CAPTAIN’S MATE

  THE ISLAND BOOK 3

  DECLAN RHODES

  Copyright © 2023 by Declan Rhodes

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  Declan Rhodes also previously published under the pen name Grant C. Holland.

  CONTENTS

  1. Jack

  2. Alex

  3. Jack

  4. Alex

  5. Jack

  6. Alex

  7. Jack

  8. Alex

  9. Jack

  10. Alex

  11. Jack

  12. Alex

  13. Jack

  14. Alex

  15. Jack

  16. Alex

  17. Jack

  18. Alex

  19. Jack

  20. Alex

  21. Jack

  22. Alex

  23. Jack

  24. Alex

  Epilogue - Jack

  Also by Declan Rhodes

  About the Author

  ONE

  JACK

  A sudden jolt of the ferry sent the usual thrill up my spine as we powered away from the Wisconsin mainland, bound for the ever-changing moods of Lake Michigan. The brisk wind kept me invigorated as I stood at the ferry’s wheel.

  The passengers were a mix of tourists and regulars, some streaming out of their cars to the rail, eager faces turned toward the vast stretch of water. The beauty of the lake drew them. It was a seemingly endless expanse that held many ancient secrets.

  Scanning the crowd, I was about to return to my duties when my heart nearly stopped. Standing near the railing was a face I hadn’t seen in years. Alex Bennett, one of my ex-boyfriends, appeared as if out of a dream, looking entirely at ease yet somehow different.

  I studied him from afar, my mind racing, my palms suddenly clammy. Time had changed Alex, sculpting him into a more striking version of the man I remembered. His sandy blonde hair was still present, but now it framed his face in a neat trim. Once full of youthful exuberance, his eyes now possessed a depth and maturity I hadn’t seen before.

  Something within me stirred—a mixture of nostalgia, curiosity, and the thrill of attraction. As the ferry continued its journey, I realized the trip would be unlike any other.

  Lost in thought, I looked over the lake and watched the waves. Seagulls cried overhead, seeming to echo my own conflicted feelings. Part of me wanted to approach Alex to see if that old connection still flickered between us. Another part held back, unsure if I was ready to reopen the door to our past.

  Alex’s unexpected presence had turned an ordinary voyage into a passage toward the unknown, a journey that might unravel the fabric of the past and redefine our future.

  His posture was relaxed yet commanding, shoulders squared and head held high, exuding an aura of self-assuredness that resonated through the crowd. As I watched him, he lifted his head, his gaze sweeping the horizon.

  I wondered whether fate brought us together again. What did it mean that Alex had reappeared just as I questioned my life path?

  Suddenly, a gust of wind sent his sun-kissed hair into disarray. Still, he merely grinned, unflustered, and ran his hand through it casually, speaking volumes about his effortless grace under unforeseen circumstances. A ripple of gentle laughter followed.

  That’s when it hit me—how the years had transformed Alex into a man of quiet, magnetic confidence. His every action, every look, every gesture was a testament to that change. And the vision approached my heartstrings, plucking at them with a rhythm that was all too familiar yet excitingly new.

  All at once, the past and present tangled together in a wave of nostalgia, uncertainty, and a hint of excitement as I recalled our crazy summer together on Garfield Island.

  When I speculated about what might bring Alex back, I remembered he was a writer. On his first visit to the island, he’d escaped the pressures of academia and a Fine Arts program to spend eight weeks on our rocky shores—five years back.

  We weren’t yet twenty-five, and we’d both hired on to work the night shift at the Sea Drift Motel. I’d doubled up with weekend work as an apprentice on the ferries.

  An especially loud cry from a seagull brought me back to the present. A writers’ retreat was starting in two days, and I suspected that was Alex’s destination.

  A voice suddenly sliced through my thoughts. “Captain Larson, Garfield Island should be on the horizon in half an hour or so.”

  “Much appreciated, Mitchell,” I nodded, focusing back on the gently rolling waves before us.

  Mitchell was my first officer, and he kept an eye on everything I might miss. Being a ferryboat captain meant I was responsible for the safety of everyone aboard, and I couldn’t let myself get lost in thoughts about Alex while on duty.

  As the ferry continued slicing its way through the water, kicking up foam alongside and leaving trails of churning whitecaps in our wake, it carried us ever closer to our destination. The small rocky island first looked like a dark line on the horizon. As we drew closer, the deep green of pine forest separated from the stony shore.

  While I avoided staring at him, I couldn’t shake the image of Alex from my mind. Once we docked, would he acknowledge my existence? What might his return mean for me or for us? Was there still an “us” in his mind?

  I pushed those thoughts aside and did my best to return my focus to my daily routine.

  Unfortunately, like the chorus of a nostalgic song, memories of Alex refused to be silenced. Our first meeting on the same ferryboat felt like just yesterday. I was still learning the ropes. Our eyes met across the deck, and I knew my life would never be the same.

