Island Promises (9 page)

“How do you know what to do?” Riley asked him while he ate a sandwich and drank some coffee.

“I’m a nurse.”

“You never told me that!”

Mitchell shrugged. “I work at the island hospital during the off season. Keeps me going, keeps me from being broke all the time. Also, I happen to love it.”

“How could you not tell me that?” Riley was indignant.

“Oh, like you told me everything about you.”

Reprieve
was climbing up a wave. They stopped talking the moment before she crested when the whole boat shuddered and they held their breath, willing her to climb the final few feet to the top. If she couldn’t, they would pitch pole backward into the trough to be buried by the next wave.

As
Reprieve
crested and began the slide down, they both lost their taste for sparring. What did it matter what Mitchell had or hadn’t told her? She would just be grateful for his skills, which Gracie desperately needed.

“It’s her heart, isn’t it?” Riley asked, not sure if she wanted him to answer.

Mitchell put his arms on either side of her, his hands resting on the counter near the stove, to keep both of them steady.

“We’re running as hard as we can for the cove at Bobby’s Creek,” he said, meeting her gaze. “Once we’re there, we can get her off.” He seemed different, more subdued, more serious, than she had ever seen him.

“Could she die?” Her voice shook from the tossing of the boat, her fear for Grace, and her fear for all of them.

“Baby.” He grabbed her, held her close. “Let’s just worry about getting to Bobby’s Creek.”

They didn’t get to Bobby’s Creek. Joe decided they would never make it through the narrow entrance with its coral reefs ready to reach up and put a hole in
Reprieve
at the slightest mistake. Normally there was enough water for the boat to float handily above the reefs. But with the height of these waves, if they happened to time it wrong and get caught going in on the trough of a wave instead of on the crest, they would be in grave danger.

The chopper came just after dawn. The storm had quieted enough that they could hear the approach before they could see it. The waves were still enormous, heavy, rolling gray masses, and the sky was dotted with leftover clouds. But the wind had died enough so that they could stand on deck, still holding on for all they were worth.

All through the night there had been whispered consultations between Mitchell, Joe, and Anthony. Standing in the cabin, cold and wet, eating with one hand and holding on with the other, they had considered the options. Johnny had stayed with Gracie. Riley had brought him soup and coffee, which he ate in the cabin. Both Johnny and Gracie insisted they didn’t want anyone risking their lives to save her.

Sometime in the darkest part of the night, when Riley was in her own bunk holding her breath every time
Reprieve
climbed a wave and, feeling her stomach churn every time the boat dropped into the trough, she heard Joe on the radio. Clutching her way out, she stood behind him, one hand on his shoulder. Edith and Don had given up and retreated to their cabin. Without an audience, there was little point in their whining.

“They’ll be here as soon as it’s light.” Joe laid his head on his folded arms.

“You’ve done your best.” Riley leaned over, resting her own head on the back of his neck, running her fingers down his arms, trying to undo some of the tension knots.

“God help us,” he said. “I hope whatever my best is here is enough to save us all.”

Now that the chopper was in sight, they turned their attention to the patient. Gracie protested when they tried to help her up. “Don’t make such a fuss,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

But she wasn’t fine. She could barely stand. Despite the cold air the wind whisked in, a line of perspiration broke out on her forehead and above her lip.

When they reached the deck, Joe was there, talking into a radio. Gracie stood propped between Riley and Mitchell. On the foredeck, lashed to the mast by his lifeline, Anthony had his arms out, trying to catch the stretcher being lowered from the helicopter. It appeared as though he were praying, his head up, arms stretched toward heaven.
Join the club
, Riley thought, as she prayed for Gracie, for Johnny, for all of them.

“I’ve covered a few of these kinds of stories. Don’t they usually put a swimmer in the water?” Riley asked Mitchell.

“They don’t need one. They’ve got someone who’s just as good, if not better. Remember, he helped train these guys,” Mitchell yelled above the noise. He pointed to Joe, who was huddled into his parka, alternately listening and talking on the radio.

