by A. S. Green
Samson snorts and pushes at my hand with his nose. Even from my high perch in the captain’s chair, he stands nearly even with my hip.
“Who’s my good boy? Yeah? You are, aren’t you, boy?”
Never in a million years did I think I’d wind up here, let alone have a giant dog for my best friend. Though, I have to remind myself that Samson’s not really mine. He’s Sully O’Hare’s dog. Two years ago I came up to Little Bear Island for a weekend songwriting retreat, coincidentally only days after Sully had a heart attack. No one knew me here, but I had big-boat experience, so I offered to cover Sully’s position on the ferry until they got someone permanent. I’ve been living Sully’s life for him ever since: bunking in his cottage, taking care of his dog, working his job. It’s not horrible being someone else for a while, especially when you’re trying to figure yourself out. Even so, it’s crazy I’m still here.
End is in sight, though, I think as I stare down at the last car boarding the ferry. Sully’s coming back around Christmastime. He called to tell me so a few weeks ago. I bend down and kiss the top of Samson’s head. I’m going to miss this dumb ol’ dog when I finally move on.
“Hey, kid,” says a gravelly voice, and I jump. It’s my boss, Captain John Doyle, standing in the narrow doorway behind me.
“Oh, c’mon, kid. Get a grip. We’re all loaded. Why don’t you take a break from the wheel? I’ll get us over to the mainland.”
Doyle grabs a tin of chewing tobacco out of his back pocket and puts a big leafy wad between his cheek and gum.
“Yeah, sure, Cappy. I could use a break.” This is my tenth trip across the channel today. I surrender the wheel to him and walk down the metal stairway to sit on one of the bottom steps. Thick, wet lines coil at my feet. I rest my elbows on my knees and bow my head. The water stretches across the channel, a deep navy blue, forcing me to think about where I’m going to go once Sully comes back and there’s no good reason to stay here anymore. Probably back to L.A., but God, I hate L.A.
“Hey!” Doyle yells down at me from the door of the bridge. “You forget this, rookie?” The words are barely audible over the engines. He tosses my notebook down to me, and I snag it out of the air with my grease-stained fingers.
Rookie. Kid. Sully’s Replacement. Two years on this island and I have a million nicknames, but no one seems to know my actual name. Not even Doyle, and he signs my paychecks. For a second, I consider skipping L.A. and going home again. But the idea passes quickly. My freedom was too hard won to forfeit now.
“Benny,” says the memory of a small boy’s voice in my head. “Benny, please don’t go. Don’t leave me here alone.” It had almost been enough to make me change my mind.
“It’s only for a little while, Buddy.” When I walked out, he didn’t follow. But the guilt sure did. Reflexively, I massage the crooked little finger on my left hand.
I did try calling home a couple times, the last time not even that long ago. I’d been gone for several years by then, but Mom didn’t even ask how I was doing. I never got to tell her about how I wrote a jingle for a toilet paper commercial, and how I’ve got an agent now and a little bit of backing from a music publisher.
That phone call sucked every creative impulse out of me. Six months later and I’m still working on the same damn song I was back then. Coming up with lyrics is like wading through tar.
I open my notebook, pull a pen from behind my ear, and begin scribbling bits and pieces of the song I’ve been working on. Turning each phrase to see it in a different light. Hoping for inspiration. Word after word, phrase after phrase. I can compound both the trite and the occasionally brilliant idea into a literary sedative that assures me, despite everything, I am still myself. I’m still free. I haven’t given in.
Do you know her name? Callisto.
Can you find her in the stars? Callisto.
Hunting for… Hunting for…
Dammit. I can never get past this part.
Mooshy Moran comes up alongside me and interrupts my concentration. “Pretty cold out.”
“Yep,” I say, popping the P. Why people bother to comment on the weather is beyond me. It’s barely June. It’s northern Minnesota. This is Lake Superior. Yeah, it’s cold. Big surprise.
I shove my notebook into the back of my waistband and look up at the sky. I have to believe that something good will come my way. I’ve been adrift for too long. What I really need now is an anchor.
