The Islanders (10 page)

JAKE PULLED THE WHITE FACE
mask down and pinched it over his nose. He lifted the heavy sander and pulled the trigger. It whined furiously, then changed to a lower, harsher pitch as he pressed the spinning belt against the wooden hull of the boat towering above him. Sawdust flew and collected on the plastic lenses of his safety goggles. It gave off a sour, burning smell.

After a while he stopped, lowered the sander, and ran his hand over the surface, feeling the smoothness. That would just about do it, he decided. He'd finish up with a finer-grade sandpaper by hand, and the repair would be ready for the coats of sealer and paint.

He set down the sander and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His father paid him eight dollars an hour to work for him in the marina, which was good money, but his dad always got his money's worth.

Jake glanced longingly at the water, sparkling cool, just a few feet away from the dry dock. He bent over and rummaged
his watch from the pocket of his discarded shirt. Good enough. He had put in five solid hours, an hour more than he had promised, and the job had gone well.

He unlaced his heavy work boots and pulled off his socks. He was wearing raggedy cutoffs, which wouldn't be harmed by a little salt water. He walked to the end of the first pier and looked around. A scattering of people lying out on Town Beach to his left. The ferry halfway back to Weymouth.

He took a deep breath and dove in. He opened his eyes under the water and looked up at the gently rocking hulls of the boats tied to the pier. With several kicks he was out in deeper water and coming up for air.

The water was cold as always but invigorating, not numbing. He looked around, deciding which direction to go. The swell was gentle out beyond the breakwater, and somehow the confines of the harbor just didn't seem wide enough. He'd swim up around to the north point, maybe take a rest at the lighthouse. On the way he could check out the sailboat from Bar Harbor that had stopped on its way down the coast to Newport.

He swam hard, enjoying the feeling of his muscles burning while his skin cooled and the sweat and sawdust were washed away. He paused when he reached the beautiful fifty-four footer, rolling at anchor in the middle of the harbor. A look told him the owner and crew were probably ashore—the dinghy was
gone. He hailed it anyway, yelling, “Hey, anyone aboard?” No answer.

Too bad; he'd have liked to look around inside. She had an opulent yet professional look about her. He took several deep breaths, then dived under, thinking to get a look at the keel. But something hanging underwater from the anchor line caught his eye. He swam over to it and smiled. Three six-packs of Killian's Red, hanging in a net bag to keep cool.

He started to swim away, intending to head on toward the point, but something stopped him. He looked back at the beer.
They'd never know
, he thought.

But just behind that thought came the angry denial. No way. He didn't steal.

Although it would certainly save money over what he'd have to pay Dave Voorhies for the use of his fake ID. He turned and kicked toward the bag. It would be no problem, and no one would ever know.

His lungs began to burn and he broke the surface, looking around guiltily. No, this was dumb. First of all, he didn't need any more beer. What he needed was to get himself in shape physically and get his concentration back. Beer wouldn't help either of those goals.

He began swimming north at full speed, stretching his muscles, and as his head came up for each breath he checked his
progress against the shoreline.

Start stealing beer and you'll end up no better than Lucas
, he warned himself.
No better than Lucas?
he repeated ironically.
You need to update your thinking there, Jake. You don't have much reason to look down on Lucas anymore. It's Claire who is the guilty one. Claire.

Claire, who you can't stop thinking of. Claire, who had gotten away with everything, the only one unhurt. The untouchable, unreachable Claire.

He began inscribing an arc on the surface of the water, now breasting the heavier chop of the more open sea, fighting the current that resisted his advance. The lighthouse on its tiny island of tumbled rock came into view, a squat white-and-black structure.

He had to swim around the islet to reach the tiny sand-and-pebble landing. He drew himself up, fighting the heavy gravitational pull of the water, and threw himself back on a tuft of sea grass. A hundred yards across the water stood the row of restored homes that had once belonged to the whaling captains who operated out of Chatham Island. It was the quaint sort of picture that appealed to tourists. But it was one particular home that drew Jake's eye.

