HE TOSSED DOWN his pencil, which rolled onto the floor. Stared out the sliding glass doors at gently waving marsh grasses, lit up with late afternoon sunshine—and already losing their summer green. He just couldn’t concentrate.
Two estimates lay side by side on his mother’s desk. The left was for a new downwind sail for MoreSea. The right was for a new upwind sail. Dean said he didn’t think they needed both to win next year’s race. James disagreed, but it wasn’t his money—and the prices were staggering. Would having both really make that much of a difference? So many other variables—including his own lack of fire for the entire project. It was just a goddamn boat race! So trivial, compared to the island’s problems. And his own confusion. . .
Joe’s will would make it possible to take over the ferry. Four months ago, that would’ve seemed like a dream come true: a chance to rebuild the island’s lifeline, and stay here on the island for good. But now all James wanted to know was if his replacement would be staying on too. In just a few short months, Courtney had morphed from irritant to irresistible. He had to know her future plans, before he could settle his own.
Since Joe’s service, she’d been avoiding him. Did she get that job back in Oxford? They’d be fools not to give it to her. And she’d be a fool not to take it. What southern girl would ever trade her hometown ferry run for the looming dread of winter on an ingrown New England island?
He bent down to pick up his pencil, then stepped out onto the deck. Late afternoon sun was sprinkling gold leaf across the harbor.
That had been a great supper out here with Courtney. Maybe he should invite her again tonight? She seemed to accept any invitation that involved a free meal. He laughed out loud, and the reverberations carried out across the water; he’d done the same with Anna. Not very nice, he realized; another apology he needed to make.
The previous afternoon, he’d finally biked up the hill to the bakery, heart hammering away. Barb held open the blue door, almost like she’d been expecting him, and then retreated into the kitchen.
“I’m not staying,” he called after her. But the gas hissed on under the kettle anyway, and the tea cabinet opened and shut. He knew the sounds of her kitchen so well; she would make tea he wouldn’t drink, because social calls of any sort—even this awkward one—called for a beverage, and that was the only respectable choice this early in the afternoon.
As soon as he stepped through the narrow doorway, she pointed to his usual place; there was already a scone sitting on a plate.
“Blueberry,” Barb said, spooning leaves into the china pot and then pouring water over them. “Your favorite.”
James pulled the chair underneath him, mouth watering. Barb settled in on the far side of the scuffed wood top. He’d refinished this table once, after he first moved in, before he stopped trying to please her.
She filled both their mugs and stirred milk into her own, left eyebrow kinked into a vee as if she was already laughing at him. He hadn’t even said anything yet.
“How’re you doing?” he asked, wondering what to do with his hands. The thin-walled mug was too hot to hold, though she was already drinking hers.
“Never been better.” She brushed a loose strand of hair off her forehead and tucked it back into its bun.
“That’s ah, great. Listen, Barb, I’ve been thinking—” he stopped, frowning. “What?” She was grinning at him, her head cocked to the right.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you nervous before.” She held her tea against her cheek, reddening it with heat.
“Nervous? Well—yes, I guess I am. It’s just that. . .”
“You want to clear the air between us. That’s one of the many things I loved about you, James. You never sneak around behind people’s backs. Well, almost never.” She gulped at her tea. “I haven’t been living under a rock all summer—I know what’s going on. Though your quick turnaround did seem a little—”
“Didn’t seem that quick to me.”
“No, of course not. It always looks different from the inside.”
Her slurping made his scar throb.
“Look, Barb‚” he said at last. “I just want to say I’m sorry.”
She raised one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I fed you, you cleaned my gutters.” Her voice was steady, but her right hand shook a bit.
“It wasn’t right, the way it ended,” he told her, determined to say what he’d rehearsed. “And I didn’t want you to find out about me and Courtney from anyone else—”
“Courtney!” Empty mug clunked onto the table. “I thought you were hot and heavy with Anna.”
“Anna? Jesus, no!” James laughed. “We went sailing together a few times, that’s all—”
“And that night.”