Chapter Six
KATHERINE
I am one of eight passengers in a stuffy coach bus, and my grimy window is so gummed up that it won’t go down more than an inch. This is a problem because:
1. The man across the aisle has decided to remove his shoes
2. I’ve still got three hours left in this trip
3. I need to keep a clear head.
The clear head is for figuring out how to get my mom’s name off my bank account and open a new one at some out-of-town institution she’s never heard of. Like somewhere in Switzerland.
Switzerland, I think, indulging my fantasies. Andrew and I could get married and live in Switzerland. I make a mental list of all the perfect Swiss wedding party details: the flowers, the music, a ring bearer in lederhosen, the fondue…
It doesn’t take much effort to invest in these fantasies. Hours go by. Cornfields give way to thick pine forests. During the last hour, we pass over rushing waterfalls and through dark tunnels carved out of rocks the color of iron. It’s only when the temperature takes a noticeable dip that I check the time. I catch a glimpse of Lake Superior and realize just how far I’ve come.
We’re close. This is it.
The other passengers start gathering their things. The man across the aisle puts his shoes back on. I text Andrew a quick: Arrived safely. More later. But it doesn’t want to go through.
By the time I’ve hit resend four more times, the bus makes a great sweeping turn, chugging down a sloping road then settling gently into a parking spot half a block from a boat landing. A moored ferry creaks and groans against the railroad ties that bolster the pier.
“New Porte,” announces the driver, as if there was any doubt. Through the windshield, I can see the early-evening sun shimmering off the vast expanse of water. It makes the lake look laced with tinsel.
My fellow road-weary passengers groan and stretch their backs, but they’re quick to disembark. I watch them go, but I’m not so eager. Getting off the bus means forfeiting my option of turning back. I need that possibility to remain open for just a moment longer. Just a little longer.
Within seconds, I am alone.
I breathe deep. Just one more moment.
A set of knuckles raps sharply on my window, and I jump. A finger on a large hand swirls in the air, telling me to hurry up and get off already. Whoever belongs to the hand, he’s standing so close to the bus I can only see the top of his head, which, I note, is covered in a tangled mess of reddish brown hair. The hair takes a step back, and the guy beneath it taps his finger to an imaginary wristwatch. I suck in my breath and gather my things.
As I make my way down the steps, the guy is waiting for me there, dressed in faded jeans and a navy blue polo stretched across his broad shoulders. His shirt bears the Little Bear Island Ferry insignia. His hands are large and callused. I only know this because when I stumble on the broken pavement, he catches me mid-fall and rights me on my feet. I gasp, mortified, and look up into his face. I can’t help myself from cataloging the details:
1. Eyes—Like looking into the pristine swimming pool at Brook Marsh
2. Nose—Straight as a knife
3. Jaw—Square. Rarely sees a razor
4. Overall—Could be good looking, but completely unkempt.
His brows arch high with surprise, but those bright blue eyes—they take in my face with an unapologetic sureness. In fact, everything about him is strong and sure, which is the only reason I didn’t do a face-plant onto the pavement. I’m sure Macie would be all over his muscled shoulders, which
my fingers are still gripping. Oops.
I force my hands to let go, though I can’t help but survey the rest of him. His chest is a solid wall, his hips narrow, legs long under grease-stained Levi’s. I upgrade my “Overall” category from “could be good looking” to “might be totally hot,” and my belly tightens in this really awesome way.
That is, until I remember Andrew and look away with a guilty twinge.
“Summer Girl?” he asks abruptly, almost rudely. He definitely makes an unsettling first impression. It must be the beautiful eyes oddly coupled with his rough impatience. He seems to be something like the lake I’m about to cross: lovely to look at but unpredictable, too.
“Katherine D’Arcy,” I say.
He lets out a short, judgmental kind of heh at my name, as if to say, Of course it is.
“Something wrong with that?” I ask. My last nerve flares, and I adjust my backpack over my shoulder. It’s been a long bus ride, and I’m in no mood for any crap.