Unlike Anthony, who looked only at the sky, Joe’s eyes were everywhere—on
Reprieve
, the water, the helicopter, and the figures clustered near the cabin, holding and protecting Grace.

Anthony caught the basket on the third try and muscled it back to where they were, re-clipping his lifeline every few feet along the way. One step at a time, Mitchell and Riley escorted Grace to it and lowered her inside.

“Oh, my.” Grace shuddered as they bundled her into the basket, working quickly but carefully. They had to stop once when a wave crashed over the side, soaking them.

Once Grace was in, Joe knelt down on the deck, triple-checking each of the straps.

“I don’t think I can do this Grace said to him, her blue eyes misting over.

“It’s going to be one helluva ride,” he said, brushing a stray hair from her forehead. “Hang on, Gracie, no matter what. Think of the story you’ll have to tell your grandchildren.”

At first, Riley thought Gracie had stopped listening because she closed her eyes but the next moment they fluttered open. “I promise to hang on,” she said, “if you’ll promise to send Johnny with me.”

“If we can, Gracie girl.”

With one final tug on the straps, he righted himself. A sweep of his arm told Riley and Mitchell and Johnny to back away. Anthony and Joe hung onto the stretcher as it rose until they were forced to let go. They kept watching until one of the crewmen caught it and hauled it safely into the helicopter.

Breaking the grip Riley had on him, Johnny moved to the foredeck, to the point where the stretcher had been. A gust of wind knocked him off his feet and he bounced hard against the cabin. Riley stopped breathing, afraid he was injured. But he kept moving, though nearly at a crawl now.

There was no basket this time, instead a harness, which Anthony caught on the second try. In moments, Johnny was in. Joe was talking furiously into the radio as the chopper was hauling Johnny off the deck.

Riley sank back against the cabin wall, covering her eyes with her hand, aware she was crying in exhaustion and relief, mumbling a prayer of thanks. Joe’s voice snapped her attention back to the deck.

“Holy shit!” he exploded. “Pull up! Pull up!”

Johnny was in the water. The helicopter was struggling, its nose pitching forward at a dangerous angle. Joe was yelling into the radio. On pure instinct, Anthony and Mitchell moved to the lifelines, watching helplessly. The sea was flattened by the rotor blades, but still an angry, ugly gray that would swallow them whole.

All Riley could do was pray and she did, one hand covering her mouth. She had prayed more in the last day and a half than she had in a decade. Maybe the fact the prayers were for someone else would count toward overlooking her past negligence. She prayed that would be so.

The helicopter seemed to be stuck for hours, Johnny tethered to it, at the mercy of the water. The waves rutted into him in an endless cycle of rolling and pitching, filling his mouth and nose, making him gag and suck in great gulps of air. In reality, it could have only been seconds before the helo righted itself and Johnny was winched out of the gray water, swinging up against the dark sky. He threw up salt water, they could see him from the deck, but Riley was grateful. At least that meant he was breathing.

Arms caught Johnny at the top and yanked him safely inside. Only then did Riley take a deep breath. Her chest ached and her heart raced.

The four of them stood on deck until they could no longer see the helicopter. At the lifelines, Mitchell put an arm on Anthony’s shoulder and walked him toward the cabin opening.

“I’ll take watch for a while,” Joe shouted as he took the wheel, disengaging the automatic pilot.

Instead of following them into the cabin, Riley picked her way the few feet to Joe. The storm was settling now and there was light on the horizon, but it was slow going because the waves, stubbornly holding onto their power, still tossed
Reprieve
.

When she got to Joe, he kept one hand on the wheel and opened the other to her. She nestled there, bowing her head into his chest, sheltered from the weather. She felt so safe there, so protected. She cried against his shoulder, her tears mixing with the salty spray from the sea.

A day later, the storm had passed. From their mooring in the lagoon they could see some debris on the beach, foliage blown down, sand rippled into waves. Riley was awed it hadn’t been worse. She had expected sheer devastation.

