The Islanders (4 page)

THE CURTAINS WERE OPEN AND
the light was on in Jake's room. Zoey stepped onto the patio and pressed her face against the sliding glass door, searching the room for him. Not on the Soloflex machine. Not sitting at his computer. Not watching his TV.

She tried the door, but it was locked. He was probably upstairs with his parents. Zoey shrugged philosophically. She didn't really want to walk in on the whole family at this late hour, but she felt she needed to see Jake. It had been several hours since they had seen Lucas from her family room window, time enough for Jake to calm down a little, to mellow, as he sometimes did, from anger to his own brand of silent grief and remorse.

She walked up and around the house, arriving at the front door. She knocked, and in seconds Mrs. McRoyan opened the door and squealed her usual enthusiastic welcome.

“Is Jake home?” Zoey asked. “I didn't see him downstairs.”

Mrs. McRoyan made a puzzled face, wrinkling her blue eyes. “Should be. I can't imagine he'd go out this late.”

A sudden worry flashed through Zoey's mind. Had Jake gone off looking for trouble with Lucas?

“I know it's late, but do you mind if I go see if he's down there?” Zoey asked.

“What late?” Mrs. McRoyan protested. “I only wish you'd been here earlier. I had out the trusty Betty Crocker cookbook and was working on the apple tarte tatin, only this time I was making my own puff pastry. Would you like a piece?”

“Sounds great—like everything you make, Mrs. McRoyan. But I'm kind of full.”

“When are you going to start calling me Daisy?” She ushered Zoey inside.

“Oh, probably not till I'm at least thirty,” Zoey said. “I think I'll just run on down—”

“Well, you know the way. But if you have time, stop back up here. No one around here appreciates the labor that goes into puff pastry. Sure, they'll eat it, but my husband and Jake and Holly don't understand.”

Zoey trotted down the stairs. The rec room light was off, but the door to Jake's room was open. With a sense of foreboding, Zoey hurried forward.

Just then, the door to Jake's bathroom opened wide. Steam
billowed out. She turned and saw him facing the mirror over the sink, his face covered in shaving cream.

His face was the only thing covered.

He turned and saw her. His eyes opened wide.

“
Oh oh oh
, I . . . I . . .” she replied.

He slammed the door shut.

She dived toward his room. “Sorry!” she yelled.

“I just shaved my right cheek down to the bone!” he complained, his voice muffled by the door.

“I said I was sorry.” She chewed on her thumb. “I . . . I didn't see anything.”

“What is that, an insult?”

“That's not funny, Jake,” she chided. She heard him laughing softly.

“Look, all I have in here is a towel. Bring me some clothes.”

“What?” she asked, looking around at the room and not seeing anything that might be clothing.

“In my closet, on the hook. I think there's a pair of sweatpants.”

She found them, a gray pair with
Harvard
embroidered down the leg. She tapped on his bathroom door. “Here.”

He opened the door a crack. A hand emerged and disappeared with the pants. Seconds later he came out, holding a wad of toilet paper to his right cheek.

“I just wanted to make sure you were all right,” Zoey said lamely.

“I'm not a Ken doll, if that's what you wanted to know.”

“You know what I meant.”

“Sure,” he said breezily. “I'm bleeding profusely and I'm embarrassed. On the other hand, I had been feeling kind of sleepy and now I'm wide awake. Jeez, I just saw
Psycho
on TV last night. You know, butcher knives flashing in the shower? It's amazing how high you can jump when you get that shot of adrenaline. Coach should have seen me.”

He pulled the tissue away from his face.

“I think you'll live,” Zoey said.

“I don't know . . .”

She put her arms around his broad bare shoulders, her hands barely meeting in back. “You want me to kiss it and make it better?”

“Actually, yes.”

They ended up on his bed, making out. After a while they ended up lying together, Jake with his back against the wall, Zoey reclining against his chest, enjoying the rise and fall of his breathing, listening to the deep rumble of his laugh as they watched Jimmy Fallon together.

At last, as she felt sleep closing in, Zoey got up, stretched, and headed for the sliding glass door. He followed her, peering
out at the night over her shoulder.

“Thanks for coming over,” he said.

“I just wanted to, you know, make sure you're okay,” she said.

