The Islanders (3 page)

She turned and paced off the distance back to her own door. Eight paces in a nice straight line.

That was the difference: seventeen paces, past her father's bedroom door, around the stairwell, past what should be Aunt E.'s room. Or if Uncle Mark got the front bedroom, it would mean just eight steps, in a nice straight line, passing nothing.

Nina ducked into her bedroom and stared for a while at the doorknob. It was the old-fashioned kind, made of clear glass, with a keyhole beneath that had been painted over dozens of times in the two-hundred-year history of the house. She had never seen a key. In all likelihood the key had been lost a century earlier.

She closed the door. He wasn't going to come. Her father had said it was only a possibility. Fine. She was going to assume the best: he wasn't really coming. He and Aunt Elizabeth would call up and say they just couldn't make it. That's the way it would be. That's the way it had to be.

CLAIRE LEFT THE HOUSE RIGHT
after dinner. She had homework to do, but she was too preoccupied by other things to concentrate.

The other things were really just one thing. One thing named Jake.

She walked along Lighthouse Road, enjoying the nice swell that was sending dramatic plumes of spray surging up and raining down noisily on the tumbled rocks of the north shore. The passing beam from the lighthouse turned a cloud of spray to silver dust before sweeping on through the dark.

Claire was disappointed in the weather. A huge high-pressure system seemed parked over New England, and it was clear as far as the eye could see. Claire liked weather, especially the extremes Maine could conjure up in fall and winter. Well, the storms would start soon enough.

She followed Lighthouse as it curved and headed south, past the island's only tiny gas station, past the small hardware store, past the commercial dock and the bright, empty ferry landing.

She hadn't really decided on her goal. She harbored some vague hope that she might run into Jake, and having accidentally, casually, run into him, that she might find a way to get him to talk. Talking was the necessary first step.

She spotted Zoey and Aisha sitting out in front of the Passmores' restaurant, sipping sodas and looking bored.

Claire hesitated. They'd all kissed and made up that morning, but still, where Zoey was, Lucas couldn't be far away. And she still wasn't ready to make small talk with Lucas Cabral.

Claire cut discreetly up Exchange Street through the candy stores and souvenir shops that catered to the summertime tourist trade. Many were already closed down for the winter, their glass fronts shuttered, doors barred, upper-story windows dark.

Getting around Zoey and Aisha without being seen would take her several blocks out of her way—assuming, as she had just admitted to herself, that her goal was Jake's house.

Was that her goal? What could she possibly do? Just walk up, knock on his door, and pretend nothing had happened? What could she say? Sorry?

The detour through town eventually brought her to Dock Street. It curved along Town Beach, a placid, underused strand of sand, crushed shell, and washed-up seaweed. In the harbor sailboats were moored, ghosts in the dark. She reached the intersection and hesitated. She could either follow the road along
toward Jake's house or turn right to go out onto the breakwater. Claire stood and considered, her gaze drawn by the slowly flashing beacon that marked the end of the breakwater.

She heard his steps on the sand and gravel only after it was too late to think what she should say. She turned and saw him just as he, raising his eyes from the ground, spotted her. He was carrying a canvas bag slung over his shoulder and a can of Budweiser in his free hand.

“Huh” was all he said.

“Hi, Jake,” Claire said.

He looked as if he was trying to summon up something harsh to say, but the effort went nowhere. He just shrugged and said, “Yeah, hi, Claire.”

“Jake . . . I thought maybe we could talk,” Claire said. It was the most clichéd thing in the world to say, but she didn't know how else to put it.

“Maybe you need to talk. I need to drink beer.”

“You're just going to walk down the road drinking beer?” Claire asked, trying not to sound too much like his mother.

“Better than driving down the road drinking beer, as you should know, Claire.” He laughed shortly at his joke. “Actually, I'm going to go sit at the end of the breakwater and drink beer.”

Claire shot a look down the long, concrete expanse of the breakwater. The surf that had been giving the north shore a
good pounding was even more forceful as it slammed against the breakwater. It was nothing that would have been dangerous to Jake . . . if he were sober.

“I wonder if I could come with you,” Claire asked. “We wouldn't really have to talk.”

Jake cocked a sarcastic eye at her. “I don't know, Claire,” he said. “You might
accidentally
knock me into the water. My father would be pissed. There would be no one left to carry on the proud McRoyan name.”