Mitchell and Anthony were on deck cleaning
Reprieve
and inspecting every inch of her for damage. Riley sipped coffee in the cockpit, looking at the island instead of Edith and Don, who were scowling across from her. She had worked hard this morning, straightening out lockers, scrubbing the floors, and tidying up. Joe was below, getting some much-needed rest.

The radio was turned up so that they could hear the reports. There had been minimal damage. Trees down, one boat banged up when the ropes broke and it hit the dock. Rosalee’s lost a few outside tables but was otherwise fine.

When they heard a familiar voice hailing
Reprieve,
they all ran for the radio. Riley got there first.

“Yes, this is the yacht
Reprieve
. Over,” she said into the mike.

“You don’t even know how to use that thing,” Mitchell hissed at her.

“This is Johnny, hailing the yacht
Reprieve
,” the voice said again.

“It’s not working. They can’t hear me.” Riley glanced at Mitchell, panicked.

“This is
Reprieve
.” Anthony grabbed the mike from her. “Go ahead.”

“You have to hold the little button in to talk,” Mitchell whispered to her.

Don snorted and mumbled to Edith about how this was just one more instance of incompetence on the part of the crew, one more thing to add to their complaint list. Riley wanted so badly to tell them off, she was shaking with the effort to keep her cool. She knew how to use the radio, which was one of the first things Joe and Anthony had taught her. She’d just forgotten in the excitement.

“Boy, that was some ride,” Johnny said from the other end of the radio. “Reminded me of my days in the Navy in the Great War. Over.”

“You hung in there,” Anthony said. “How’s Gracie? Over.”

“She’s going to be fine. Doc says she might have had a small heart attack. Real small. They can barely tell. She’s feeling a lot better. Wanted me to let you folks know. And say thanks. Over.”

“Let me talk to him,” Edith insisted. “This is my sister, after all.” She took the mike from Anthony and he showed her how to hold in the button. “Johnny, Johnny, are you there?”

“I’m right here, Edith. Over.”

“Tell Grace we’ll be there as soon as we can get out of this godforsaken place and off this boat. Tell her not to worry, we’ll take care of everything.”

“That’s real nice, Edith. But we’re okay here. Enjoy the rest of your trip. Over.”

“We’ll be heading straight back.” Don had taken the mike from his wife. “If there are any issues about medical care, we can address them when we get there.”

“The Docs are real nice here. Gracie likes them,” Johnny said. “She’ll appreciate the worry. But there’s no need. Over.”

“We’re coming to help.” True to form, Don had ignored everything Johnny said. Riley could picture him rushing the hospital, making demands, trying to throw his weight around.

“Is Riley there? Can you put her on? Over.” Johnny asked.

This time Riley took the radio mike and with a dramatic flourish demonstrated she knew how to use it. “God, Johnny, I’m so glad you’re both fine. Over.” Riley said.

“Gracie wanted you to give a message to the crew. You saved her life.” Even over the static in the connection, they could hear the emotion in his voice. “Thank you for saving my Gracie. Over and out.”

Chapter 7

They were all exhausted emotionally and physically. Lunch hadn’t been much more than fruit, cheese, and lukewarm soup, which gave Edith and Don even more reason to complain. The couple had retreated to what Mitchell had referred to as “the sulking corner” near the cabin. Riley was helping Mitchell put away some of the items that had been knocked loose in the storm and clear the lunch dishes when Anthony yelled from the helm.

“Wake Joe. We’ve got trouble.”

“Go, sweetheart,” Mitchell told her over his shoulder as he climbed up to the deck.

“What now? First a damn storm that nearly killed us and now we’ll probably be eaten by a great white shark,” she said under her breath as she moved along the companionway.

Joe was already up, checking the portholes, yanking on his regulation cut-offs and sleeveless T-shirt. Seeing him sent shivers down Riley’s spine. Her body was betraying her. She wanted to be cool and calm and collected but her palms were damp and she was filled with nervous energy. All of her being was in motion, aching to lean toward him, to feel Joe up and down the length of her. She wasn’t at all sure what Anthony had spotted but she knew she wanted desperately to feel Joe’s strength, his confidence. He was lean but strong and so focused. If he felt any tug toward her, he hid it well under the preparations for going on deck.