“What night? Oh—when I had supper there. I see, that’s why you thought it was so—”
“You spent the night with her!”
“Anna said. . .” Barb’s voice trailed off. “But you always tell the truth.”
Mayor Frank hadn’t been the only one spreading rumors.
“I accept your apology,” Barb said, twirling her mug between two palms. “But—Courtney? I thought you hated her, for stealing your job.”
“I did, at first. Then I realized Lloyd was the problem, not her. I found out from Mayor Frank that Lloyd. . . well, that’s all ancient history now.”
“Kind of like us.” Barb pushed back her chair and set her mug down in the sink. His time was up.
“Gavin’s a good guy,” James added casually, like he was talking about the weather. “I’m sure he’s taking better care of you than I ever did.”
“Gavin understands I can take care of myself.” She turned to face him, drying her hands on a dishcloth. “Anything else you wanted to get off your chest? I’ve got dough resting.”
So he’d let himself out through the bakery door, wondering if Barb was also hearing the ghost of a question he’d asked her every morning, before heading down to the ferry: “See you tonight?” It was her daily chance to send him away, to punish his lack of commitment. . . and she’d finally done exactly that.
If he hadn’t already scared Courtney out of his life, he’d try his damnedest not to make that same mistake again.
He just wanted to sit together, he realized; not at the Bean, with all of its eyes and ears. Somewhere quiet, where he could watch that jagged oyster shell catch the light. Listen to that laugh, which managed to combine the giggle of a little girl with the throaty chuckle of a woman. . .
He glanced at his watch. If he left right now, he could make it down to the dock in time to meet the last ferry of the day. But then what? Surprise Courtney with a. . . picnic supper? They could walk up to the captain’s cottage, sit on the back deck. . .
It would signal commitment. But wasn’t that just what he was trying to do?
Before he could talk himself out of such a bold plan, he strode back inside and dug into the closet under the stairs for his mother’s wood-topped wicker basket. A few breaths to blow off the cobwebs, four bottles of Summer Ale and a cold pack, and he was ready to go. On his way out the front door, he spotted the diesel repair manual he’d been meaning to return to Mack and slid that inside as well. There was no way to strap the basket to his bike, so he steered with one hand and balanced it on the handlebars with the other.
At Mack’s house, he set down bike and basket. By the time he walked the book up the neat flagstone path, Mack had pushed open the screen door.
“Going on a picnic?” he asked, reaching out for the book.
James nodded, swallowing.
“Take the boat—more private than walking around with that stupid basket over your arm. Courtney can fill up the portable gas tank in Newport tomorrow.” Winking, Mack let the screen door slam shut.
How did he already know Courtney was involved? James wasn’t even sure she’d get onto a boat with him.
Whatever—his next stop had to be Prime’s. Pedaling around the inner harbor, he spotted the Homer just outside the breakwater. So he stepped up his pace, and rode his bike right into the rack in front of Prime’s—like he was a kid again. Dropped the basket, pulled open the front door, panting.
“Your mother’s picnic hamper!” Sam said, nodding back toward the bike. “She used to set that beauty right down on my counter— wouldn’t leave until it was filled to the brim. How many you feeding tonight, James?”
“Ah, how about the lady’s favorite then?” At James’s blank look, he added, “Seafood pie. I’ll wrap it in foil, be the perfect eating temperature by the time you two get to the beach.” Sam waddled back to the deli counter, whistling. “You’ve got plates and utensils right in that bottom compartment, but you’ll need a server. And some napkins. How ‘bout a six pack? Or maybe. . . a bottle of champagne?”
James shook his head, rubbing his scar.
“There you go,” Sam said, handing over a well-wrapped package. “On the house—thanks for organizing the sit-in. Or maybe I’ll put it on Chase’s bill. . . we can enjoy the irony, and he won’t even notice.” Winking, he followed James outside, resting his forearms on that belly while James reloaded the basket.
