Chapter 19
According to the grooms, Nash went for a ride into town soon after breakfast. With Nash now leaving on tonight’s evening ferry, I consent to being driven there by Koa in Mr. Sanders’s Ford Model T, four times faster than a horse, twice as unpredictable.
The weeping cedars in the driveway snake about in the early afternoon breeze, while a glare pours down from the cloud layer.
Koa, dressed in tapered trousers, a loose casual jacket he wears on days off, and a cap, checks one wheel of the shiny black roadster.
His ease with this wingless metal box twists my insides.
One day he will fly away, and who will catch him if he falls?
“Where to?” He rolls his eyes at my scouting duds.
After that mortifying mishap with Nash, I have decided to reserve fussy clothes to occasions of absolute necessity.
“The Dry House.” Nowhere prides itself on having its own bar, but the Dry House, in the main town of Eastsound—not to be confused with the body of water, the East Sound—is for when you need to get away.
Koa hefts an eyebrow as he hands me in, but I avoid mentioning Nash, not wishing to disturb the peace just yet.
The leather seat feels as tight as a tufted footstool, and the wood dashboard slips under my hand.
We all wanted a ride when the car arrived last year, but only children were allowed that privilege, and that did not include me. Mr. Sanders did the driving himself.
Koa moves to the front and cranks the engine several times, then returns to the cabin and moves a switch. Back outside he goes, now cranking the other way. Perhaps he actually has no idea what he’s doing.
“You sure you know how to handle this cranky-puss?” I call out the open window.
The engine groans to life.
Koa slides into the driver’s seat, throwing me half a smile. “You’re not that cranky.”
I feign disgust, though I am glad to return to our familiar jokey ways. He moves the pedals. Eastsound lies five miles north on the narrow strip of land bridging the island’s two main legs.
Our cheerful yellow bee farm lies at the edge of an orchard. Monday is honey duty. I spot Dora trailing beside the bee farmer and his wife, all of them dressed in long-sleeved protective suits with wicker hats and long veils. The farmer and his wife look up but don’t return my wave.
Koa glances at me sitting tightly beside him. “They’re still getting used to you.”
“They’ve known me all my life.”
“Just takes time. You could throw another Smokeout.” He slows for a Douglas squirrel scurrying across the road. “People loved that. Sanders behind the grill, serving.”
“Actually, I’ve decided to hold the Gatheround.”
He glances at me, maybe to check if I am joking. “I thought we were hunting a murderer.”
“Exactly.” I relay my conversation with Eva and Flossie, watching his gloves strangle the steering wheel as I get to the part about Nash resuming his presidential role. “Do you need to drive so fast?”
“If City Rat says no, I want to make sure he makes that ferry.”
I feel my forehead pinch. “Whatever happens, keep your lid on. I need Nash’s help for this to work. Don’t antagonize him. I mean it.”
“You’re the boss.” His mouth sets in a grim line. “So how are you going to get that lunkhead to agree?”
“Sometimes people do things because it’s the right thing to do.”
He snorts. “You mean the guy who took a Specialty out for a joyride? I wouldn’t trust him so easy. With you out of the way, he’d be richer than ever.” His eyes catch mine in the rearview mirror. I realize I’ve been rubbing my thumbs and force myself to stop.
Nash is slippery, yes—but not murderous. Still, I need to stay sharp.
“Sounds like a security nightmare,” Koa mutters when I don’t answer. “I shifted the patrols from Mount Consternation to the beaches, but it feels like we’re always a step behind with those seals.” He drags a hand down his face.
“How are the new recruits coming along?”
“Boots gave me the Skansie brothers and Horlick. Red’s going over basics with them now.”
I crease wrinkles into my trousers. As part of the shipbuilding crew, the Skansies are meticulous, but they are used to keeping boats watertight, not crowds from mutiny.
Horlick, the junior gardener I saw brawling with the yard boy this morning, once applied to be a Rifle.
Boots said he was too rough in the neck for guard duty—despite being named after malted milk—and handed him a hoe instead. Red will have his work cut out.
The tree cover thins, changing to plum orchards, and soon Eastsound comes into view. It is a lick of a town, anchored by the Dry House on one end and a Methodist church on the other, so one can go from distillation to purification in the span of an afternoon.
Koa switches off the engine. In the stable pen, the hardy Appaloosa that Father Pinnyhorne favors for his many parishioner visits dips her head in a watering trough.
He coughs in irritation. “Don’t tell me that lunkhead took Blessing.”
We disembark, and he leads me to the handsome blond-brick Dry House, its wide windows drinking in the deep view of the sound. I’ve only run errands here a handful of times. Folks have already started drowning their sorrows, filling up most chairs at the bar.
Nash is playing a loud game of cards at a corner table. Three young men whom I recognize as members of our stalled shipbuilding crew seem to be emptying their pockets to him, and I can’t help worrying how he might empty mine, metaphorically speaking.