“Stay below.” He squeezed past her, leaving behind a scent that triggered an automatic response. As though they had a mind of their own, her arms began to reach for him, her knees began to buckle, and her mind went blank.

“Like hell I will,” she said.

He never heard her objection. He was already on deck. All he had done lately was tell her where to stand, what to do. Most of the time, he was telling her to “stay below” as though she were a second-class citizen. This was her boat and she had as much right to be on deck as he did. The fact that she didn’t know the first damn thing about commanding
Reprieve
or keeping her safe, didn’t stop her from being angry.

She knew enough to stay out of his way when she reached the deck, so she ducked into the corner. At first, Riley couldn’t see what the problem was. She followed where their gazes and binoculars were trained, putting one hand up to shield her eyes from the sun. A speedboat was coming toward them. A dark blue from the water line up through the pilothouse, which was not very high off the deck. The color made it hard to pick out against the bright blue sky and water. The boat had a sleek line, barely creating a wake as it cut through the sea. The engine was obviously powerful, the boat was coming fast, but it was quiet. She couldn’t hear it over the swish
Reprieve
made and the cries of the gulls.

Anthony went below and returned with two shotguns, one of which he handed to Joe.

“Go below,” Joe told Edith and Don, who had climbed up to stand at the entrance to the deck. Maybe it was the command in his voice, maybe the way he primed and pumped the shotgun, but they fled the deck without a hint of protest.

“You, too, Riley.” He kept his eyes on the boat. “I told you to stay below.”

“No way.” She stood her ground, hoping she didn’t sound as scared as she felt.

“I don’t have time to argue. I’m ordering you—”

Just then the blue boat was on them, so close they could see two figures in the pilothouse.

Riley groped behind her for a handhold and felt her chest tighten.
Breathe
, she told herself, but it felt like no air would go into her lungs.

“Well, ain’t this nice meetin’ out chere in the middle of this big, ole ocean. Who would think it?” A gold tooth caught the sun. He wore cut-offs, too, and his long hair blew in wisps around his face. In the sunlight, Riley could see his arms were covered with tattoos.

“What the hell do you want?” Joe asked.

The sea calm, their voices were carrying without bullhorns.
Reprieve
was heaved to, effectively stopped. Trying to outrun the powerful speedboat would be useless.

“Your girlfriend there has got some explainin’ to do,” Scully said.

Riley tensed. Joe and Anthony, so trained, so disciplined, never took their eyes off the pirates but Mitchell looked at her and mouthed, “What the hell?”

“Where I come from, we don’t fight women,” Joe said. “We settle things man to man.”

Anthony had steadied himself against the seat, the gun held by his side. Mitchell stood back, one hand on the sheet, the other holding a portable radio.

“She started it.”

The high whinny voice of Candy, the skinny guy she had seen on the beach that night, caused Riley’s hands to shake. He sounded like a grade schooler in a shoving match on the playground. Sweat glistened on his skin, which was raw and peeling. Apparently he didn’t believe in sunscreen. With his mouth open, he chewed on one of the rubbery candies, which Joe had explained had given him his name and rotted several of his teeth.

“We ain’t gettin’ into all that. I done tole you that before,” Scully told Candy, who melted back into the wheelhouse. He turned his attention back to Joe. “I got a problem your girlfriend there caused. She’s snooping where she shouldn’t ought to.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” The shotgun dangled from Joe’s fingers. Behind the mirrored aviator glasses, Riley couldn’t see his eyes but his body was rigid.

“I don’t want no trouble, like I say. But if it comes, well, I have to meet up with it. Tell your girlfriend to quit askin’ questions. Quit stirrin’ things up and making life hard.”

