by A. S. Green
“Conformist,” he says with a smile. When I frown, his left hand goes to his chin. His little finger is kind of crooked; I hadn’t noticed that before.
“Let’s see…” He continues, “Prep school. That’s a definite. You played the violin because your mother thought it was the most impressive instrument, but you quit after a year because you didn’t like calluses on your fingers. Now you go to a prestigious college because that’s what your parents expect. You fantasized about majoring in art history, but you’re poli sci instead. Six months after graduation, you’ll marry rich. You’ll be president of the Junior League, at least until you have your first child at twenty-six, at which point you’ll sign up for Zumba. Your husband will buy you an SUV because it’s safer, even though it kills the environment and you never haul anything more than groceries—”
“You can stop there.”
He smirks at my obvious pissed-offedness.
“You paint?” I ask, changing the subject.
“No. I’m here for the musique.” He points to the opposite wall. “Guitar strings. Anyway, it’s good to see you again so soon, but I’ve got to get back down to the ferry. My break’s about over.”
His eyebrows come together, like he’s having an unpleasant thought, then he walks abruptly toward the shop girl and drops a bill on the counter. The girl rings up his guitar strings and slides him his change. Neither one of them speaks to the other. She barely reacts to him.
Bennet leaves the store without saying good-bye to either one of us, but he does shoot me an easy smile. I sigh and take my turn at the checkout, dropping the pad of art paper, a watercolor kit, three brushes, and a portable easel on the counter. The girl looks up at me, then she takes my brushes back to the table and picks up three different ones. The right ones. She rings me up and bags my things without another word.
“It’s Katherine,” I say as I leave. “Katherine D’Arcy.”
“Happy painting,” she says, then she bends back over her work.
Chapter Thirteen
KATHERINE
I drop my purchases in the newly bleached car and finally make my way to the post office to pick up my package. I wonder what it is and who sent it. Mom and Andrew are the most obvious possibilities, but it could be from Macie, too. Maybe it’s her way of apologizing for pushing me to come up here alone. Hopefully it’s food.
I head toward a sign that says Pick Up. There are two cups on the counter filled with pencils and ballpoint pens, but they’re not well sorted.
“Hello again,” says a friendly voice. It’s the red-and-blue-haired girl from the sidewalk. I realize now that her itchy-looking clothes are a postal uniform. She reaches out a hand. “Natalie O’Brien. My dad’s the postmaster.”
“Oh, hey! Thanks again for the help with Lucy.”
She shrugs. “No problem. I’ll go get your package.”
While I wait, I organize the cups, putting all the pencils in one and all the ballpoint pens in the other. It only takes Natalie a minute to return with a box wrapped in brown paper. “Sign here. Did your mom send treats?”
“That would be awesome but doubtful.” My curiosity gets the better of me, and I open the package on the spot. Inside is a card from Andrew:
A Summer Survival Kit. You can’t be too careful. Love ya —Andrew
Along with the note are a bottle of sunscreen (45 SPF), a wide-brimmed, floppy beach hat, and several issues of Forbes and other business magazines. Besides the magazines, which are clearly from Andrew, I suspect his mother put the rest of it together. She’s got a thing about preserving one’s youthful complexion.
“What’s all that?” Natalie asks.
“It’s from my boyfriend.” My body jerks when I say the word. What possessed me to tell her that?
“That’s kind of sweet,” she says. “Oh, hey, I like what you did with our pens and stuff.”
“What? Oh, yeah, sorry. Compulsive habit.”
“No, that’s cool. So, do you want me to give you a tour around?” She pulls the pins from her topknot and lets her hair fall down in long red and blue spirals. She adds, “My shift’s over as soon as my dad gets off the can.”
I check behind me to make sure she’s not talking to someone else. “Who? Me?”
“Yeah, you.”
“But I thought—”
“Trust me, Little Bear has a population of three hundred forty-six. I could stand a new face around here. I gotta change, then we’ll walk.”
