The Sweetest Summer: A Bayberry Island Novel (2 page)

T
he insanity didn’t officially begin for another twenty-four hours, but Police Chief Clancy Flynn knew the tourists didn’t give a damn about the particulars. The half-dressed throng was already in full-on party mode. There was no avoiding it. This was Bayberry Island on the third Friday of August, and that meant that tomorrow would kick off the annual Mermaid Festival, the Mardi Gras of New England.

For Clancy, it was going to be the longest week of the year.

“Excuse me, Officer.”

And here we go.
“How can I help you, ma’am?”

“Ooooh, aren’t you adorable? I love your little navy blue shorts! Why don’t more policemen wear shorts? You have such nice legs from all that walking and frisking you have to do.” She wagged an eyebrow. “You can call me Florence.”

Clancy glanced down at the bejeweled and age-spotted hand now stroking his bare forearm. After four years as a Boston cop and thirty-two Mermaid Festivals—one for each year of his life—nothing along the spectrum of human behavior shocked him anymore. Not even Florence was particularly disturbing, even with her bottle red hair, neon cat’s-eye sunglasses, sequined
jumpsuit, and the fairy wings glued to the back of her sneakers.

“Sure, Florence. What can I do for you?”

“We were just wondering where the fountain is. You know, the mermaid statue. The legend. You see”—she gazed over the tops of her cat’s-eye shades and fluttered her fake lashes—“we’re here to find luuuuuuv.” Florence and her entourage of similarly dressed older women giggled and hooted. “So do you know where she is?”

Yeah. He knew. Clancy was a Flynn, and his family would be forever linked to the bronze bimbo in Fountain Square, no matter how much he wished it weren’t so.

“Of course, ladies.” Clancy pointed down Main Street. “Two blocks that way is Fountain Square. You can’t miss it.”

Florence popped up on her tippy toes to look down the street and lost her balance, falling against Clancy. He returned her to an upright position.

“Where did you say it was, Officer?”

Clancy closed his eyes for an instant, imagining his happy place, that sweet spot of September, when the weather was still delightful and the pace of life returned to near normal. He smiled politely at the women. “Two blocks thataway. You’ll see a big mermaid fountain right smack in the middle of the square, water spraying all over the place. The area is surrounded by banners and balloons. And lots of people. Plus, there’s a real big sign.”

Florence patted Clancy’s chest with the flat of her palm. “You know, hearing you put it like that I feel kinda silly. Would you like to come with us?”

“Thank you, but I’ll have to pass.”

Florence shrugged. “Let’s go, girls!” And off they went.

As Clancy watched the ladies walk arm in arm down the crowded street, he wondered what all these tourists would think if they knew the truth—that for nearly two decades, Police Chief Clancy Flynn hadn’t been within twenty feet of the mermaid, which took some effort,
since she was the island’s only claim to fame, the engine of its entire economy, and the reason he had a twice-monthly paycheck. But his peace of mind was worth it.

Clancy’s police radio crackled to life. It was Chip, his second-in-command.

“Flynn, here.”

“Chief, we got about a dozen juveniles swimming past the rocks off Moondance Beach, a possible 10-51. Deon and I are taking the boat out. Over.”

“Copy,” Clancy said. “Any injuries?”

“Unknown. Lena called it in as a trespassing.”

“10-4. Keep me posted. Flynn Out.”

Underage drinking was always a problem throughout the tourist season, but during festival week it became a crisis. As police chief, Clancy felt personally responsible for the safety of every visitor to his island, especially kids. But sometimes it felt like festival-week tourists were trying awfully hard to get themselves killed. Not only were those kids probably drinking, they’d picked an area designated a no-swim zone because of its wicked riptide. To make matters worse, they were on Adelena Silva’s private property, and nobody had to remind Clancy how much Bayberry’s only celebrity despised trespassers.