He smiled gently. “I am now, Zo. To tell you the truth, I was pretty keyed up before, but then, you always have been able to make me feel great, just by being around.”

She nodded, touched by his emotional admission, so unusual for Jake. “You know what?” she asked. “You do the same for me.”

He grinned mischievously. “You could spend the night . . .”

Zoey shook her head tolerantly and sighed. “Good night, Jake.”

Zoey woke and lay in bed, listening to the music of her clock radio and warming to the fading tendrils of a dream about Jake. It was eight o'clock, earlier than she had been getting up, but she was trying to get herself back on a school-year schedule. Once school started, she would have to be down at the dock by seven forty.

As she closed her eyes again, a thought was prickling the back of her mind, demanding to be remembered. Oh, yeah. Lucas.

She snapped off the radio and climbed out of bed, twisting
her Boston Bruins T-shirt around so that the logo once again faced the right way. Her room had two windows, one on the side that gave a view of the house next door and, if she craned her neck, a sliver of the Cabrals' deck.

No sign of Lucas. Maybe he wasn't even home. Maybe.

She moved to the second deep, dormered window where she had a built-in desk. She leaned across the cluttered desk and drew aside the curtains. The house was perched at the dead end of Camden Street, giving her a view straight down the entire five-block length of the street.

Gentle morning sunlight lit the brick and wood buildings on the left side of the street, leaving the other side in cool shadow. As usual, there was little traffic, only the occasional bicycle, the infrequent island car rattling to or from the ferry. Two blocks down, where Camden crossed the cobblestones of Exchange Street, the old woman who ran the antique store was sweeping the sidewalk in front of her building.

Zoey drew her gaze away from the window and stared at the sides of the dormer. The walls were plastered with Post-it notes—lists and reminders and appointments on the right, quotations on the left. Her current favorite was a quote from Joseph Joubert:

She had no idea who Joseph Joubert was, but she liked the quote just the same.

Below that was another.

Goethe had said that, and it had been bothering her ever since she'd found it in a book and duly written it down on the yellow Post-it note. Maybe that was why she'd been feeling restless. Maybe her life was becoming a succession of ordinary days.

She showered and shaved her legs and put on white shorts and a short-sleeve blue-and-white-striped top. Her mother was downstairs in the kitchen with Benjamin. She was wearing a bathrobe, her faded blond hair tousled, reading the newspaper and sipping coffee. Benjamin was making himself a bowl of cereal, keeping his thumb hooked inside the bowl so he'd know when he'd added enough milk. Her father would already be down at the restaurant, cooking for the fishermen and the early morning ferry crowd.

“Good morning, everyone,” Zoey said cheerfully.

Her mother looked up from her paper and smiled wanly.
“Don't be so cheerful; my head can't take it.”

“Hung over,” Benjamin said, walking with his cereal to the table.

“No, smart guy,” their mother said. “I just didn't get much sleep last night.” She grinned. “Your father and I were arguing, so naturally we had to make up.”

Zoey shook her head and reached for the box of muffins on the counter. “Mom, do you think you could spare us the details? We
are
your kids.”

Her mother shrugged. “You do know the facts of life, don't you? I mean, you do know where you and Benjamin came from and all?”

“Yes, of course I know. I just don't need to think about it. You're warping me.”

“I don't do all that parental crap, you know that,” her mother said, waving her hand dismissively. “You want Donna Reed, go hang out with Daisy McRoyan. She likes to stay home and bake pies while her husband's out banging everything in a skirt.”

Zoey glared at her mother. “I don't think you should go around saying things like that. What if Jake was over here and heard you say that about his dad?”

“If Jake doesn't know it, he's the only one,” her mother said. She rolled her eyes. “Look, I'm sorry. I take it back. Fred McRoyan's a saint. Everybody on this island's a saint. We're all just
one big, happy family.” She turned the page of the newspaper.

“I'm going out,” Zoey said.

“You going over?” Benjamin asked.

“No, I was just going to head down to the circle, see if anyone's around. See if Nina wants to do anything. You want to come? Or did you want me to pick something up for you on the mainland?”

“Nope. Just wondering,” Benjamin said. “Take it easy.”

“We could use a few hours of your time down at the restaurant later,” her mother said. “Just this afternoon.”

“No prob,” Zoey said. The restaurant was the whole family's responsibility. Besides, her parents paid her for her work.