Natalie comes back a couple minutes later in a vintage AC/DC T-shirt, holey jeans, and motorcycle boots. “Let’s rock and roll!”
I can tell I’m going to like her.
“I thought I could show you some of the island hot spots,” she says, smiling. I’m not sure if she’s trying to be ironic.
Lucy is waiting for us outside, and she trots behind, tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth, as Natalie directs me northeast up the main street, toward the corner where it intersects with another dirt road.
As we get closer to the crossroads, I can make out two hand-painted signs. The first says Paddy’s Grille. The other says Prepare to meet your God. “Nice signs,” I say. “Makes me think the food isn’t too good, though.”
Natalie laughs when she realizes what I’m referring to. “You know, I never noticed that before. That’s the road to Paddy’s, where everyone hangs out, but it’s also the road to the church and cemetery. That’s what the second sign is for. Y’know, why don’t you come up to Paddy’s on Saturday night? I’ll be there.”
Natalie picks up the pace as we travel up the main street. It’s only four blocks long, but I spot two bars, one coffeehouse, a gas station, plus a streak of artisans’ shops: weavers, potters, sculptors, and painters. From the smell of things, there’s also a fish house.
“You can get anything you want at Tremblay’s Grocery Store,” Natalie says, pointing at the storefront. “That is, unless you really need it. Then they’re probably out. Down the slope there is the ferry office, but I suppose you know that, too, since that’s the way you came.”
Before I can answer, I’m startled by the sound of male voices yelling over the groan of a grinding engine. Down by the water, several men are loading steel barrels onto the ferry. A much younger guy follows behind, straining to get the last one aboard. His back is to me, but I still recognize the broad shoulders and rib cage that gently taper to what I’m sure Macie would call the finest ass this side of the Mississippi. She wouldn’t be wrong.
“What do you know about him?” I ask, pointing at Bennet. Lucy sees him, too, and charges down the slope toward the water’s edge.
Natalie looks in the direction I indicate, searching the small group of people standing by the ticket booth for whoever has caught my attention. “Who?”
“Him.” I point, extending my arm. “The one pushing that barrel.” How can she not know who I’m talking about? “Down there by the ferry. The one with that huge black dog following behind him.”
“Oh. The dog is Samson. I think the ferry guy’s name is Bennet. Bennet Mitchell, or Matthews or something. He’s not from here. He started driving the ferry after Sully O’Hare got sick.” She studies my expression, and I can see, peripherally, the corners of her mouth twitch. “What? You like him or something?”
“Pssh. No.” Why can’t I keep my mouth shut? “I told you, I have a boyfriend.”
“Good thing, y’know,” Natalie says. “I mean, we just met and all, but you can do way better than a ferry driver. Even with the slim pickings on Little Bear. Best to stay away.”
I know she’s right. Not because I have anything against ferry drivers—in fact, I don’t quite understand her negative opinion. But staying away from Bennet is the right thing to do if I’m ever going to have a chance with Andrew, who obviously loves me, even if he can’t admit it to himself yet. What have all my years of patience been for if not to cash in on the ultimate prize? I’m not going to do anything foolish just for another chance to confirm that those rope-slinging, ferry-man mus
cles feel as good as they look.
Do I look like I’m crazy? No. I am Katherine D’Arcy. Queen of self-control. Nobody’s fool.
Still, it’s going to be hard to forget Bennet’s smile from earlier this morning. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You. Have. A life. A life you need get back to. And, apparently, I also have a newfound strain of idiocy, because if Natalie hadn’t told me to stay away from Bennet, I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what I would have done. But since she did, now that’s the last thing I want to do.
“You know what?” I say. “I’m going to go down there real quick. Wait here?”
Natalie shakes her head. “If you insist.”
