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That summer was harder in some ways than the first. They had all five cabins rented out all summer long. They finished building their small store, keeping it locked unless one of them were around to open it for their guests. They figured out a way to get electricity on the island, so they could have refrigeration and keep cold drinks for their guests. Occasionally, they even had ice cream as treats for the children and adults. They hadn’t wanted the fuel intake of a regular generator, but they learned at the library that you could use wind to generate power. After several failed attempts, they finally managed to put in a wind generator. They never completely rewired the cabins though, preferring the ambiance of the lanterns and the feel of camping out.
As Barbara dug up the garden for them to plant, they took time to pull up all the poison ivy they could find on the island, using gloves for this chore. There were a few clumps of poison ivy growing in an area where it was rather prevalent, but they pulled up the plants, roots and all, before it got too big. They filled the wheelbarrow and dumped the plants over a cliff and into the sea. They were hoping the saltwater would kill it before it had a chance to take root somewhere else. They were especially careful to pull it up around their trails and anywhere their guests might go. Despite being careful and using those gloves only for that one purpose, they both got infected with it and ended up using tons of calamine lotion for the itch. It was horrible when they both broke out in rashes. Still, they had gotten most of the plants and would dig it up again if they saw any more of the ‘leaves of three.’ They threw out those gloves, burying them deep as they didn’t want to burn the plants or the gloves since they had heard the oils could become airborne and give someone else a rash.
Marion got it into her head to put up rails on parts of their trails, and Barbara helped her. They thought it would make them look more attractive and appear safer. There were still places where they had to put down gravel, wood chips, and even crushed shells. They had found millions of shells crushed on the shore of one beach. Using the wheelbarrows, they transported them along the paths, dumping and shoveling them onto the lower parts of paths, then raking them into beds.
“Are you aware of the rumor that your island is haunted?” Marion was asked one day in town as she collected their mail while waiting on guests to arrive by bus.
“No, I hadn’t heard that.”
“Apparently, there’s been murders committed out there,” the gossip told her.
“I hadn’t heard that either. I’m sure it’s just one of those rumors,” she laughed to show she wasn’t afraid. She was hoping they wouldn’t start talking about the old codger Barbara had hurt.
“Yep, probably is,” they agreed, disappointed she wasn’t willing to discuss it with them.
That was the first, but it certainly wouldn’t be the last. It only began to concern Barbara and Marion when their guests asked about such rumors. They dispelled them all when they could, but there was nothing they could do to stop them, and really, why should they try?
The women were pleased as the town of Franklin continued to grow with the G.I. housing going up on the hills and industry booming in the small municipality. It didn’t lose its old-fashioned charm, and they were both pleased with that as they continued to improve their island. They had the chance to buy Fir Island one year and bought it outright using their savings. They put four cabins on it and advertised it as extremely remote even though Whimsical Island was farther out. Someone else bought Amethyst Island, and much later, some unknown buyers purchased Tourmaline Island and built private homes for vacation spots on them. The women were no longer the only ones with a Runabout or a Woody on the ocean in the area, and over the years they had to replace both. Luckily, with more people coming into the area, their rentals netted them enough to be able to afford these items.
“I never thought I’d see the day our children would be grown and gone,” Marion said as they watched Brenda drive off in the car they had been able to scrounge up for her. It was a VW Bug that she adored. She was headed off to school. The boys were already at college, having left the previous day in the dilapidated fixer-upper they had bought together.
“Maybe it’s time we think about retiring,” Barbara admitted as she looked about Franklin. The cobblestone street was still there, but so much had changed over the years. Their pier had to be rebuilt after a nor’easter took it out one year, but theirs wasn’t the only one. Keeping up on the island might someday prove impractical, and they admitted they might want to stop renting out the cabins eventually. They’d already had a couple offers to sell both islands but had refused as they continued to upgrade and refurbish them.
“Let’s revisit that idea in about twenty years,” Marion said as they packed up the boat. They parked their newer Ford truck in the parking spaces now. The trailer was long gone as they had no use for it anymore.
Barbara smiled. They were still young enough to keep up and enjoy their islands together, and they had no outstanding bills to worry about. They’d repaid the G.I. loan that had caused them so much anxiety years ago. Her in-laws saw the children regularly since Richard and Brian had decided to go to school in Boston. Brenda had followed, choosing the University of Southern Maine in Portland, so she could come home more often. She worried about her mother and her aunt being alone on the island by themselves.
Marion and Barbara watched a couple of hippies smoking something on one of the boats as they made their way carefully among the other boats, swinging wide from the ferry and out of the harbor. Times had sure changed. Their guests reflected that, but they also had some guests who had been coming for the past ten years and had reservations for next summer too. Some were of this sixties craze that had come in and didn’t look like it was going to change anytime soon. They might not understand it, but it amused them to see the outfits that were slowly trickling into this part of Maine. Barbara’s brother, Brent had joined the army, done his tour, been honorably discharged, and had finally settled in Boston. He wrote about how weird kids had become these days.
As they rounded Fir Island and headed due east towards Whimsical Island, they both breathed a sigh of relief to see the familiar shape of their rocky island, the trees that grew all over the island making it look almost rounded as the tall firs completed it. The protected cove they drove into was theirs, all theirs.