“Hey,” her mother said suddenly, looking up from her paper. “What's this I hear about the Cabral kid coming back?”

Zoey turned. “We thought we saw him yesterday evening. No one's totally sure, though.”

“He was a cute kid,” her mother said. “Remember how he'd come down the hill in the morning and bring us those sweet rolls his mom made? Now there's a woman who should open a bakery. Your dad's been after her recipe for years.”

“I remember,” Zoey said. Lucas would sit at the table and drink coffee with milk before walking with Zoey and Benjamin down to the ferry, where they would meet Nina and Claire and Aisha and Jake. And Wade.

No doubt Lucas would be the subject of conversation on the island for some time.

At least for a while, the succession of days wouldn't be quite so ordinary.

CLAIRE KNEW THEY WOULD BE
there. They were there many mornings, and today, with word of new developments spreading, no one would miss circling.

The circle was at the center of North Harbor, a cobblestoned hub from which five tiny streets spread out like spokes. On one side, the church seemed to stare across the circle and down Exchange to the ferry landing. Around the circle were little souvenir shops, craft galleries, and candy stores that sold fudge to the tourists. On the exterior wall of the insignificant town hall was a compass rose that showed how far it was from Chatham Island to all sorts of cities and locations around the world—845 miles to Bermuda, 1,325 miles to Sarasota, Florida, 14,678 miles to Tahiti, if you wanted to take the long way around.

In the center of the circle was a grassy lawn dotted with a few trees, a couple of quaint, green-painted benches, and a low granite obelisk with a brass plaque bearing the names of the
island's war dead since the Civil War. There were nine names altogether, with spare room for more.

Zoey was standing, and Claire's sister, Nina, lounged on a bench beside Aisha, who was trying to catch her mass of springy black curls with a rubber band. Jake leaned against the monument, his head bowed, his big shoulders hunched forward. The usual crowd. Sometimes Benjamin would be there, too. Lately the black guy, Christopher, had dropped by from time to time, obviously not sure whether he was being invited to join the group or not. Hopefully he understood, having seen Aisha, that he wasn't being given the cold shoulder because of his race. It was just that he'd only been on the island since spring.

To Claire's surprise, the conversation was not about Lucas.

“We're the last of a dying breed,” Aisha was saying. “I'm graduating this year, Zoey and Ben are both graduating, Claire's graduating.”

“Joke will graduate if he can ever get those multiplication tables down,” Nina said.

“Chew me, Ninny,” Jake said.

“Next year there's not going to be much of an island group at the school,” Aisha continued. “Just Nina and my little brother. It will be a few years before Jake's little sister is old enough.”

“Kalif's going to the high school next year?” Zoey asked. “I don't know why, but he never seems that old to me.”

“Nina and Kalif, that's it. That will be it for islanders.” Aisha nodded in agreement with herself.

“You figure one of us should volunteer to flunk so we can keep up the islander tradition at Weymouth High?” Claire asked.

“Would you mind?” Aisha said with her worldly-wise, impertinent grin. “I'd do it, but my folks would be pissed.”

“Benjamin would be glad if you flunked, Zoey,” Jake said.

“He would not,” Zoey said. “Benjamin's not like that.”

“Not consciously, maybe,” Jake persisted. “But he's not thrilled to be in the same grade with his sister who's a year younger than he is.”

“Benjamin's realistic,” Claire said. “He lost almost two years being sick and going through rehab. He's already made up half that time.” Jake moved away from the monument, and Claire took his place. He had left the granite just slightly warm with his body heat. Or maybe that was her imagination.

“The only bummer is I'll have to ride the ferry alone,” Nina said.

“Kalif will be there,” Claire pointed out. “Maybe he likes older—stranger—women.”

“Are we doing anything today?” Zoey asked, sounding suddenly frustrated.

Aisha shrugged. “I have to help my mom get the rooms
ready. We're booked for the weekend.”

“I thought about taking the boat out, maybe do the barbecue thing up at the pond if anyone's up for it,” Jake said. He looked questioningly at Zoey, then shot a glance at Claire.

“Just so I know,” Claire said, turning to meet Jake's gaze, “since I got here last and all. Did you already deal with the question of Lucas, or are we going to pretend he doesn't exist?”