I don’t know what’s happening to me. It’s like someone has taken over the reins on my life. But maybe that’s a good thing. Yes, I think as I get to the pier, this is exactly the plan. The old Katherine might have been content with the status quo, but the new Katherine is all about making new friends. If that weren’t the case, I wouldn’t be heading down to talk to—
“Can I help you?” Bennet asks when I appear, dazed and standing in front of him. A coil of thick, wet rope is looped and dripping over his right shoulder. Panty-dropping shoulders, that’s what Macie would call them. He reminds me of Mr. February in the Organic Farmers of the Upper Midwest calendar she keeps in her room. That is, if Bennet lost his shirt. And wore suspenders…
But what I notice most of all is that he’s lost the easy smile that made me feel so good this morning, and then again at the art store. The cool way he looks at me now—like I’m merely another ferry passenger, or worse, invisible—makes me wonder if he suffers from short-term memory loss.
“Um, I was just—”
“Had enough of lighthouse duty already?” he asks. “Running for home?”
Okay. So he remembers who I am. Then why the cold greeting? When I don’t answer right away, his expression turns from cool to stern, and his eyebrows draw together over those blue eyes. I don’t know what to make of the coiling sensation low in my belly. Perhaps I’m going to be sick.
Bennet apparently tires of waiting for my response. He sucks in his breath and says, “Got to get back to work, Summer Girl. Next trip’s in a few. Are you going or not?”
“No, I’m—” I desperately fight for a reasonable answer as to why I’ve walked all the way down here. “I’m…” Lucy’s breath is hot against the palm of my hand. “Here to get Calloway’s dog. She ran down here when she saw yours.”
Bennet’s dog, Samson, cooperates with my lie by standing conveniently close. The two dogs look up toward me and Bennet, their eyes darting back and forth between our faces.
“Looks like you got her then,” he says. “Better move on.”
My cheeks burn, then blaze. What’s with the personality switch? Maybe he suffered some kind of blunt-force trauma to the head. Andrew is so steady and balanced. I miss that kind of certainty when I talk to someone, and I’m going to be sure to thank him for it as soon as I get home.
I grab the scruff of Lucy’s neck firmly and march back up the hill to where Natalie is waiting. Her smug and knowing expression only makes me feel worse.
“So what did he say?” she asks.
I grimace. “I should have listened to you. He was a complete jerk. Totally blew me off.”
Now Natalie looks surprised, which confuses me. “Wow. I wasn’t expecting you to say that exactly.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, letting go of Lucy and standing upright.
“Well, jerk I get, but blowing you off? He didn’t take his eyes off your ass the whole time you were storming up here.”
“What?” I can’t believe it. I turn around in time to see that scowly old guy from the ticket booth pulling Bennet by the elbow toward the ferry. Bennet’s head is bowed, and he looks like he’s being sent to the principal’s office. “What is with him?”
Natalie rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “No idea, unless Doyle is giving him an earful about staying away from you.”
“Who? The old man?”
“Yeah, but forget about it. It’s no big deal. Say, can you cook?”
“Guess so.” I glance back at the man. From the moment I bought my ferry ticket, I knew he didn’t like me, but what did I ever do to him? It seems fundamentally unfair to be judged so quickly. “Why?” I ask, turning back toward Natalie. “Do you need me to cook something?”
“Well, normally I wouldn’t even think to ask one of the summer girls, but…my mom has made me the Summer Fest chairperson.”
“What’s that?” I ask, glancing back over my shoulder. But Bennet has disappeared onto the ferry.
“Mr. March—he owns the berry farm near the lighthouse—hosts a huge fish fry at the end of summer. An Irish band comes up from the Twin Cities. This year I’m in charge of planning it. My mom thinks, now that I’m an adult and all, that it’s time to become a”—she makes air quotes and says—“‘contributing member of the community.’ I could use as much help as I can get, because I want this to be the best Summer Fest ever.”
I can’t hide the fact that I’m flattered, particularly given Bennet’s warning about me being the Invisible Girl all summer. “I’d love to help! I plan parties all the time back home.”
“You do?” She heads back toward where I’ve parked my car, and I follow.
“Absolutely! The last one I did was an Around-the-World party at my sorority. It was potluck. Everyone had to come representing their assigned country. My friend Macie came dressed as the Eiffel Tower, and she brought real escargot.”