Claire bowed her head. “I deserve that, I guess.”

“No, you deserve to spend a couple of years at Youth Authority,” Jake said coldly. “But that's what Lucas got. Wade got dead . . .” His voice quivered a little, but he regained control by redoubling the venom in his tone. “Lucas got jail. And Claire—the one actually driving the car—Claire got to walk away unhurt, untouched. Just a little bruise on the head, just enough so that she could claim her memory was screwed up. Lucky Claire.”

He brushed past her, heading down the short connecting road to the breakwater.

“Jake,” she called after him.

He marched on, seemingly oblivious.

“Jake,” she cried, “don't you realize how much I care for you?”

He stopped and hung his head, as if in deep thought. Claire held her breath. Then Jake drained his can of beer, tossed it in the general direction of a trash barrel, pulled a new beer from his canvas bag, and popped it open.

“Jake, the surf is up,” Claire warned. “Let me come with you.”

“Go screw yourself, Claire,” Jake said. He walked on, and Claire watched him. He was still moving confidently. He wasn't drunk yet. But judging by the bulk of his bag, she could tell he would be, sooner or later. And even strong, powerful swimmers like Jake could be battered to death if they fell between the irresistible force of the sea and the immovable breakwater.

Let alone when they were drunk.

She waited till he had reached the end of the breakwater and flopped down on the wet concrete, a dark, hunched creature lit only by the dim glow from the lights of town and the intermittent flash of the green warning beacon.

Claire walked halfway down the breakwater toward him, stopping well out of earshot. She sat down on a dry patch of concrete and checked her watch.

Great. So much for getting her homework done tonight. She had to spend her evening baby-sitting a guy who hated her.

Why?
Claire asked herself mockingly. Why was she doing this? Like Aisha said, she wasn't Joan of Arc.

Because she didn't want anything to happen to him.

And why did she care what happened to Jake? Because she felt guilty? Because she felt she owed him?

Because she'd started to love him?

All of the above?

Jake started on his third beer and Claire lay back, looking up at the clear, star-strewn sky, and wished for a storm, or some other clear, easy answer.

“This table wobbles,” Aisha complained. “You should tell your parents.”

Zoey used her paper napkin to mop up the Pepsi that Aisha had spilled. “It's not the table,” she explained. “It's the brick sidewalk. The bricks are uneven.”

“Oh,” Aisha said, looking under the table.

“Besides, you're complaining? The soda's free since you're such a good friend of the owners' daughter.”

They were sitting on the sidewalk outside Passmores' at one of the restaurant's three small outdoor tables. The other two tables were empty. It was a slow night for business, and her dad and mom had both gone home for a couple of hours, leaving Christopher Shupe to deal with the kitchen and Zoey to watch the dining room and bar. Their only patrons at the moment were a man and woman who were such regulars they could
pour their own beers and keep track of what they owed. From inside the restaurant came the sound of CNN on TV.

“Who's complaining?” Aisha asked. “I always like to save fifty cents.”

“Fifty cents?” Zoey echoed. “In what universe? We charge a buck and a quarter for sodas. A dollar seventy-five during tourist season.”

“Then I guess I'm extra grateful,” Aisha said.

“Well, what have we here?”

Zoey looked up to see Christopher emerge from the doorway, wearing a white chef's jacket and stained apron over shorts.

“All the beauty and class and charm that Chatham Island has to offer,” he said. “Oh, and you're here, too, Aisha.”

Aisha fished an ice cube out of her drink and tossed it at him. He sidestepped easily and bent over to plant a light kiss on her lips.

“Where's Lucas?” Christopher asked.

“The ferry's not in yet,” Zoey said.

“Oh, man,” Christopher groaned. “Are you telling me it's not seven yet? This night is dragging. I've done all the prep I can do; I changed the oil in the fryer and mopped out the walk-in. If biz doesn't pick up, your dad will have to cut back my hours.”

“It's always slow in the fall,” Zoey said reassuringly. “When the cold weather sets in, we'll get more business because people don't want to drag over to the mainland.”

“Christopher hasn't done the Maine winter experience yet,” Aisha said, grinning at Zoey.