He realized he was disappointed not to see her up on her widow's walk. Still, she could be inside, right up there beneath the sloping roof, behind those twin dormers.

Claire.

Claire, who said she loved him.

The only way he had of making her pay was to be cold, make her feel at least some tiny bit of rejection for once in her charmed life. She wanted to gain total absolution from him for the damage she had done. At least he could deny her that. He could use that one small area of vulnerability to hurt her. He owed Wade that much. He owed it to his dead brother to at the very least not forgive the girl who had killed him.

That was the very, very least he had to do.

A motorboat roared past, halfway to land, bouncing and sending up a high wake. Someone onboard gave a wave and a faint yell. He waved back compliantly, having no idea who they might be.

Again he checked the still-empty widow's walk.

Wade would have ridiculed him for being a wuss. He could imagine Wade's words, hear his contemptuous voice—Man, Jake, you pathetic little wimp. You're so whipped by this babe you'd sell out your own brother. You were ready to try to make Lucas Cabral pay, but now that it's Claire, oh, that's totally different.

It couldn't be different. He had to be true to the memory of Wade. He was sure of that.

A flutter of movement on the widow's walk. His heart leapt. Claire!

But then the movement resolved itself into white wings, and the sea gull flew away.

Aisha knocked on the front door of Christopher's building precisely at six o'clock that evening. It was a huge, rambling, and somewhat rundown Victorian rooming house that fronted the landward side of the island.

When after several minutes no one answered, she cautiously opened the door and went inside. She'd been to Christopher's apartment only once, but she remembered he was on the third floor.

“Hello?” she called out to the gloomy foyer. Somewhere a radio was playing country music, but that didn't sound like Christopher. “Okay,” she said. “Let's just hope none of the members of the Addams Family are home right now.”

She climbed the stairs and easily found Christopher's door. He had the room on the top floor of an octagonal tower. Not huge, but very distinctive and with amazing views of the beach. She knocked. “Christopher?”

The door opened and there he stood, dressed in a suit coat and tie. Also in black shorts, a T-shirt, and white Nikes. The
coffee table was decorated with a candle stuck in an empty bottle of Dr Pepper. The radio was playing softly.

“Welcome,” Christopher said very formally, “to my humble abode.”

Aisha gave him a skeptical look but went inside. “Candlelight?”

“I'm fixing you a gourmet dinner,” he said, taking her hand and leading her to a pile of pillows stacked together before the table. “Paella.”

“Pa-what?”

“Paella. Chicken, sausage, clams, shrimp, and calamari on saffron rice. Very Spanish.”

“Oh, that's right. I don't know why I should be surprised. You do cook for a living. At least part of your living.”

“I can make anything that's on the menu at Passmores',” Christopher said, heading toward the minuscule kitchen—really just a glorified hot plate with a tiny sink and ancient refrigerator. “In fact, this would cost you seventeen ninety-five down at work. Plus tax and tip.”

Aisha laughed. “I like your outfit. I would have dressed up more if I'd realized this was such a formal date.”

“Oh, this old thing?”

“Very distinguished. I like the tie and T-shirt look.”

“You want some wine with dinner?” he asked. He reached
into the refrigerator and came up with a bottle of 7-Up. “We have white and”—he produced a Dr Pepper—“brown.”

“I think white wine with seafood,” Aisha said. She took the drink and watched as he lifted the lid from a casserole, letting a cloud of fragrant steam escape.

“There are appetizers over on the buffet table.”

Aisha looked around the room and spotted a plate of food on his nightstand. “The buffet table? What do you call the bed? Never mind,” she added quickly. She lifted a stuffed mushroom cap from the plate and popped it into her mouth. “Hey, this is delicious.”

“Six ninety-five, plus tax and tip,” he said over his shoulder.

She took a swallow of her soda and eyed his back contentedly. Tall, dark, handsome. Hardworking and ambitious. Smart, funny, sexy, and he could cook paella and mushrooms stuffed with crab. What exactly had she been thinking when she'd tried to get rid of him? He was like a textbook example of the perfect guy. If you looked
Mr. Right
up in a dictionary, they'd have a picture of Christopher Shupe.