  You say that about every man you take home. I heard the criticisms of my island friends echoing in my mind. I had a bad reputation as the love ’em and leave ’em type, but Alex was different.

  “Hey,” he’d called out that day, a shy smile gracing his lips. “I’m Alex.”

  “Jack. Nice to meet you,” I responded, unable to resist the pull of that expressive, handsome face.

  From that day forward, we were inseparable. We spent every day we had off exploring the island, picnicking on sun-drenched beaches, and dancing under the stars at night.

  “Remember that time you and Alex went to Keller’s Rock?” I whispered to myself, lost in the memory. We had the tiny island to ourselves for the day, and it was like we were the only two people in the world.

  The good times we’d shared felt like a beautiful but fragile glass sculpture, a delicate thing that had shattered in a single, painful moment. The darkness of our breakup haunted my memories. It was a shadow that twisted and warped everything we’d cherished.

  We’d fought, our voices escalating until they were thunderous roars, raw and primal. Cruel words were our weapons, and we wielded them with a savagery that neither of us had known we were capable of. Our love, which had once bound us together, was torn apart by resentment and unmet expectations.

  “Maybe we’re just too different, Jack,” Alex had choked out, tears streaming down his face, his voice breaking with each word. The vulnerability in his eyes tore at me, but anger and pride had stopped me from reaching out to him.

  “I can’t keep chasing after you like this. I need stability, commitment—things you’ll never be able to give me. Summer doesn’t last forever.”

  “Fine,” I’d shouted, my voice tight. “Go, then. I don’t need you.”

  But even as I screamed the words, a cold, hollow feeling had settled in my chest. I knew, deep down, that I was lying. I did need him. I needed him more than I’d ever admitted to myself. But it was too late. I’d yelled words that I couldn’t take back.

  In the aftermath, I carried on with my life, putting one foot in front of the other, but the void Alex left behind remained, a constant ache that never fully healed. I would meet others, but I never met another Alex. No one else could ever ignite that same spark in me or fill the emptiness he’d left behind.

  It was a wound that time never managed to heal, a scar on my soul that still ached on lonely nights. And now, seeing him again reawakened the old pain, fresh and raw, as if it had never faded.

  “Jack, are you okay?” one of my crew members, Sarah, asked, her voice full of concern as she placed a hand on my shoulder.

  “Fine, just lost in thought,” I replied, shaking off the weight of the past and forcing a smile.

  “Alright, well, let me know if you need anything,” she said, giving me one last worried look before returning to her duties.

  I blinked away the memories, forcing myself to focus on the present.

  “Jack!” Marty’s call, a familiar voice among my regular passengers, rang out above the ferry’s engine. “How’s she running today?”

  “As smooth as silk, Marty,” I shot back, a grin spreading across my face, grateful for the light banter.

  “Excellent,” he said, cl
apping me on the back before continuing on his way.

  As I guided the ferry back to Garfield Island, I took in the familiar view of the harbor coming into sight. The sunlight glistened on the rippling blue water, and the trees along the shoreline swayed gently in the breeze.

  Though the day seemed peaceful, a strange unease prickled the back of my neck. I knew that summer days could be stormy, too, and weather events could develop quickly over the open waters of Lake Michigan.

  “Can’t beat this weather for a sail, eh Captain?” Mitchell’s rumbling voice drifted up to me from the deck.

  “Wouldn’t dream of knocking it,” I returned, my smile forced as my gaze drifted back to Alex.

  He looked lost in thought, staring out at the horizon, his brow furrowed slightly as if he were contemplating something important. Was I right about the retreat? Or was he visiting friends? Or perhaps—maybe he was traveling to the island to see me.

  “Captain Jack!” Timmy’s enthusiastic shout echoed, the ferry being his second home during the balmy summer months. “Let me have a go at the helm?”

  “You’ve got it, champ,” I surrendered, gladly stepping aside to let the young lad take my place. “Just remember, like the tortoise, slow and steady wins the race.”

  “Got it!” he said, gripping the wheel with determination as I watched him.

  My thoughts about Alex continued. I knew I should be cautious—after all, our past included so much heartache and multiple misunderstandings. Still—the spark was there, and I knew it wouldn’t take much to fan it into a flame.

  “Alright, Timmy,” I said gently, reclaiming control of the helm. “Great job, buddy. Now go enjoy the rest of the ride.”

  “Thanks, Captain Jack!” he replied, bounding off to find his next adventure.

  I turned the boat slightly to align it with the approaching dock. Passengers began returning to their cars, and I could see more of the island’s buildings coming into focus. The lighthouse on the opposite side of the island rose into view above the trees.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” a passenger remarked, breaking my train of thought.