Right on schedule, the long, monotone horn of the Nantucket passenger ferry announced its approach. For Clancy, the sound of the arriving boat was just background noise, part of life on Bayberry Island, like the roar of the sea, the rush of wind, and the cry of seabirds. But the rumble of the engine and bellow of the horn were enough to scare some of the tourists, who clasped hands over their ears as the boardwalk began to vibrate. Clancy made his way through the crowds toward the public dock, where he would perform a duty he’d done three times already that day and would do twice more before nightfall. Clancy made a point of greeting every passenger ferry that arrived during festival week, unless a dire emergency kept him away and his father, Mayor Frasier Flynn, stood in for him. Clancy wanted visitors to know they
were welcome, but also that the Bayberry Island Police Department took its duty seriously. As he’d learned walking the beat in Boston, a little eye contact and a firm handshake were the most effective tools in crime prevention.

Clancy leaned his back against the public dock railing, hooking the heel of his shoe on the bottom metal rung. As always, he returned the friendly salute from Old John, the Nantucket Ferry conductor, who stood his post at the aluminum gangway. It took a good five minutes for the captain to complete his docking procedure and for Old John to open the gate for passengers.

Clancy couldn’t help but smile as the latest batch of tourists descended. Barbie, his ex-wife, once asked him why he seemed to be in a bad mood during festival week. “Everyone seems so happy just to be here,” she’d pointed out. “Can’t you be happy for them?”

He was happy for them. He understood that everyone deserved a little time to cut loose and have fun, but it was his job to keep them safe while they were doing it. As it turned out, the foul mood Barbie noted wasn’t due to the demands of his job at all—it was from living with her.

Clancy watched the tourists flow single file down the gangway and onto the dock. This was his favorite part of festival week, truth be told. He got a kick out of the kids, how their eyes grew huge at the sight of the colorful banners, balloons, street vendors, and costumes. It never took long before they began to squirm and jump up and down and the boldest ones tried to make a solo run for Main Street.

Though Clancy had been through this cycle every year of his life, it was impossible not to share in the delight he saw in most every visitor’s face. For many of them, this was their annual getaway, the event they’d planned and saved for during the other fifty-one weeks of the year. And though there were no prizes awarded for costumes worn by ferry passengers, about half of the
new arrivals made their grand entrance already dressed to impress.

Clancy blinked in surprise at a man who wore the purest display of gender confusion he’d ever seen. The dude’s left side was all mermaid, with a shell bikini top, smooth skin, fake eyelashes and flowing hair, while his right side was all mer
man
, complete with a hairy chest, tattoos, and one hell of a five-o’clock shadow. Clancy had to give him extra points for self-expression.

“Hello. Welcome to Bayberry Island.” Clancy tipped his chin, smiled, and shook hands with the mer
person
and a string of tourists who followed behind. “Hello. Have fun. Welcome.”

He chatted with a few people, took pictures with a few more, and recognized many that had been coming to the festival for decades. Among them were Willa and Chet Chester, an older couple who had been regular guests at his family’s bed-and-breakfast for decades. They happened to be lifelong nudists as well, founders of a parallel version of festival week for those who preferred to party in the buff. The nudist colony on the far side of the island did it up right. They had an opening ceremony, a parade, reenactments of the mermaid legend, plays, food, music, a craft fair, and a clambake—all of it done sans clothing.

“Chief Flynn!” Willa hugged him tight and delivered a damp kiss near his left ear.

Chet shook his hand firmly. “Nice to see you, son,” he said.

“Mr. Chester, always a pleasure.”

Willa slapped both her hands on Clancy’s upper arms and squeezed tight, smiling up at him. “Now, my dear, when are we going to get you to come out and celebrate with us? Hmm?”

This was Willa’s usual routine. Starting the summer Clancy turned eighteen, she began attempting to recruit him into the “lifestyle.” It had never much appealed to him. He was the kind of guy who preferred to carefully
choose who he wanted to see naked and then do so in a one-on-one kind of format. Hanging out with a hundred or so sunburned nudists draped in mermaid and sea captain accessories wasn’t his thing. Never would be.

“Oh, Willa.” He grinned at her. “You know I get out to Colony Beach at least a few times every festival week.”

She waved her hand to dismiss his teasing reply. “Only when there’s a problem. I’m talking about taking some time to come out and see how we do things, just relax and let everything go.”

Like his boxers, no doubt.

“Festival week is crazy busy for me, Willa. You know that. But I appreciate the invite, as always.”

She wagged her finger. “You don’t know what you’re missing, Clancy. Well, we should be off. Checking in right away. We can’t wait to see all the renovations at the Safe Haven. How excited you all must be with all the changes on the island this year.”