Jake's expression turned instantly stony. Zoey looked relieved.

“I don't know what there is to talk about,” Jake said, almost daring anyone to say anything else.

Claire rolled her eyes. “This is Chatham Island, not Manhattan Island,” she said. “It's not like Lucas is going to be invisible. We're going to be running into him, don't you think?”

Jake kicked at a tuft of grass. “This is such crap,” he said. “This shouldn't be happening. I mean, what the hell does he think he's doing, coming back here? What does he think we're going to do? As far as I'm concerned, two lousy years in juvy is nothing.”

“They gave him the maximum for a juvenile,” Zoey said quietly.

“Only because he already had a record,” Jake said. “I don't think the judge gave a damn that my brother—” He lost his voice for a moment, and Claire looked away. “He didn't care
that Wade was dead. I mean, if Lucas hadn't had a record, the judge probably would have let him off with a reprimand.”

“That's not true,” Zoey said, but Claire could see that Jake was beyond listening.

“Vehicular manslaughter,” Jake said, sneering at the words. “You get faced and you go tearing down Coast Road in the middle of the night . . . It's not like it's an accident. I mean, it's not like you have to be a genius to figure out that you can't drive stinking drunk without someone getting hurt. His lawyer made it sound like it was all just this unfortunate accident. Son of a bitch should have gone to prison, not juvy. See how big a man he is in prison. See how he likes that.”

Jake seemed to run out of steam. He slumped down on the grass, resting his elbows on his knees and holding his head in both hands. Claire had heard it all before. They'd all heard it before.

“We all miss Wade,” Aisha said at last, breaking the silence.

Claire nodded. She rubbed her wrist. It had been in a cast for two months. The doctor said her being drunk might have accounted for the mildness of her injuries. Evidently it was better to feel relaxed when you stopped very suddenly. Except that theory hadn't worked for Wade.

Lucas had been unhurt.

“So what do we do?” Zoey asked.

“Well, it's not like we can get revenge,” Aisha said firmly. “If that's what you're thinking, Jake, then stop thinking it.”

Jake shook his head. “I'm not going to touch him. My dad said we're just going to have to live with it. He says he thinks Mr. Cabral will get rid of Lucas eventually.”

“His own dad is going to kick him out?” Nina asked skeptically. “I don't think so.”

“Mr. Cabral is a proud guy,” Jake said. “You know how these old Portuguese fishermen are. Son or not, Lucas humiliated him. My dad thinks sooner or later the old man will force him out.”

“Jeez, that's cold, isn't it?” Nina said.

“Cold is what he deserves,” Jake said sharply. “You weren't hurt, all right, Ninny? I was. Wade was my brother. And your sister was hurt, too. Don't tell either of us about what's cold.”

“All right, get a grip,” Nina said. She made a face but fell silent.

“If Jake's dad is right, then I think we should help Mr. Cabral . . . deal with Lucas,” Claire said.

“How is that?” Jake asked.

Claire met his eyes. “I think we should make sure he knows he's not wanted by any of us, either,” she said slowly. “Cut him off totally.”

“There's something about this that makes me uncomfortable,” Aisha said. “I mean, I don't know—”

“Look, no one's forcing you to do anything,” Claire said reasonably. “But we've always stuck together.”

Nina shook her head. “Maybe we should just go all out,” she said. “You know, grab our pitchforks, light some torches, and march on up the hill and drive the monster out like the peasants in a Frankenstein movie.”

“Let's save that for later,” Claire said. She looked around the group and saw them nodding, one by one—Aisha troubled, Nina mocking, Zoey almost distracted. Jake deadly serious.

Claire took a deep breath and let it out slowly. For the first time since Nina had brought her the news, she felt . . . relief.

Yes, that was the emotion, she realized. Relief. But why?

Aisha Gray was still troubled when she left the group at the circle and headed toward home.

She was halfway down Center before she realized that she was going to be passing right by Lucas's house on the way to her own. Avoiding it would mean going some distance out of her way and making a much steeper climb. She didn't feel like doing that. The walk back home was steep enough.

So what did they all expect her to do if she went walking past the Cabrals' and Lucas happened to be out front? Was she supposed to ignore him, refuse to answer if he said hello?

