HE SET DOWN his phone on the Bean’s table. No point in reading email when his mind refused to focus on anything but the Homer. Until they replaced that port engine, he was going to meet every arrival. He’d even asked Courtney to text him when she reached Newport. She should be coming around the end of Bird Island in the next five minutes or so. . . but there was no sign yet of those white canisters, that slate blue superstructure. That perky smile—and, of course, those unexpectedly great negotiating skills.
“Need your own widow’s walk?” Mack asked, winking, on his way inside for refills.
A week ago, it would’ve bothered James to be caught watching for the ferry. Now he had ownership as an excuse.
Mack came back with a full mug, but no coffee pot. “Patty’s brewing a fresh round—she’ll be out with it any minute,” he promised, before reclaiming his seat at the far end of the big table. At his feet, Chester the dog dropped his head back to his paws.
The day after Labor Day, two new faces had joined the morning gang. James couldn’t decide which was more surprising: Barb (sitting a little too close to Gavin); or Mémé, perched next to the Irreverend. Doc Emerald had taken to dropping his bag onto Mayor Frank’s empty seat when he arrived, though he hadn’t yet had the nerve to actually sit there. This morning he was complaining about the forecast: record heat, he’d heard.
“Ashore maybe,” Mack responded. “Ocean temps are already dropping—no way the air’ll climb above seventy-five out here, once the sea breeze starts up.”
James could hear Mayor Frank’s usual response: that weather predictions were right about as often as he won the lottery. Poor old geezer—his daughter had moved him into a retirement home.
Patty pressed open the door, carrying a fresh pot of coffee. Little Declan James would be asleep in his carrier inside; he’d wake up just before the ferry arrived, already attuned to the ebb and flow of island life.
Patty topped up James’s mug. “You should move over to the big table today,” she told him. “Part of the mayor’s job, to mingle.”
“Mayor?” James shook his head. “Not me.”
“We’ve all decided.” She leaned down to whisper, “Don’t want Doc Emerald running things, do you?” In a normal voice she added, “That mop of yours is growing as fast as baby DJ! I could fit in a trim this afternoon, during his nap, when you come back to wait for Courtney.”
“I’m just making sure the Homer gets in on time,” he said firmly.
“Yeah, right.” Patty headed across the deck.
James wrapped his hands around the warm mug. Soon it would be too cold to sit out here, and they’d all move inside. Maybe he’d join the big table then—he spent so much time alone now, he didn’t crave solitude like he used to.
Patty whispered into the Irreverend’s ear.
“I can’t do that!”
Patty whispered something else. The Irreverend turned in his seat.
“Join us, James?” His voice cracked. “We’d, uh—love to hear more about the new ferry plans.”
Mémé raised one of her arthritic hands to beckon him over.
“Nothing to tell,” James replied. “We aren’t changing any—”
“Get your ass over here, James!” Mack said, adding, “’Scuse my language, Mrs. Borba.”
“Tell ‘em about the new discounts for Inn guests you’re working on with Parker Dane,” the Irreverend said.
“Or about getting the Homer painted this winter,” Patty added.
“And the land trust meeting aboard the ferry!” Mémé chimed in.
“All still in the planning stages,” James said, glaring at each one of them. “I can’t—”
“Stop being such a d—such an introvert!” Mack set down his mug so hard his coffee sloshed and dripped through the table top, waking Chester. “Give us some news, like a proper mayor.”
“I’m not the mayor!”
Barb stood up, as if she’d had enough—but instead of heading for the steps, she pulled out Mayor Frank’s chair and handed Doc Emerald his bag.
“There’s an empty seat at our table,” she told James. “You’re the only one who can fill it.”
Everyone was staring at him. Patty stood beside Mack, coffee pot empty, waiting.
Ah, what the hell, it would be more entertaining than staring at the breakwater or checking his email.
When he scraped back his chair, the whole table cheered. On her way back inside, Patty patted his shoulder.
But when James sat down in Mayor Frank’s chair, it felt all wrong. He stood up again.
“I’ll be the next mayor on one condition.”
“That a threat or a promise?” Doc Emerald asked, pulling at his ear lobe.
“Rotate this table ninety degrees. I need to watch for—watch the harbor.”
“Easy!” Mack pushed back his chair and grabbed the opposite table edge. “Ready? Come on Chester—you’re gonna have to move too.”
The metal table was surprisingly light. Mémé pulled her chair up to the corner next to James and pressed her hand into his shoulder. Everyone else sat down too, and Chester resettled himself at Mack’s feet. Coffee was sipped, and the morning sounds asserted themselves; waves lapping against the dock, an outboard revving up, gulls cawing.
He could see the entire dock now. When Courtney came in, he’d make Doc Emerald give up his seat for her—there’d be no complainers at this table.
“James, what do you think about that hurricane coming up the coast?” The Irreverend asked, to fill the silence. “Gonna hit us?”
Between the breakwater’s jagged top edge and Bird Island, the Homer’s two white bumps appeared at last. “Ah! Thar she blows!” James heard Mayor Frank say, inside his head. She was right on time, desprite his worry.
James tore his eyes away from the welcome sight to lock eyes with the shaggy-haired preacher. “You know,” he said slowly, “those weathermen seem to get it right about as often as I win the lottery. . .”