“Just that I’m Bennet,” he says with a mildly amused shrug.
“How is that supposed to answer my question?” I ask, my shoulders tensing and rising closer to my ears.
He draws his eyebrows together in a puzzled look. “Darcy and Bennet. Pride and Prejudice?” He says it like a question, as if I’ve never heard of them. What I’ve never heard of before is a guy who can correctly reference Jane Austen, so I’m not sure how to respond.
I say the first stupid thing that comes to mind. “But I’m D’Arcy with an apostrophe.” My shoulders relax when he doesn’t roll his eyes.
“Well, your name hardly matters,” he says, and I catch a glimpse of friendly sparkle in his blue eyes. “No one on the island will call you anything but Summer Girl.”
“Why?”
“Your stay is too short for them to bother with more than a nickname. It’s the same every summer, every girl. Don’t take it personally.”
“Okay,” I say, not knowing if he’s stating an unavoidable fact or handing me a challenge.
“I’ve been on the island for a little over two years,” he says, taking my backpack and smaller bag from me. His biceps flex, stretching the edges of his sleeves. “And barely anyone knows my name. They all still call me ‘Sully’s replacement.’”
“Sully?” I ask, at the same time thinking I’m glad I’m not the only newish person here. Maybe we can be friends.
“Sully was the chief mate on the ferry before me.”
He studies me, looking me up and down. My chest warms, though my gut twists because I know what he must see. I’m wearing a navy skirt and white oxford, both of which are horribly wrinkled. We won’t even go into my mussed hair. It’s embarrassing. Andrew could probably make a cross-Atlantic flight and come out neatly pressed on the other end. Not me.
Bennet’s gaze lands on the sapphire ring on my right hand, and he seems to make up his mind about me. Unfortunately, judging by the sour twist of his mouth, I don’t think it’s anything I’ll find flattering.
“I’ve been assigned to get your things onboard the ferry. Do you have any more luggage?” The sparkling eyes are gone. He’s all business now.
I look around and find my two big suitcases where the bus driver has unceremoniously unloaded them on the curb. It looks like my things have multiplied since I left home, and my face flushes.
Bennet rakes one hand through his brown hair, the sun picking up strands of red. He needs a haircut. Or maybe not. No, he looks good like he is. Once again, I force myself to avert my eyes.
“It’s not all clothes,” I say, trying to justify the number of bags.
“I hope not.”
“I brought books, too.”
“Awesome,” he says without any inflection. He adjusts my backpack and smaller bag on his broad shoulders then picks up a suitcase in each hand. It leaves me with only my purse.
“I can carry something more,” I say.
He takes both smaller bags off his shoulders and drops them at my feet, adding “Good.” Then he heads off toward the ferry dock.
I groan under the weight and trot after him. He turns over his shoulder and says, “You can pick up your ticket at that little red house. Calloway paid your way over.”
I look to where he’s pointing. The little red house is really a five-by-ten-foot shack with a ticket window and a white-painted sign that reads: Little Bear Island Ferry. Round Trip Cars $75 - Walkers $40. Apparently no one goes there to stay; there’s no price for a one-way ticket.
Inside the window stands a grizzled old man with a sour expression. He’s wearing the same navy blue uniform shirt as Bennet, but it hangs loosely over his bony shoulders. He stares at me, never once looking away from my face, as I make my way toward him. If I’m not mistaken, he’s glowering, and I’m meant to take it personally.
I drop my gaze to my feet and watch the uneven ground. Something tells me taking this job has been a colossal mistake.
Chapter Seven
BENNET
As we wait to take off for Little Bear Island, a seagull lands on the thin ledge outside my window in the ferry bridge, diverting my attention from the new summer girl, who’s standing along the rail below. The bird looks at me for a second with its yellow eye, then it’s aloft again.
A sailboat motors past as it heads out of the marina, sails still furled on its boom and bow stay, water lapping at its hull. Doyle directs the first cars onto the ferry. It shifts under me with the change in weight, like the planet is about to slip off its axis.