“Oh, well, I was hoping maybe you could make a couple pans of Tater Tot hotdish.”
“Sure, I could do that, too.” I’m a little disappointed, but I try not to let it show.
“Oh, yeah, and one more thing.” She bites her lip like she’s delivering very unfortunate news. “It’s a toga party.”
I stop in my tracks. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish. Nothing makes you feel up close and personal with your neighbors like seeing seventy-year-old men dressed in bedsheets.”
I don’t understand. I mean I’m, like, truly flummoxed. Fish fries? Irish bands? Togas? There’s no unifying theme there. What kind of place is this? Natalie needs my help more than she knows.
Chapter Fourteen
BENNET
From the stern of the ferry, I watch D’Arcy and Natalie O’Brien walk away, back toward Main Street.
“Let’s go, kid,” Doyle says. I stalk past him and up to the bridge, taking two steps at a time. Obviously Katherine and I don’t have to be friends, but why was I such a dick? One minute I’m fighting back the urge to touch her cartoon-covered breasts, the next I’m back to thinking I should keep my distance.
“Two minutes,” Doyle reminds me.
So I guess there’s no time to run after her and apologize. It’s probably for the best. She must think I’m psychotic anyway. Maybe I am. Maybe my parents weren’t wrong when they suggested I wasn’t quite right in the head. That’s why I blew the girl off. I’m not in the proper headspace for anyone these days. She doesn’t need my shit to ruin her summer.
I take my notebook out of my back pocket and drop onto the captain’s chair, sucking on the end of a ballpoint pen. I quickly scratch down some phrases for the song I’m working on. Jordan had texted after we talked, suggesting I submit for another ad campaign. But television commercials were never what I saw myself doing. I’d really rather finish this song. But…the toilet paper jingle did bring in fifteen hundred bucks. It’s hard to say no to cash.
I stash my notebook just as Doyle shows up. A rush of diesel fumes accompanies him.
“You’re driving?” I ask. Doyle rarely comes up to the bridge unless it’s his shift; it hurts his knees too much to make the climb.
“No, you can,” he says. His voice is sad. Has he sounded like that all day?
I look out the window and down to the deck. Bill waves to me as he taps his hand on the top of the last car to load and casts off. I throw the throt
tle in reverse to back away from the dock. The impending monotony of the job sedates my brain. For a second or two, there’s even a dull buzzing at the back of my head.
But once I throttle up, I remember why I haven’t quit this job. Yeah, the island hasn’t brought the inspiration I’d hoped for in terms of my music, but routine can definitely be good. It takes my mind off everything else, like family, and expectations…and how quickly I can make a summer girl hate me.
We are two-thirds of the way to New Porte before Doyle speaks again. “This time next year, I’m thinkin’ about retirin’. Partially. Makin’ you captain.”
I look at him sideways. “What makes you think I’m still going to be here next year?”
“You’ll be here,” he says, and his confidence is annoying, if not plain alarming.
I pray to God this coming Nashville trip works out the way Jordan hopes. The way I hope. “Why should I? Sully will be back by then.”
“I…I got some bad news this mornin’.” Doyle’s voice cracks, and he stops there, making me ask, “What kind of bad news?”
He sniffs loudly and clears his throat. “Sully O’Hare’s sister called. Seems the bastard died in his sleep.”
“What?” I blurt out.
Doyle looks at me sharply.
“Uh, I mean, I just talked to him a little bit ago.” What I don’t say is, Who’s going to take care of Samson if I leave?
“Well, sometimes life don’t turn out the way we plan, now does it.” His face is turning red, and there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “The fact is, I need you here.”
Sully and Doyle were friends. Doyle is obviously doing his best to keep it together, so I give him the courtesy of looking away. My eyes go to Sam, who is paying close attention to our conversation. He whines and rests his head on his legs, stretched out in front of him. His eyes dart back and forth between me and Doyle.
“I’ve taken more than my fair share of trips across this lake,” Doyle says. “I know a lifer when I see him. Give it some thought.”
“I’ll do that.”