“Oh, that's right. You may want to get some long pants,” Zoey said. “It gets slightly chilly.” She saw the bright running lights of the ferry coming around the breakwater, twinkling through the masts of the sailboats anchored in the harbor. “Here it comes,” she said. She strained, hoping for an early glimpse of Lucas. But he didn't appear until several minutes later, after the ferry had docked.

He came sauntering across the bright square, heading straight up the street toward his house, unaware that Zoey was waiting for him.

“You want me to get him for you?” Christopher asked.

“Would you mind?” Zoey asked. “I would, but I'm not supposed to leave the immediate vicinity of the cash register.”

Christopher ran off and quickly caught up with Lucas. They came back at a leisurely walk.

Christopher was the taller and heavier of the two, by an inch and a few pounds. He moved with a bouncy, restless energy, like an overgrown puppy who couldn't wait to chase something. He always seemed to be checking out everyone and everything around him, like a serious shopper sizing things up in a hurry, analyzing, pricing, wondering how much he could carry. It was easy for Zoey to see why Aisha liked him—boundless
self-confidence, intelligence, a sense of humor.

Lucas moved with more economy, conserving his energy. His interest in the world around him was more selective. His eyes roamed, considered, dismissed, and went on to the next thing. Yet there was always the sense that he was on guard, only pretending to be relaxed. He often seemed serious, as if he were distracted by important things that only he knew about. His smile, when it appeared, was a slow, rueful thing that made him seem, at least to Zoey's eyes, utterly irresistible.

“All the looks and style and manly muscle on Chatham Island,” Aisha said as soon as Christopher and Lucas were within earshot. “Oh, and I see you're back, too, Christopher.”

Christopher laughed and wagged his finger at her.

“Hey, Zoey, guess what?” Lucas said. “I'm free. My parole officer said it was obvious the conviction would be expunged, so he doesn't want me wasting his time anymore.”

“That's great,” Zoey said happily as she jumped up and threw her arms around Lucas.

“Expunged.” Christopher tried out the word. “Excellent word. I'll have to use it sometime. Expunge me.”

Lucas kissed Zoey's lips, sending a thrill through her that hadn't diminished at all in the weeks they had been together. After a few seconds she pulled away, jerking her head meaningfully toward Aisha and Christopher.

“You want us to cover our eyes?” Aisha suggested.

“I think they make a cute couple,” Christopher said sarcastically. “They're both so sweet.”

“Chew me, Christopher,” Lucas said mildly. He closed his eyes and kissed Zoey again.

“You know,” Aisha said thoughtfully, “you two do make such a nice-looking couple. And with homecoming and all, well, I think you'd be a cinch for homecoming king and queen. It would have such a nice symbolic thing going. I mean, Lucas
has
come home. All you need is like a dozen votes to nominate you.”

“I don't think I'd be a contender,” Zoey said, pulling away from Lucas. “Remember when I ran for student council and came in fourth behind Captain America?”

“You beat Thor,” Aisha pointed out encouragingly.

“I'll have to remember to put that on all my college applications,” Zoey said, laughing. “Anyway, I'm not one of those people who enjoy repeated humiliation.”

“Oh, come on,” Aisha said. “Cartoon morons aren't even eligible for homecoming queen, so you have a pretty good chance.”

“Excuse me,” Lucas said firmly. “But I'm not going to be king or queen of anything.”

“You're just being modest,” Christopher teased. “You know you want the job. The power, the glory.”

“Uh-huh,” Lucas said. “Check the weather forecast. The day they announce that hell has frozen over, I'll be glad to run for homecoming king.”

In Zoey's room Lucas leaned into the dormered window and checked the quote wall where Zoey stuck bits of wisdom on yellow Post-it notes.

“Anything new and deep?” he asked lightly.

Zoey smiled a little self-consciously. Jake had never shown much interest in her quotes when he was her boyfriend. And her friends just dismissed it as a harmless quirk of character.

Lucas scanned the latest Post-it.

The world is a comedy to those who think; a tragedy to those who feel.

He stood back. “And which are you?”

Zoey ran her hand through her hair and shrugged. “That's what I've been trying to figure out.”

Lucas put his arms around her waist and pulled her to him. He kissed her lightly. “Did you feel that or think about it?” he asked.

“That?” Zoey asked. “That I thought about.”

Lucas kissed her again, more deeply, till she closed her eyes
and wrapped her arms around his neck and held him closer still.

“That I felt,” she said in a husky voice.

“So it was a tragic kiss?”