t like bureaucracy, but setting up an official organization is the only way we can protect our home from development. It may be hard at times, but James will help you and the locals will listen to James. Yes they’re whites, but as our father said many times, the good ones are more trustworthy than some of the Narragansetts. No offense meant, Pierce.”
Two spots of red bloomed on those round cheeks.
“Now that I have your attention, Pierce—” Lizzie’s glasses remained on the paper “—I know you would prefer me to give everything I have to your church. Instead I’m doing what I think best to protect the place we grew up from the cursed blight of sprawl.
“Here it is, my brother: I’m leaving $10,000 to your church, no strings attached. No need to waste any of it on plaques or acknowledgments.
“Sorry it’s not more, but—” Lizzie turned the paper over “—I didn’t get to work for as many years as I would’ve liked.”
Pierce had clamped his jaw shut and was breathing hard, nostrils flaring in and out. Ten grand was probably more than he’d expected—and yet a tiny percentage of what setting up a land trust would require.
Lizzie sipped at her coffee.
“Now James. I always tried to get you to treat people as well as you did boats, but I’ve come to see that you were absolutely right about our little ferry; its survival is key to this island. I’m leaving you the money to buy it outright, which means—”
Mavis grunted. Pierce let out a strangled cry. James’s scar throbbed.
“. . .which means you can’t go off sailing again,” Lizzie continued, “but I believe it will lead to what’s best for both you and our island. I hope I’m right; if not, I’ll meet you up at the trees any time you say, for another war of words.”
James tried to laugh through the lump in his throat, eyes filling, even as he wondered: How much money were they talking about here? Enough to set up a land trust and buy the ferry. . . while throwing just enough to Pierce’s church so he wouldn’t kick up a fuss.
There was more. “My house and everything else I leave to Mavis and her descendants.”
Descendants? Mavis was kneading thumbs over the backs of her hands, frowning, as if she had the same question.
“Last and definitely least of all,” Lizzie read, “please talk Mémé into letting the smart folks at Dana Farber have my body. I’d be honored if our cousin Geoffrey would chisel a marker for the burial ground, to be placed next to our father.”
Finally, Mavis let out a sob.
“Oh, one more thing: Anyone who disputes any part of this plan will instantly lose his share.”
Pierce snorted, then tried to hide it behind a cough.
“Wherever you go on our island, I’ll be with you.” Lizzie raised the paper to read the last line. “It’s signed, ‘Still here, you know. Joe.’”
When she set down the sheet again, the silence no longer felt eerie—as if Joe’s wisdom had blown into the room again, through the open window.
Tears ran down Mavis’s cheeks, sliding down to darken her red shirt like raindrops. James handed her a paper napkin. She pressed it into her eyes.
“Any questions?” Lizzie asked, setting Joe’s final letter down on top of the righthand stack of paper.
“Are all the amounts specified in the actual will?” Pierce asked. “Seems a little strange that only my money’s spelled out in dollars and cents.”
Not your money, James wanted to say. It’s for your church.
“The interest from the estate will cover a small salary for—”
“So there was a lot more than expected then,” Pierce said. “How. . . I mean. . .”
“I think Pierce is wondering where all the money came from,” James said quietly. “Joe had less than ten years as a lawyer, and there must’ve been school loans—”
“Not even for law school?”
“Scholarships. Plus dishes and dimes.”
Washing dishes, picking up dimes, Joe had replied, when James’s mother had asked, the summer after freshman year, “How are you making ends meet in that expensive city, dear?”
Until this summer, James had always had a steady income—even during the seven years Joe’d spent earning two degrees—but his current bank balance wouldn’t have covered the tab at the Inn bar, after Joe’s service. (Thank goodness Parker hadn’t accepted that offer, inspired by too many beers—and the assumption that Joe’s estate couldn’t cover it either.)
Joe had seen James so clearly, while James had been too caught up in his own piddly little dramas to dig beneath the surface.
“To be honest, the money was a surprise to me too,” Lizzie admitted. “Joe was really smart about the market; he said he had a bad feeling a few months before the financial crisis, so he converted everything to cash—including his Boston condo. After he moved back here, he day-traded. When he first asked for my help back in February, he’d just made what he called a ‘big killing.’ He made another one in late April, which financed his ferry plan.”
Lizzie realigned the left pile of folders. “Now, are there any other—”
“Can we see an actual copy of the will?” Pierce asked. “I’d like to understand the details, rather than just take it on faith that my brother had it all figured out.”
Again, Lizzie reached down into her leather bag and passed out three manila envelopes. “I’ve highlighted the sections pertinent to each of you. And of course I’ll be available if anything needs clarifying.” She pushed back from the table.
Mavis had closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around her body, rocking back and forth. Pierce was staring at his sister, one leg bobbing up and down like a piston.
James stood up too. “I’ll see you out, Lizzie.”
The two untouched stacks of paper got tossed back into their box—decoys, apparently—before Lizzie slung the leather bag over her shoulder, grabbed the cardboard handles, and headed for the door. Before she pushed it open, she nodded back at Mavis. “Take care of her, will you?”
“Of course.”
Back at the table, Pierce was leaning over Mavis, talking low and fast. James grabbed the nearest elbow.
“Mavis needs time to absorb all this, Pierce. We all do.”
Just like the schoolroom last Saturday; as soon as he was challenged, Pierce’s resistance melted away. James steered him toward the door. The other man was gripping his envelope so tight that Pierce Borba, written in looping script, wrinkled into itself.
“I wish—” Pierce stopped just outside the door. “I wish I’d made up with him, somehow. But he was such a stubborn SOB— sorry, that’s probably not what I’m supposed to say, but it’s true. And our lives were so—what we considered success was so different.”
“Really? You both wanted to help people. Just found different ways of doing it.” James rubbed at his tired eyes. “Maybe this is Joe’s way of making up with you.”
“Keeping me quiet, more like.” Pierce sighed. “I’m sure he’s sewn it all up tighter than a drum. Lawyers know how to do that.”
The face was so familiar; take Joe, add fifty pounds of barbecue, and you got Pierce. At least on the outside.
But Joe would never have walked away from anyone without a handshake.
“Don’t forget to send details about that tribal remembrance you told me about,” James called after Pierce. There was no response.
Inside, Mavis hadn’t moved.
“Need anything?” He dropped a hand to her shoulder.
She shook her head. “Need Joe,” she said at last. “To figure out. Joe.”
“He surprised us all—again.” He swiveled Lizzie’s chair around and sat down facing Mavis, resting his arms on the oak backrest. Now that all those papers were gone, he remembered this table; Uncle Tony had built a chess board right into the surface, to teach his sons the game.
James pressed his finger into a white square. “We’ll be working together quite a bit, you and me.”
Mavis nodded. “I’ll need your help.”
“And I yours.”
Her forehead wrinkled in question.
“I need to learn how to be kinder.” Treat people more like boats.
Outside the window, an outboard motor fired up. Without turning to look, James tracked Pierce’s progress by the RPMs: backing away from the dock, motoring out of the harbor, whining away toward the mainland.
“Joe had too much faith in us,” James muttered. “Did he even ask if you wanted to run the land trust?”
“Or you, the ferry.”
“I asked first—do you want to? I’m sure we could—”
“Absolutely yes please definitely absolutely,” she replied, nodding her head up and down. “Lotta words, for me.”
He laughed along with her, hoping she wouldn’t ask again about the ferry. He had a big decision to make, and right now it seemed like Joe’s money was only going to make it harder.