I look back down to the deck, but the summer girl is gone. My stomach sinks unexplainably, but only for a second because it doesn’t take me long to find her again. She’s short—can’t be more than five three; nearly a foot shorter than me—but she’s perfectly curvy underneath all that buttoned-down, pressed, and pleated bullshit.
Judging by her prim clothes and ostentatious ring, I can clearly picture her life back home. Tennis pros, club memberships, gin and tonics on the lawn, all the men dressed “down” in pressed chinos and the women in pearls. I know it all too well, and it’s not something I want to associate with again. I’ve come too far and won’t be going back. She, on the other hand, will be trotting that sweet ass home as soon at the first sign of fall.
The summer girl pulls her dark hair back into a tight ponytail at the nape of her neck, then divides the hair and pulls it even tighter. She leans against the rail and looks up toward the bridge. I don’t think she can see me watching her. She wets her lips. My eyes zero in on that little movement, and something deep within me stirs to life. Dammit. I might be looking for inspiration to finish my song, but that is definitely not the kind of inspiration I need.
Below my window, Doyle directs the next car onboard, strategically balancing its weight. Besides the summer girl, there are only a handful of passengers this round, most of them weekenders. That had been me two years ago—up for a short retreat.
The summer girl taps Third Officer Don Barry on the shoulder. I imagine she’s asking if he’ll help her with her bags once we arrive at Little Bear. Knowing Don, she’s not going to get the response she’s hoping for. She tips her head and shoots him a smile, but it doesn’t do any good. Don walks away, and the girl juts out her lower lip.
I laugh out loud and surprise myself with the sound. I can’t remember the last time I laughed.
“Hey, kid!” Doyle yells up from the deck then turns to see who or what has been holding my attention. He shakes his head. It may only be my second summer on Little Bear, but I know what that headshake means. When it comes to summer girls, Doyle’s advice is best not to get too familiar.
No worries there, Cappy.
Samson whines on his mat in the corner of the bridge. His muscles ripple as he dreams, then he snaps awake as if something has bitten him.
“Come here, you dumb dog.” He trots up alongside me. I stroke his black, milk-crate head and down his neck. A low rumbling sound of contentedness vibrates through Sam’s chest, and I lean out the window to se
e how Doyle’s doing.
He has flipped the thick lines off the iron cleats, gracefully casting us from the pier. He loops the lines into a coil at the stern, then waves his arms in a crisscross fashion over his head, signaling to me to engage the throttle.
The engines groan as I back the ferry from the landing. There are no words spoken between us. The whole thing is perfectly choreographed, like a ballet with a hundred-ton prima donna. It’s time to go. Punctuality is important, so I don’t delay. Little Bear residents set their clocks by the ferry, and I’ve disappointed enough people to last a lifetime.
Chapter Eight
KATHERINE
It’s a twenty-minute ferry ride from New Porte on the mainland to Little Bear Island, and my stomach is twisted with paranoia. I’m certain everyone on board is staring at me, the new girl. There’s a particular skin-prickling intensity coming from above, from up where they drive this thing. I turn my back on it and spot the grumpy old man from the ticket booth. He’s standing at the stern, still glowering at me as if I kicked his puppy. You’d think the guy already hated me or something.
Get a grip, I tell myself. You’re imagining things. And by the time the ferry bumps the dock on Little Bear, filling my nose with a gust of diesel fumes, I’ve halfway convinced myself that it’s all going to be okay.
As we dock, I stand cautiously along the rail and wait for someone to signal that it’s my turn to get off. That’s when a weather-worn man runs toward me from shore, pushing a small furniture dolly and moving at an alarming clip.
“I’m Calloway,” he says as he reaches me. “You the summer girl?”
Joseph Calloway—the lighthouse caretaker and the man I spoke to on the phone about the job—is one of those people of indeterminable age. His hair is thick, silver, and windblown around his bronzed and weathered face. He walks with a slight limp, but he has no problem loading up my suitcases and running them to his car.