It wasn't like she was just falling victim to hormones or some stupid crush based on the fact that he had a nice body. This was a perfectly sensible thing. It was logical. He was a great guy, no matter how critical you wanted to be.

As long as you overlooked the fact that he had a weak
memory when it came to where he bought socks.

“Okay,” Christopher said, quickly filling a couple of plates and tossing on a garnish, “sit.”

She sat on the pillows and crossed her legs. Christopher put a steaming plate of food down before her, and one for himself. He sat down and raised his soda. “A toast. To Aisha, which means ‘life.”

“And Christopher,” she said.

“Which means?” he prompted.

Aisha smiled. It seemed like a long time ago that he had told her that the day would come when
Christopher
would mean “boyfriend.” She had told him there was no way, but even then, his confidence had half convinced her. “To Christopher,” she said, clinking her bottle against his. “Which, to my surprise, really does mean boyfriend.”

“Okay, now eat. Don't let my great food get cold.”

She dived in. “Hey. This really is fantastic.”

“Maybe I should blow off college and go to the Culinary Institute instead,” he suggested. “Everyone who graduates from there has like five solid job offers waiting when he comes out.”

“You could do both. An MBA and a cooking degree? Could be deadly if you want to run a restaurant.”

“You know something?” he said, narrowing his eyes shrewdly. “That's not a bad idea. I can see a whole nationwide
chain, hundreds of restaurants Shupe's International House of Paella.”

“That way you could use your business degree to figure out what to charge.”

The telephone rang.

Christopher rolled his eyes. “Don't people realize I'm trying to seduce a woman here?”

“Oh, is
that
what you're trying to do?”

“Remember before, when I mentioned the tip?” He gave her an exaggerated leer and got up to get the telephone on the third ring. “Shupe's International House of Paella,” he answered. He listened for a second and immediately his voice dropped. Not quite a whisper, just a low pitch intended to make it hard for Aisha to overhear his conversation. With the music from the radio, she could make out very little.

But she could hear the tone of his voice.

He came back after a minute. “I took it off the hook so we won't be disturbed again.”

“Anyone I know?” Aisha asked nonchalantly.

He shook his head dismissively. “An old guy I do some landscaping for. He wanted to know if I could put in some rosebushes for him. This time of year? Rosebushes?”

Aisha smiled for his benefit.
You are such a liar, Christopher. Such a quick, professional liar. Was it the girl with the long blond
ponytail? Or some other girl? Because it certainly wasn't an old man you were using that voice on.

“You work too much,” she said.

“I know,” he said, reaching to take her hand. “Too little time for what's important. Like being with you.”

The amazing thing was, he still seemed totally sincere, Aisha noted. And the worst thing was that her insides still quivered helplessly at the touch of his hand on hers. It was terrible how much she wanted him, even now, even knowing.

Right guy or wrong guy. It was too late for her to push him away.

She used to laugh at Zoey for being a hopeless romantic.

Now it turns out I'm just as dumb as Zoey, after all
, Aisha thought sadly.

BENJAMIN FINGERED THE TITLES OF
the books Zoey had brought him and set them down on a ledge inside his oak rolltop desk. The desk had tons of cubbyholes of different sizes and shapes, which made it perfect for Benjamin, who could find things only by remembering exactly where he had left them. It also had wood of a wonderful texture that was a pleasure to run his hands over.

He heard a tapping sound, fingers on glass. Left window, he decided, orienting himself by the desk and aiming his sunglasses in that direction. The tapping came again, followed by a voice he recognized as belonging to Lucas.

“Ben, it's me, man.”

Benjamin pondered for a moment why Lucas would come tapping at his window and speaking in a loud whisper, but really, the reason was somewhat obvious—it could only have to do with Zoey.

He felt for the window latch, opened it, and raised the
window. A whiff of cool breeze met his face.

