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 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 his head 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 see 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.