“Absolutely. Be safe, now.”

Clancy resumed his glad-handing, hearing himself repeat his mantra: “Welcome to Bayberry Island . . . have fun and be safe . . . let me know if there’s anything I can assist you with . . . two blocks that way . . . you can’t miss it. . . .” All while he mulled over Willa’s last comment. She was right. Everything had changed on Bayberry since this time last year. It began when Clancy’s sister, Rowan, fell in love with a Boston blue blood with plans to inject loads of cash into the local economy. As good as all that was, seeing how Rowan and Ashton Louis Wallace III made each other happy was even better. In fact, he’d never seen two people more in love.

“Welcome . . . two blocks down . . . great costume . . . have fun. . . .”

Love.

The irony didn’t escape Clancy. Day-to-day life on Bayberry Island revolved around the “mystical power of love,” as his mother called it. Yet here he was, a naysayer, a nonbeliever. He didn’t make a big deal about it, but
everyone who knew him knew that he and “love” weren’t exactly on speaking terms.

“Hello . . . enjoy yourselves . . . just two blocks that way . . . really? . . . all the way from Minnesota?”

It was simply a fact: the mermaid stuck it to him. It happened on the last day of festival week eighteen years ago, when Clancy stood right here on this dock, in tears, watching the most wonderful, funny, smart, and pretty girl he’d ever met board the ferry with her family. She promised to stay in touch but she never wrote. So much time had passed that he’d forgotten her name—Emma or Emily maybe—but he sure remembered how he felt about her. The only thing he had from that week was a Polaroid of the two of them dancing at the Mermaid Ball, but he hadn’t looked at it in probably ten years. Maybe his mom stashed it somewhere in the attic.

“Yes, ma’am, the kickoff ceremony and parade is tomorrow . . . just two blocks that way . . . enjoy yourselves . . . welcome. . . .”

Of course, Clancy would never tell another soul that he blamed his bad love juju on a slab of bronze. That was just between him and the stone-cold harpy of Fountain Square.

The afternoon ferry must have been filled to maximum capacity, because the bodies continued to spill from the passenger cabin. In the middle of the throng, one woman sparked Clancy’s curiosity. She was tall and slim, wearing hiking shorts, a fitted tee, and big sunglasses, chunks of blond bangs sticking out from under a shapeless canvas sun hat. She held the hand of a fidgety little boy in a pirate costume.

Clancy straightened, squinting into the afternoon sun. Something about her body language didn’t sit right with him. Her face was pulled tight in worry. Her smile seemed forced. And she jerked her head from side to side, as if checking the surroundings.

After studying her for a moment longer, Clancy decided the woman didn’t pose any physical danger to
others, but her energy was most definitely off. Despite her nervousness, he noticed the elegant way she moved. The set of her shoulders was straight and her back was strong. The long and defined muscles of her legs allowed her to progress down the gangway as elegantly as a dancer.

She fascinated him, though he couldn’t pinpoint what it was he found so intriguing. One thing was for certain—she wasn’t a regular visitor. Clancy would have remembered a woman with such a pretty face, funky hair, and spectacular legs. He studied her as she stepped off the gangway onto the dock.

So strange . . . a gentle wave of awareness lifted him up and set him back down, carried him out, and pulled him back in. The sensation felt like a tap on the shoulder and sounded like a whisper in his ear.

Look closer.

Nope. He didn’t know her. But he
wanted
to. Clancy realized he’d already started walking in her direction. The undertow was too strong to resist.

*   *   *

For what felt like the thousandth time that day, Evelyn McGuinness questioned her sanity. She had to be certifiably crazy to attempt something like this. Her niece’s welfare was the most important thing in the world, of course, but she wasn’t stupid. Evelyn knew it was unlikely she could outsmart a powerful Massachusetts congressman with connections all over the country. No matter how far, how fast, or how carefully she ran, this was one race she could easily lose.

But she had to try. She’d given her word.

Evelyn squeezed Christina’s warm and sticky little hand. “You ready to play our game?” She made sure she kept the strain out of her voice as she helped her niece off the ferry.

Christina nodded, looking up with wide brown eyes. “Yep.”