At Koa’s approach, the shipbuilders finally notice us and scramble to their feet.
Nash rises, too, but at an unhurried pace.
Ignoring him, Koa clasps hands with the shipbuilders and receives hearty greetings back, though they eye me with unease.
“Show some respect to Miss Lucy,” Koa barks good-naturedly.
The men doff their caps and murmur greetings.
Throwing me a grin, Nash bows over my hand. “The queen has ventured outside her realm.”
Koa blows out an annoyed breath.
Nash eyes him. “And brought her delightful knight,” he adds coolly.
“Blessing’s had a cold,” Koa growls. “Not that you ever worried much about horses.”
I suck in my breath. Why is he bringing up that decades-old score?
Daniel and Nash once tried to catch fish by shooting pistols into Cascade Lake, and the gunshot spooked Koa’s mare, sending Koa tumbling.
Koa never loses his seat. He forgave Daniel, who gave a genuine apology, but not his rascally cousin, whose excuses he considered fake.
Nash’s eyebrows pique. “My apologies. It’s just that Blessing and I get on so well. She can’t get enough of me.”
I can see Koa spoiling for a fight, but I give him a hard look, and he lets the ridiculous remark roll over him.
“Boys.” Koa ticks his head to an adjacent table, far enough to be out of earshot from Nash and me. The men follow him with their beers and cards.
I seat myself at the head of the table, preferring the view of the sound to Nash’s gripping gaze. He sprawls diagonally from me, facing Koa one table away. Nash catches Koa frowning at the gaudy pile of Nash’s winnings on the table, but makes no move to remove it, as would be polite.
“What can I get you?” the barkeep calls from the bar to me, blinking in surprise when he sees I am a girl. “I do have apple juice.”
Eyes convene on me, and chuckles fill the room. Now I certainly cannot have apple juice. But besides a bit of hard cider on holidays and some medicinal sherry, I leave the spirits alone. Ladies do not drink beer, and wine seems too formal.
Somehow this feels like a test.
Nash grins, clearly happy to see me squirm. I glance at his glass of amber liquid. “I’ll have what he’s having.”
That stretches Nash’s smile even wider, and soon I’m staring down at my own glass of amber inferno.
“To many more unexpected meetings,” he says, clinking glasses with me.
I’m not sure I want to drink to that, but I do it anyway.
It is like pouring a live flame into my mouth. I cough, spraying Nash in the face. He dabs his laughing eyes with a handkerchief.
“Forty-year-old single-malt ‘moon scotch’ is the strongest thing here. It’ll rocket you to the moon if you drink it real fast.”
“I happen to like Earth.”
Nash’s long fingers idly circle the rim of his glass, his rumpled blue-threaded shirt pushed up to the forearms. “Then drink it slow, though I warn you, you might get visions. I’ve built up a tolerance, but I’m still seeing one right now. And she looks like she needs a favor.”
Heat creeps up my throat. “As it turns out, I need you to play your part a while longer. Mr. Zephyr would like to meet the ‘president,’ and so I’ve decided to hold the Gatheround after all.”
“Poor Lucy. It’s not easy being an heiress, is it? But I’m afraid my schedule is quite busy.”
“What could you possibly be doing?”
He clutches his chest. “Cruel. But since you asked, I am expected in Seattle to pluck my father out of his current financial sinkhole and afterward”—his smile tilts devilishly—“I have an important date to keep with a lady who will not be kept waiting.”
My curious tongue begins formulating questions, but I seal my lips. His business is not my business. “Well then, when is this date?”
“Next Wednesday.”
“The Gatheround is this Saturday. Can you not work it in?”
“That’s a lot of ferrying about. And there is the matter of payment.”
“Of course. How much?” I can feel Koa glaring at us.
“Your boyfriend can’t keep his eyes off you.” He gives Koa a two-fingered salute, but Koa’s grim expression does not change.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Does he know that? He’s throwing me off my game.”
“So I am a game? I doubt your lady friend would appreciate hearing that.”
“I never said lady ‘friend.’ ” His grin sharpens. “The lady I referred to is a train, the Phoebe Star. I start officer training next week in Ohio.”
“So you are still planning to enlist, even though your uncle disapproved. You know about the Spanish flu, don’t you?”
“It is an honor to serve one’s country,” he says without emotion, but I cannot imagine he could be so blasé.
“What are your terms, then?”
He scoots his chair closer to me, drawing Koa’s sharp eyes again, maybe on purpose.
“Go to the moon with me.” He nods toward my glass.
“It’s Monday now. The business in Seattle will take a couple of days.
I’ll be back for your Saturday party. Then you can have me until next Wednesday. ” He lifts his glass and winks.
Koa has begun to rise from his chair.
“Agreed.” Single-malt whiskey might feel like sticking a hot greased pitchfork down my throat, but it will be over quickly. “Bottoms up.”