Mikah, built like a cement block, appeared on deck with a knife, a long, shiny blade that could have been mistaken for a sword. He sat down, never looking at them, and began to methodically polish it with a grimy rag.

“People can get hurt pryin’ into things that ain’t none of their business.”

“Don’t threaten me,” Joe growled. “Or you’ll be sorry.”

“That weren’t no threat. Hell, no.” The grin showed the gold tooth.

“It sure wasn’t,” Candy, back on deck, chimed in.

He couldn’t seem to keep his thoughts to himself, something Riley could relate to.

“It’s friendly advice. That’s all this is.” The motor started, barely a whisper, and the boat drifted away.

“What the hell have you been doing?” Joe asked her over his shoulder.

“Nothing. I haven’t done anything,” she shot back at him. “All I did was ask some questions, checked him on the Internet.”

“Are you crazy?” Mitchell asked.

“I told you not to get involved in that.” Joe was still watching the boat, which was pulling farther away.

“You don’t get it.” Riley was talking to their backs because their eyes were on the boat and the sea. “I’m a reporter. I ask questions. It’s what I do. I keep telling you.”

Suddenly they were all in motion. Mitchell was spinning the wheel, Joe and Anthony were tugging on lines. The blue boat had turned in a tight circle and was heading right for them, fast.

“Hold on,” Joe yelled.

The boat cut close in front of them, so close Riley could see the expression on skinny Candy’s face behind the wheel. He was laughing and whooping with joy. Mikah heaved something and it landed in the cockpit of
Reprieve
. A large, rotting fish, ripped open, its eyes gone, the stench almost unbearable, lay there. The blue boat tore away, their shouts still ringing over the water. The smell was so overpowering, Riley headed for the lifelines, afraid she might heave.

“Hold on. Jesus. Listen to what I tell you,” Joe barked at her.

She grabbed one of the stanchions just before the wake hit them.
Reprieve
rolled wildly in the confused water, nearly throwing Riley overboard. It lasted only a short while. Between the decaying smell, the tension, and the wild ride, Riley was about to be sick. Don beat her to it, bursting out of the cabin. He nearly tripped over the fish in his hurry to lean over the side of
Reprieve
and offer his breakfast up to the sea gods.

They had barely docked when Don and Edith powered their suitcases up onto the deck and into the arms of a waiting cab driver.

“Must have called from their cell phone,” Mitchell said as they watched out the cabin window. Riley and Mitchell were cleaning and arranging in the galley yet again, a never-ending job on
Reprieve
.

So much for the casual sailing life
, Riley thought.

“If I’d have known their cell phone worked, I might have stolen it,” Riley answered.

Voices were raised on deck. “Here we go,” said Mitchell, taking her hand and leading her to the bottom of the ladder where they could peer up and see the action.

“And you’ll be hearing from my travel agent.” Don paced the few steps to the end of the dock, then turned back to Joe. “My attorney will be calling, too.”

“But, wait. He forgot to throw in a call from his hairdresser and his plumber,” Mitchell said softly and Riley and he both giggled, hands held over their mouths to stifle the sound.

“Come on, Edith.” They almost made it between the lifelines when he turned again.

Riley and Mitchell scrambled back to the window to watch. The parts of Don’s face that weren’t bright red from anger were green from leftover seasickness. “You run a helluva operation here and I intend to tell everyone I know.”

“Oh, no, there goes all the tight-butt, dumb-ass business in Florida,” Mitchell said.

Riley fell into him, hiding her face to keep her laughter from ringing out onto the deck.

“From now on, we’ll only get customers who want a seasoned crew who can pull them through a hurricane in one piece, air lift their sick sister-in-law to a hospital and, at the same time, brew the best cup of coffee in the islands.”

“Careful with that luggage,” Don growled. He and Edith were finally on the dock and Don’s attention had now turned from Joe to the taxi driver, a thin, nervous man. “You people have no appreciation for nice things. You just beat the hell out of everything. Look at the way this suitcase is thrown in the trunk. That’s designer luggage, probably cost more than your house.”

