Page 95 of Windlass

“Yeah. Formative age, unfortunately.”

“That’ll do it. I have plenty of extended family who fish, but that’s never happened. At least not that I’ve heard.” Stevie took Stormy’s hand and squeezed. “I’m sorry, buddy. Let me pull up the ferry schedule. It can’t be that hard to find.”

“Thanks, love.”

She scrolled. “There’s one that leaves pretty soon. Want me to tell Morgan we’re taking it?”

“Tell Ivy,” Stormy said. “Morgan might be too busy with the boat to answer, and . . . yes. That would make me feel a lot better.”

“Consider it done.”

She texted Ivy. A few moments later a reply came with a receipt for ferry tickets and a follow-up text asking,Do you think I bought enough champagne?

“The douchebag paid for the tickets for us already,” she announced to the car. “Typical.”

SW:Unless you’re planning on filling up a bathtub, which, ew, yeah you’re good

“Listen, I’m not complaining,” said Stormy. “I’ll make it up to her in coffee and baked goods all day long.”

“Do I get any of those since I came up with the idea?” Stevie tried out her best puppy eyes in the mirror.

“Cooler bag to your left. Don’t eat them all.”

Elbowing a curious Marvin out of the way, Stevie dove to investigate and emerged victorious with a cranberry orange muffin.

The ferry was significantly larger than Morgan’s boat, but not large enough to carry vehicles and small enough to feel the slight swells. Stevie and Angie sandwiched Stormy between them, Marvin at their feet, and did their best to distract her.

Stevie asked a series of increasingly ridiculous questions, all beginning with “Would you rather . . .” and Angie held Stormy’s hand. The oven scars on Stormy’s hands and arms reminded Stevie of Jaq, and despite her upbeat tone she fretted. She hoped the weekend would give the kid some time to get away from things. She’d told Jaq that her sister could stay with her at the house as long as there was no underage drinking, which would force Stevie to fire Jaq. The expression on Jaq’s face at those words convinced her she had nothing to worry about although she would worry anyway.

Friendly chatter from the predominately white passengers drowned out the throb of the engine, and the announcer gave a tour as they chugged over the water. Stormy’s breathing held steady. That was a good sign, wasn’t it?

“Would you rather have a pet ostrich or a pet llama?”

“One would peck my eye out, and the other would spit in it,” said Stormy. “But an ostrich would lay me an entire frittata’s worth of eggs in one sitting.”

“But llamas have those ears!”

Angie had clearly never met an angry llama with its ears flattened against its skull and its long neck snaking toward her, or she would not say such things.

“More llama, more drama,” said Stevie, speaking from experience. “The nice ones are really cool, though. Ange, show Stormy your sketches.”

She hadn’t wanted to put Angie on the spot, but the novelty of “would you rather” was wearing off, and Stormy looked a little panicky.

“Sure. And don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing, Stevie.”

“It’s not my fault you got me hooked on your story and won’t show me!”

Angie withdrew her watercolor sketchbook from the satchel at her feet and flipped it open. Stormy brightened.

“The colors. Oh my god. Baby girl, this is incredible.” Stormy took the sketchbook from Angie’s hands and pored over the pages, leaving Stevie free to watch Angie shift with embarrassed pleasure. When Angie caught Stevie watching, Stevie raised her eyebrows, communicating “I told you so.”

Rabbit Island was every bit as WASPy as Angie had imagined. She hadn’t originally understood what WASP meant when she’d first heard the term from Lilian: White Anglo-Saxon Protestant. Now she got it. Repressed white New Englanders had clearly built and populated this place, though not the same ones she herself claimed as ancestors. Her bloodline was muddled and full of criminals, or so the family stories went, and that tracked.

The houses lining the shore near the boat dock in the island’s small cove were not exactly grand, but the kind of summer home favored by the well-off: tasteful with water views and shingles that were for the most part new, or at least not dilapidated,unlike the ones in the harbor. They probably didn’t leak either. Fresh paint marked some, and the lawns were all meticulously maintained, even the ones that favored a more natural approach. Lupine dotted the hillside, flowers closed now, and going to seed, but she could imagine how it might look swathed in blues and purples.Rosa rugosaand wildflowers bloomed instead. Above them vaulted a sky so pure and blue no movie filter could have done it justice.

“Uh,” Angie said to Stevie, edging away from the rest of the group where they’d met up at the dock, “this is . . .”

“Incredible? Insane?” Stevie supplied.

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