It was ridiculous. Jake, she could understand. Maybe even
Claire. But why on earth would Zoey go along with this primitive reaction? Just because she was Jake's girlfriend?

The road beneath her feet began to steepen and she leaned into it, stretching her calf muscles, pumping her arms.

There it was, right above the Passmores' house, the little gray shingle cottage with the deck that looked down the hillside. She stole a glance at it. The windows weren't curtained, but the interior was dark. Still, he could be in there, watching her walk past.

She barely remembered Lucas. She'd only come to the island a year before Lucas had left. Mostly she recalled an image of long, unruly blond hair and a face too sweet for the eyes.

She passed the house and kept climbing, feeling a mixture of relief and resentment. This island solidarity crap could get to be too much. On the other hand . . .

Her parents had moved to Chatham Island and bought the inn three years ago, just as she was starting high school. It had been a shaky time for her, moving from Boston to this tiny, lily-white enclave. None of the kids her age had bothered even to say hello, and she'd assumed with sinking heart that it was racism on their part. Maybe to some extent it was.

But when she'd taken the ferry to the mainland that first day, there'd been some subtle change. A couple of the kids at Weymouth High had started in with crude remarks about her
race. Zoey had told them to stop, but they had persisted. Which was when Zoey had gone to get Jake and his big brother, Wade. Jake and Wade had made it clear that Aisha was one of them. They didn't even know her name, but what had mattered was that she was an islander.

Of course, it had still taken a year before she'd been really accepted on the island itself. And that's when the accident happened, and Lucas was sent away.

Climbing Way turned and brought Gray House into view. It was a two-story brick structure with an attic ringed with dormered windows. The Gray family, Aisha, Kalif, and their parents, lived in bits and pieces of the huge old mansion. The family room, her parents' bedroom, and the small private kitchen and bathroom were built over what had once, long ago, been stables, a wing of the main house. Aisha's bedroom was downstairs, hidden away. The rest of the downstairs—formal dining room, living room, breakfast room, main kitchen, and foyer—were all stunningly decorated in colonial style, like something straight out of a magazine. Upstairs were the three rooms that were rented out, two smaller rooms and a truly magnificent room called the Governor's Room that had a private bath with a huge whirlpool.

It was a lot like living in a museum.

Someone was sitting on her front porch. It wasn't hard to
figure out who. Aside from her own family, there was only one other African American on Chatham Island. This particular one was holding a handful of wildflowers.

Christopher stood as he caught sight of her. “Hi. I was waiting for you. I figured you were down at the circle with your friends.”

Aisha nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“Here, these are for you.” He held the flowers toward her.

“They are?”

“Sure. I picked them in the yard of my apartment building. The landlady said it was okay as long as I . . .” He stammered to a halt. Then he recovered himself. “As long as I was going to give them to a young lady.”

Aisha looked from the flowers to his face and back again. He had shrewd brown eyes and an expression that seemed to go from intense concentration to confusion, as if he were always trying to figure something out.

What was she supposed to do? She didn't even know this guy. Still, how could she refuse?

“My mom will like them in the front foyer. We have guests coming tomorrow, and she likes flowers around.”

“But these are for you,” Christopher said, looking uncomfortable.

Aisha took them, carefully wrapping her hand around the
stems. “Thanks,” she said. Then, not knowing what else to add, she pushed past him and opened the door. She turned back to him with what she hoped was a dismissive, yet polite expression. “Thank you. I'll see you around.”

“Um, wait!” Christopher bounded toward her. “Listen, I, uh, I was thinking.”

“Yes?”

He made a fist and slapped it against his palm. “I was, uh, wondering if you'd like to go out with me.”

“No, I wouldn't,” Aisha said.

Christopher's jaw dropped. “You wouldn't?”

“Thanks, but no.”

“Do you already have a boyfriend or something?”

Aisha shook her head. “No.”

“Then . . . you just think I'm a troll or something?”

“Look, Christopher, I don't think you're a troll. I just don't know you, that's all. We've only spoken once or twice, and then it was just to say hi.”

“Well, if you went out with me, you'd get to know me, wouldn't you?”

“If I don't know you and don't know if I'd even like you, why would I want to go out with you?”

Christopher tilted his head and gave her a sidelong look. “Are you a lesbian? Is that it? No offense if it is; that's cool.”