Part 50 (2/2)

”My ex-girlfriend. We decided to cool it for a while. And then I got the email from my mother about my dad selling McCarthy's. . . I told my mom I'd help him fix the place up a bit.”

”I still can't believe that.”

Mac shrugged. ”He can't work forever, and none of us want to deal with it.”

”How's your sister doing? I haven't seen her in a while.”

Despite the nonchalant question, Mac knew there was nothing nonchalant about his friend's feelings for Janey. ”Still carrying that torch?”

Joe shrugged. ”I've yet to meet anyone I like better.”

”She and David are engaged, man. Might be time to move on.”

”Maybe.” He flashed the grin that had made him popular with the girls in high school-not that he'd noticed after he gave his young heart to Janey McCarthy. ”She's not married yet.”

”Joe-”

”I'm not going to show up at the wedding in a gorilla suit and cart her off or anything.”

Mac studied the expression on his friend's face: staged indifference mixed with wistfulness. ”That sounds a little too well planned.”

”No worries, I don't own a gorilla suit. I am thinking about getting a dog, though.”

Mac laughed at that because Janey worked for the island's veterinarian.

Joe steered the one hundred ten-foot ferry past the breakwater to the island's South Harbor port.

Mac watched the town of Gansett come into view-the bustling port, the white landmark Beachcomber Hotel with its clock tower and turrets, the Victorian Portside Inn, the strip of boutiques and T-s.h.i.+rt shops, the South Harbor Diner, Mario's Pizzeria and Ice Cream Parlor where Mac stole his first kiss from Nicki Peterson in eighth grade.

His overriding memory of growing up there was plotting his escape. Once he finally managed to leave, he'd never looked back except for occasional visits to his parents. Every time he came home, he counted the minutes until he could leave again. This would be his longest stay since he turned eighteen and left for college. Mac wondered how long it would take before he was chomping to leave again.

Salt air, diesel fuel and rotting seaweed-the aromas of home-filled Mac's senses and turned his stomach. He hated the smell of rotting seaweed.

”Come on back with me,” Joe said.

At the ferry's stern, Mac watched as Joe used a combination of engine power and bow thrusters to efficiently turn the ferry in the tightest imaginable s.p.a.ce and back it into its berth. ”You make that look so d.a.m.ned easy.”

”It is easy-especially when you've done it a thousand or two times.”

Once the ferry was docked, they stood at the rail and watched the throngs of trucks, cars and tourists disembark from the day's first boat to Gansett.

”I still spend Friday and Sat.u.r.day nights on the island during the summer,” Joe said as Mac gathered up his stuff. ”Come on by the Beachcomber if you feel like grabbing a brew or two.”

”I'll do that.” Mac shook Joe's hand. ”It's good to see you, man.”

”Been too long.”

”Yeah.” But as Mac took a long look at the bustling town of Gansett, he decided it hadn't been nearly long enough.

Carrying his oversize backpack, Mac navigated the crowds on his way to Main Street. He stopped to let a family on bikes pa.s.s and continued up the hill, mesmerized by the frantic activity.

To his left, in neat, orderly rows, cars, vans and pa.s.senger trucks waited to back onto the nine a.m. ferry for the fifty-minute return trip to mainland Rhode Island. Joe's employees moved like a well-oiled NASCAR pit crew, offloading cargo from the arriving ferry and reloading the next boat. The island relied on the ferries to deliver everything from food to mail to fuel to milk. During the summer, when the island's thirty restaurants and bars operated at full tilt, each ferry brought new s.h.i.+pments of beer, wine, liquor, fresh seafood, potatoes, vegetables and linens.

A forklift carrying a pallet of soda came within inches of running into Mac.

”Sorry, man,” the operator called out with a smile.

Mac waved to the driver. He cleared the cargo area and fixed his gaze on the Beachcomber, the iconic building that anch.o.r.ed the town. The quacking horn of a Range Rover painted yellow and tricked out like a duck-complete with a bill affixed to the hood-caught Mac's eye. Laughing at the JSTDKY license plate, he stepped off the curb onto Main Street.

A searing pain stabbed through his left leg, sending him sprawling into the street.

Mac lay there for a second, trying to catch his breath and gather his wits. A young woman was lying next to him, her bike about to be run over by a pickup truck that would hit her next. Mac ignored the burning pain in his calf and leaped up to stop the truck inches from her. He wasn't fast enough to keep the truck from mangling her bike, though.

Mac squatted down to help the woman. Since her top had ridden up in the fall, he noticed her extravagant curves and had to remind himself that she was hurt. She was struggling to breathe and must've had the wind knocked out of her by the fall. He quickly adjusted her s.h.i.+rt to cover full b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

”Take it easy,” he said. ”Don't struggle. That'll only make it worse.”

Frantic caramel-colored eyes stared up at him The impact of their eyes meeting hit him like a locomotive to the chest. What the heck was that? Long hair the same color as her eyes fanned out under her head, and blood poured from huge cuts on her knee, elbow and hand. Mac winced, wis.h.i.+ng he'd been more careful.

Tears spilled from her eyes.

Mac reached out to brush them away, his fingers tingling as they skimmed over her soft skin.

Her eyes widened, and she seemed to stop breathing altogether.

”Breathe,” he said.

Anxious to get her away from the prying eyes of the crowd that had formed around them, Mac slid his arms under her and lifted her from the pavement.

She let out a startled gasp and then a moan as her injured leg bent around his arm. ”W-what're you doing?”

”My friend Libby runs the Beachcomber. She's a volunteer paramedic on the Gansett Fire Department. Let's go get you cleaned up. Did you hit your head?”

”No, just my arm and leg.” She turned her palm up. ”And my hand.”

Mac's stomach roiled at the sight of her pulpy hand. ”G.o.d, I'm so sorry.” Still carrying her, he crossed the street to the hotel. ”I wasn't looking where I was going.”

She struggled against his firm hold. ”I need to get to work, so if you could just put me down. Please. . .”

”You can't go to work in this condition. You're bleeding.”