“Make sure you keep that pie upright.” And then, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
Chuckling, James coasted down to the dock and stashed both bike and basket behind the fish shack. Nodding to the commuters already filing up the gangway, he listened for the diesels; Courtney must’ve already shut them down. Or maybe the port one had shut itself down. Better remember to—
No! Tonight, he’d focus on Courtney.
Billy loped up the gangway, chewing on the side of his thumbnail. “Going on a picnic?”
Should’ve left the damned basket at home.
The deckhand nodded back at the wheelhouse. “Got some competition.”
Chase had stopped outside the doorway, blocking the gangway. Courtney, arms crossed, was shaking her head at him.
“Better offer up here, Mrs. Captain!” Billy called, before turning back to James with a wink. “I gotta get home before little DJ goes to sleep. Don’t keep her out too late!”
James leaned his elbows on a piling, ignoring the heat in his face and the pounding of his heart. “Evening,” he said, as Chase passed by, but there was no reply.
Courtney closed the wheelhouse door and ambled up onto the dock. Her lavender scent had been smothered by sunscreen. “Hey,” she said, eyes darting away from him and back toward the Homer.
James swallowed. “Mack’s offered me his boat, and I’ve got supper and beers. Run to West Harbor, for sunset. If you want. No boat talk—well, not unless you want to. Just, well, us.”
Her eyes leapt back to meet his, and he held her gaze, though it made his scar pulse. Then, pursing her lips, she shook her head. “Shee-it! I’ve been running a boat all day, and now you want me to go out on one just for fun?”
Was that a yes?
“Better let me carry that picnic basket,” she said, adding, “Not exactly masculine.” She held out her hand, smiling now, so he crossed the dock to retrieve it from behind the fish shack.
“It was my mother’s,” James told her, handing it over. “I should tell you about her someday.”
“How about right now?” Courtney replied, stepping down onto Mack’s boat and setting the basket on the seat in front of the console. “It’ll keep me from worrying about whether the engine’s gonna start on this thing. Though it looks a little shinier than the Homer’s.”
“Mack just finished the rebuild, so it’s probably even better than new.” James followed her aboard. “Want to get us underway, and I’ll cast off?”
“Hell no—I’m off the clock! Unless you think you’re too rusty to drive a powerboat. . .”
He dropped the outboard into the water and started it up—so quiet, he couldn’t quite believe it was running. Courtney cast off the bow and stern lines. By the time he’d pointed the bow at the harbor entrance, fenders had been brought in and all the lines were coiled.
When she paused beside him, James smiled over at her. “Such a cool shell,” he said, reaching out to touch it. “Someone special give it to you?”
She stepped forward, putting space and fiberglass console between them. “My dad. Very special. Got a bottle opener?”
He handed over his multi-tool. “Gonna see him again soon?”
“Who?”
“Your dad.”
“Not sure—why?” She dug two beers out of the basket, popped off the tops.
Surely she’d tell him if she’d already accepted the Oxford job?
“Cheers,” he said, clinking his bottle into hers. Don’t rush her, he heard Joe advise.
When they passed astern of MoreSea, Courtney said, “That boat must be fun to sail. She fast?”
The dark blue hull sparkled—but tonight, he didn’t care.
“Not as fast as this one.” He pressed the throttle forward halfway; at the breakwater, he got the boat up onto a plane before carving around to port. When he reached the skinniest part of the shortcut, he backed off to idle again.
Courtney gazed down over the port rail. “When did you hit West Rock? Don’t try to deny it—Mack told me.”
“That tattletale.” He smiled. “Second year I ran the Homer. Sunset, just like you.”
Her full-body shudder was not caused by a chill, he was sure.
Once the seaweedy buoy passed by to starboard, James said, “Here we go—hang on.” It wasn’t rough in the lee of the island, and she’d already grabbed a handhold. But he wanted to take care of her, even though—just like Barb—she could definitely take care of herself.
Once the boat was planing again, he adjusted the trim tabs to level out the bow. Wind whipped at his hair; Courtney swiveled her ball cap around so it wouldn’t blow off. Eight minutes later, he carved around into West Harbor and slowed to a wake-free crawl. Up at the monument, a flash caught his eye; Anna, standing at the edge of the bluff, one hand shielding her eyes. Not waving.