  “Garfield Island always is,” I replied with a smile. “Make sure you catch the sunset from the lighthouse—it’s a view you won’t forget.”

  “Thanks for the tip!” she said, snapping pictures with her phone.

  “Hey Jack, you seem lost in thought,” my friend Marco observed, joining me at the helm.

  “Ah, it’s nothing,” I said casually. “Just thinking about the island, you know? Are you coming back from Madison?”

  “I am—hired a ride all the way from Sturgeon Bay, where I got off a bus. Ryder will cringe at the cost of the driver, but it was nice to let somebody else deal with the driving responsibility.”

  “Everybody needs time to lean back and watch the world go by,” I said.

  “And whatever you have on your mind,” continued Marco, “if you need someone to talk to, I’m a good listener.”

  “Aww, thanks, bud.” I appreciated his concern and remained awed by Marco’s willingness to be friends after my past history of dating his future husband, Ryder.

  I was the man who nearly disrupted their second chance and future wedding by launching into a doomed, whirlwind relationship with Ryder.

  A small community like the 2,000 souls on Garfield Island had to deal with intertwined histories. It was bound to happen with such a small group of people. The ability to forgive was a much-needed skill in such a tightly-knit group.

  As the ferry approached the dock, I gazed at the island that had been home to my family for six generations. My great-great-great grandfather was one of the early settlers, carving out a living from the land and sea. Now, I carried on the family tradition, making my living as captain of the ferry, shuttling visitors and residents back and forth.

  The rocky island was in my blood, its rhythms and moods as familiar to me as my own heartbeat. I knew every cove and inlet, every hidden cave and secluded beach. As a child, I’d explored its wooded trails and fished its shores. As an adult, I found comfort in its unchanging nature. No matter what storms rocked my personal life, the island remained my constant, my touchstone.

  Some might consider spending one’s whole life on a small island confining. But for me, it was a profound blessing, one I hoped to pass on to my own children someday. My roots ran deep, grounding me and giving me purpose.

  It was time to announce our arrival.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Garfield Island!” I boomed, my voice steady amid the rising anticipation. “Please gather your belongings and prepare to disembark. Motorists, please heed Sarah’s guidance for a safe exit. We appreciate your choice to sail with us today.”

  TWO

  ALEX

  Green Bay glittered to my left as I followed the coastal road, reflecting the bright July sun. Lake Michigan was only a few short miles ahead.

  The sparkling waters promised a shimmering invitation to the adventures waiting for me on Garfield Island.

  Only a few more miles, I reminded myself, until the ferry crossing, until the escape, until—Jack.

  I felt so alive after publishing my first novel, The Ocean’s Son. It was a book that catapulted me from obscurity into the spotlight.

  My novel sailed up the bestseller charts and parked there for three months, getting shortlisted for numerous awards and winning a prize for maritime fiction.

  But now, after two more successes, I was stuck. My creativity had stalled, my muse was missing in action, and the once vibrant spark of creativity had dimmed.

  Garfield Island promised a possible refuge, a place to revive my writing. But it also held something—or someone—more elusive.

  When I pulled up to a stoplight in one of the villages along my drive, I reached over to the passenger seat. My fingers traced the cover of the retreat brochure, lingering on the photo of the island’s rocky shore and quaint collection of buildings.

  It looked like something out of a storybook, a place where magical things could happen. It held out a promise of untapped creative potential, but there was something else I knew I couldn’t ignore.

  Jack, my first love, the phantom that lingered in the background of my stories, still haunted the island as far as I knew. The thought sent a shiver down my spine, mixing anticipation with apprehension. Would I make the retreat be about writing or confronting a past I’d tried to leave behind?

  I thought about our tumultuous past. Jack’s moods were as changeable as the sea. One moment he was calm and serene; the next, a fierce storm that could pull you under.

  “Focus, Alex,” I muttered, my eyes fixed on the winding road ahead.

  During the ferry crossing to Garfield Island, I turned off the car engine and joined my fellow passengers at the railing, lost in thought. Great hopes for the retreat filled me; however, I also harbored a gnawing fear.

  If the retreat didn’t work, what then? I’d have to consider the viability of my writing career, possibly turning to something more stable—teaching or editing, perhaps.

  Around me, bits and pieces of conversation floated through the air. Over the years, I’d honed the writer’s observation craft, always alert for that distinctive detail that might later find its way into a story.

  A woman’s voice caught my attention: “It’s such a quiet little island. It’s like nothing ever happens. Every time I return, it’s always the same.”

  Softly, I chuckled to myself.

  As the ferry approached Garfield Island, a knot formed in my stomach. Doubt crept in, that familiar feeling of imposter syndrome.

  Who was I kidding? I was no Hemingway. My first three novels must have been flukes.

  Now, with the blank pages staring back at me daily, the literary world would see I was just an amateur after all. Had coming to the retreat been a mistake?