“Is there some good reason why you don't just go to the front door?” Benjamin asked.

“Your sister,” Lucas said, sounding exasperated. “Is she really pissed at me or what?”

“You think I'm dumb enough to get in the middle of you and Zoey having a lovers' quarrel? Do I look that stupid?”

“You don't have to get in the middle,” Lucas said quickly. “It's just that we were supposed to go out tonight and she called a few minutes ago and said she wanted to cancel because she wasn't feeling well.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So is she really not feeling well, or is she blowing me off over this dumb-ass homecoming crap? I mean, that would be very petty, in my opinion. But she may have found out what I've been doing.”

“What
have
you been doing?” Benjamin asked, against his better judgment.

“I've just been making a few calls. You know, kids from school, telling them not to vote for me or anything.”

Benjamin laughed, delighted. “Only you, Lucas.”

“I think maybe Zoey found out and that's why she won't go out tonight.”

Benjamin shrugged. “All I can tell you is she went shopping
down in Portland with Nina and when she came back, she was very quiet. She sounded like she might not be feeling well.”

“Really?”

“I only know what I hear.”

“Huh. Well, maybe it's one of those female things.”

“Maybe. Or else she hates your guts,” Benjamin added helpfully. “Maybe she's found another guy. Could be up in her room with him right now.”

“Thanks a lot,” Lucas said sarcastically. “I'm giving you the finger, by the way.”

Benjamin grinned and shut the window. Lucas was a relief, after Zoey going out with straight-arrow Jake for so long. He could get along with Lucas. Lucas had an edge of larceny in his soul.

How on earth was
Claire
ever going to have a relationship with Jake? The question popped into his mind, bringing with it a renewed dose of the sadness he'd carried with him ever since Claire and he had broken up.

He tried to push the thought aside. He couldn't spend his life crying over Claire. He sighed and thought about his sister instead. Was Zoey sick? Or was she really just giving Lucas a hard time?

He opened the door and climbed the stairs to Zoey's room. “Hey, Zo. You in there?”

“Yeah.”

She sounded dispirited, depressed maybe. Or else like he had just woken her up from a nap. “Can I talk to you for a second? Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

He went in and stopped after two steps, waiting for her to speak so he could locate her.

“What do you want?” Zoey asked, not rude but distracted. She was on her bed.

“I just had a visit from Lucas. He wanted to know if you were sick or something.”

“I'm not sick,” Zoey said.

But not exactly happy, either, Benjamin noted. “Are you okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Uh-huh,” Benjamin echoed disparagingly.

“Look, it's just something, all right?”

He shrugged. “Whatever you say.” He started to leave, but she spoke again, sounding distant and strange.

“Can I ask your advice on something?”

Benjamin winced involuntarily. “My advice?”

“It's kind of a philosophical question, you know,” Zoey said.

“You sure I'm the right person to ask?”

“I don't know who else to ask,” Zoey said flatly.

Benjamin located the chair by her dormer desk and sat down. “Okay, shoot.”

Zoey was silent for a while. “Which is better—keeping your promise to a friend, or breaking the promise if you think your friend needs help?” she finally asked.

Benjamin ran his hand through his hair. “Is that all you're going to tell me?”

“It's all I
can
tell you.”

“Hmm. Let's see, is it a matter of life or death?”

“I don't think so, but it's close.”

“Really,” Benjamin said, suddenly feeling a premonition of some unhappiness. Zoey wasn't being Zoey. This was as grim as he had ever heard her. Who was the friend? Lucas? He hadn't seemed worried. Nina? When had Nina ever worried about anything serious? “If this friend is able to make his or her own decisions, then I guess you have to let them,” Benjamin said uncertainly. “I guess that means if they want you to keep a secret, you have to keep a secret. Unless it's a crime or something,” he added as an afterthought.

“Unless it's a crime,” Zoey repeated thoughtfully.

“Jeez, I don't know, Zoey. I'm not a philosopher.”

“I know.”

“Can you at least tell me who we're talking about?” Benjamin asked.