The driver, Emil, went around the taxi, opening the door for Edith and Don, making sure they were settled. Then he went back to the trunk, carefully arranged the case and slammed the lid hard. They could hear the lid hitting and smashing the expensive luggage. Edith and Don were too busy wiping off the back seat to notice. Emil turned so his passengers couldn’t see him and gave the crew of
Reprieve
a high sign and an earthy grin. Getting in, he put the taxi in gear and shot out, spinning the old back wheels. They could hear Don’s protests and Edith’s squeals as their heads shot back against the worn headrests.

Joe and Anthony came below, looking like thunder clouds. As soon as they reached the safety of the cabin, all four burst into laughter.

“Another satisfied customer.” Joe wiped tears of laughter from his eyes.

“By the time Emil gets them to the airport, their brains will be so scrambled they won’t remember the cruise.” Mitchell leaned against the counter, catching his breath.

“Let’s leave this mess for now and go to Rosalee’s for a rum special.” It was Anthony’s suggestion. For a moment they were so caught off guard, the other three just looked at him. Then they sprang into action.

As she went by, Joe caught Riley’s arm. “I’m not finished with you.” Gone were the laughing eyes. In their place was the dangerous, controlled expression he’d held when the helo was lifting Gracie and Johnny or when Scully and his crew pulled alongside. “I told you to stay away from Scully and the gang he runs with.”

“You’re not the boss of me.” Great, four years at a prestigious journalism school, thousands of hours in front of a camera telling stories, numerous awards gathering dust in her apartment, and the best she could do was a kindergarten comeback. He seemed to bring out the immature side of her.

“Somebody needs to be the boss of you.”

He was so close the ends of his hair brushed her cheek. Her breasts were inches from his chest and had a mind of their own, wanting to cover the distance and rub against those hard muscles. For a moment, she thought he would kiss her but he stepped away and the burst of empty air left her weak and cold. There had been men in her life; there was a man in her life. She had known passion, she had been in love, but had never felt, even with RK, this physical sadness when he wasn’t near. It was as though she could not be near enough to Joe, never get enough of him. Maybe a little bossiness, in the right place at the right time, wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

The air was so heavy it was like a blanket, wrapping around her, smothering her. The normally bright blue sky was looking bruised and worn today. The clouds, thick and threatening, were coming closer to the ground, moving in off the sea, making Riley claustrophobic. The electric charge in the air was causing everyone on
Reprieve
to be jumpy, quick to snap at one another.

“I am so done.” Mitchell swiped a rag over his face and dabbed at some of the sweat running into his eyes. Hard to believe that the air could absorb any more moisture but the humidity seemed to increase as the storm neared.

Riley felt sticky. They had been cleaning
Reprieve
most of the afternoon. It was depressing work. The boat had taken a beating from the storm. To add to the mess, there were the remnants of taking care of Grace. Water cups and spilled pills mixed with the general confusion inside the cabin. As she wiped and polished and swept, Riley couldn’t help but think about Grace and how close she had come to not being with them. It was a wake-up call to make living a priority.

The night before at Rosalee’s had been fun. They had imbibed some of Stanley’s famous rum drinks, eaten some of the chef’s fabulous food. They had talked and laughed and she and Mitchell had danced while Joe and Anthony watched from the bar. Today, though, was payback. Riley’s head ached, her muscles felt cramped and hard, her mouth was cottony and rough. To say she was grumpy would be like saying the Wicked Witch of the West had an attitude problem. This oppressive weather wasn’t helping any.

“I am in serious need of some air-conditioning.”

Mitchell’s attire proved to be an indication of just how uncomfortable the conditions were. He had stripped down to a wife-beater and knee-length linen shorts, which had started out pressed and neat but were now a wrinkled mess. Everyone else was wearing the least amount of clothes they could get away with—shorts and tanks—but to see Mitchell in the sleeveless, shapeless shirt and the rumpled pants was borderline pathetic. Clearly the boy needed a cold shower, a cold beer, and a cold fan blowing right on him.