There was no smoke from Joe’s chimney, of course. But West Harbor was just as glassy and magical as ever.
“She talks about you all the time, you know,” Courtney said.
“Who does?”
“Anna Crosby. Wasn’t that her, back there?” Courtney tossed a thumb over her shoulder.
“Just because she says there’s something going on doesn’t mean there is.”
“And—Barb?” Her voice wobbled. “Is that really over?”
His knuckles whitened on the helm. “I, um—apologized. Yesterday.”
“Better late than never. So, you can leave with a clear conscience then.” Before he could respond, she asked, “We gonna anchor, or tie up at the dock?”
“Anchor.”
She dug the aluminum flukes out of the bow locker without banging them on anything, waited for his nod, and tossed the anchor overboard. Tied off the rode with an extra hitch on the bow cleat. Flaked the extra line back into the locker, closed the hatch. Finally, she came back behind the console—but only to grab her empty beer.
“What a spot!” she said, opening the basket to deposit her bottle. “And is that a seafood pie? Smells fantastic.”
“Sam Prime says it’s your favorite. Dig it on out—I’m starving.”
“You’re the host.” She moved around to the starboard side, so he came forward, pulled out the pie, and removed the foil wrapping. Steam escaped from the slits in the middle; still warm, even after a high-speed boat ride. Thanks, Mom.
“Plates and forks? Too messy to eat by hand—I’ve tried.”
“Bottom of the basket,” he said, which turned out to be true. Courtney handed him a paper plate, popped the tops off the other two beers, and set the basket down on the foredeck. He served her a piece of pie and she sat down on the starboard half of the seat, placing her bottle in a nearby cup holder. Leaving just enough room for James to sit beside her.
“Good thing you’re left-handed,” she told him, digging fork into pie. “Hot—hot—shee-it! Burned the roof of my mouth—I always do that.”
They ate, shoulders just touching, serenaded by the symphony of summer evening: seagulls cawing, beach grasses rustling, waves tickling the beach. Courtney finished first. “Wow, that was great.” A burp escaped. “‘Scuse me!” she added, giggling.
She was so easy to be with—no agenda, just straight talk. James glanced up at the Monument; Anna and her easel were no longer in sight.
“Such a peaceful spot,” Courtney said. “Is it really not safe?”
He set his empty plate down on the foredeck, anchoring it with the fork. “Where’d you hear that?”
“My very first day, Mayor Frank said something about not coming down here by myself.”
“Ah! We tell everyone from ashore that West Harbor is haunted. It’s not.” Except by Joe, and memories.
“Does that mean I’m a local now?”
“You saved the tree,” he reminded her.
“Oh yeah—honorary islander,” she said. “Whatever the hell that means. Don’t you think Mr. Wainwright’s gonna figure out some other scheme—”
“By then, Mavis will have the entire island protected. She’s already talked to most of the property owners, gotten them onboard. The land trust board meets right after—”
“You can’t take that sailing job.” Courtney’s voice was almost a growl. “This island needs you.”
He pressed his lips together, containing his stream of questions. All he had to do was ask about her plans, and she’d tell him. But he didn’t want to spoil this magical evening by finding out she was leaving, so instead he told her about diving for clams with Joe, right about where they were anchored. That led to other childhood stories, and Courtney’s chuckling recap of rescuing Lloyd and Owen. Before he was ready, the sun dropped behind Block Island.
“Getting dark,” he said, polishing off his beer. “We should get back.” He stacked the plates, returned them to the basket, started up the outboard. Courtney went forward to pull up the anchor.
“Oh by the way,” she said, talking over her shoulder as she hauled in wet line hand over hand, “I turned down the Oxford ferry job. So until Lloyd fires my ass, y’all are stuck with me.”
James looked down at the console dials to hide his grin. Joe might be gone, but West Harbor had still provided the right answer to the question he hadn’t dared ask.