“I haven't decided that yet,” Zoey said. “I haven't decided what to do.”

“You'll figure out the right answer,” Benjamin said reassuringly. He got up to leave. When he was halfway out the door, Zoey spoke again.

“There are some real creeps in the world, aren't there?”

Her venom surprised Benjamin. “Are there?” he asked.

“Thanks for talking to me,” Zoey said.

Benjamin heard her close the door behind him.

“Go away.”

“It's me,” Claire said.

“I know, that's why I said go away.”

“I'm on a mission from Dad,” Claire said, trying to remain patient. She heard a metallic scrape and the door opened suddenly.

“What?”

Claire stared at her sister. Nina's eyes were vacant and red-rimmed, as if she'd been crying. “What's the matter with you?”

“Nothing's the matter with me,” Nina said shortly. Then she relented. “I tried to smoke a cigarette again, and it made my eyes puff up, all right?”

Claire shook her head. “Someday you'll have to explain to me why you would go out of your way to try and become
addicted to something every sane person is trying to drop.”

“I'm not a sane person,” Nina said. “What do you want, anyway?”

“I'm delivering a message. Daddy wants to be sure certain people have their rooms clean for tomorrow.”

“My room is clean,” Nina snapped.

Claire pushed her way into the room. She looked around, nodding with satisfaction. “Pretty clean by your standards, I'll admit. Although some people think clothing should be in the closet, not on the floor. And some people even believe that sheets should be changed more than once a month.”

“Claire, why don't you go jump off your stupid widow's walk and do me and the rest of the world a favor?”

“Look, Nina, I don't give a damn; I'm just delivering the message. You can start a fire in the middle of your floor and roast marshmallows for all I care.”

She turned and marched to the door, shaking her head. Nina seemed to be in a fairly rotten mood, which just exacerbated Claire's own fairly rotten mood. To top it off, their father was also in a fairly rotten mood, brought on by the fact that his Sunday off and several subsequent days were going to be ruined by visiting relatives. Their branch of the Geiger family was not big on backslapping, trading old stories, and forced friendliness. It just brought out the crankiness in them.

Some, apparently, more than others.

“Home alone on a Saturday night, Claire?” Nina took a parting shot.

Claire pressed her lips in a steely smile and turned back to Nina. “Home alone
every
Saturday night, Nina?”

“I've decided to become a nun; what's your excuse?”

“Guys are afraid I have insanity running in my family,” Claire said. “And those who have met you are sure of it.”

Nina stared at her, presumably readying her return volley. “Who's getting what room?” she asked.

Claire was taken aback. It was a sudden shift of topic, like Nina had just changed the channel without warning. “What?”

“Aunt E. in the back bedroom?” Nina asked, her eyes unfocused, staring into middle space.

“Yes. Are you . . . Are you okay?”

Nina nodded, still staring. “When will they be here?”

“Tomorrow, late morning, around eleven, so you should consider getting out of bed sometime before then.”

“Yeah,” Nina said.

Claire started to leave a second time. But even by Nina's standards, she was behaving strangely. “Dad's doing the barbecue cookout thing. He said we can invite people.” No response, just blank staring and a sort of continuous nodding. “I think Dad just wants people around so he'll have an excuse not to
have to talk to Uncle Mark.”

Nina looked up sharply. “He doesn't like Uncle Mark?”

“I guess Uncle Mark always gets defensive because we have money.”

“He does?”

“That's what Dad says. I wouldn't know. I don't think I've seen him since we were little.”

“Did you ever stay at their house?” Nina asked, her eyes boring into Claire.

Claire shifted uncomfortably. All joking aside, maybe Nina really was becoming a little unbalanced. “No, I never stayed with them. You did, though, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

Claire was losing patience with this weird conversation. Was Nina on drugs or just being strange? “Well, then you'll all have plenty to talk about. Now, um, if you don't mind, I have to return to planet Earth.”

“Bye, Claire,” Nina said, sounding strangely sad and distant.

The door closed and again Claire heard a metallic scrape.