Rogue Wave, Isabel Jolie [ink ebook reader .TXT] 📗

tan, the smooth, even tan a summer in the waves delivered.

I closed my eyes, luxuriating in the sun's warmth. It had been over ten years since I’d stood here, since I’d seen Nana, and almost that long since I’d spoken to her. My last visit had been over Christmas break before graduation. “That water is too cold for me. I tell you what, I’ll have some hot cider waiting for you when you get back.”

Winter on the island held a unique appeal. In the offseason, the island pared down to the two or three hundred locals. The ache in my chest drilled home what I had already known before ever stepping off the ferry—I missed all the seasons.

“Come back with me. I’ll get you your golf cart. Give you the numbers you’ll need to get things turned on in your place. It’s almost dinnertime. You can make an old woman’s day by agreeing to have dinner with her.” Nana’s friend’s voice broke my reverie, reminding me she stood nearby.

I lifted the brass key from her palm and slipped it into my pocket. I squelched the desire to roam through the cottage, to see what kind of disaster waited inside, and climbed into her golf cart. All my life’s material possessions leaned against the front door of the place, but I knew they’d be safe. The people who came to Haven Island, well, they weren’t the kind of people to steal. You could leave an umbrella or surfboard out on the beach all day—all night, even—and it would be waiting for you when you returned. I guessed that was why I expected so much when I set out on my own.

“I’m Alice. Do you remember me, Adrian?”

I smiled at her and bowed my head in reverence, for some reason I didn’t understand. Just felt like the right way to address her. It felt natural she’d call me the same name my grandmother used. Nana had been the only person I allowed to call me Adrian; everyone else called me by my nickname, Tate. I slipped my hand into my pants pocket, located the smooth sea glass, and flipped it between my fingers as she drove deep within the island. “Yes, I do, ma’am. But please, call me Tate. Everyone does.”

Her withered, warm hand patted my thigh the way you’d pat a dog. “Just like your grandmother.” She drove slowly and spent more time studying me than watching the road. “Tell me. Are you running? Or are you home?”

Chapter 2

Luna

Alice’s dark green two-story home, nestled into a canopy of trees with a matching dark green picket fence, came into view as my golf cart bounced high, sending the little basket of leathery turtle shells into the grass.

“Luna, is everything all right?”

I scooped up the last piece of shell and rose. “Forgot to hold on to the basket—those blasted speed bumps.”

“You mean you were going too fast on that cart of yours. Kids like you, that’s why they had to install those speed bumps.” Her words scolded, but she wore a teasing smile as she took the basket from me and fingered through the egg remnants. “Those tourists didn’t take much, huh?”

“No. The group last night showed more interest in the constellations.”

“If I know you, they left with a solid appreciation of the sea turtle plight, and a healthy respect for the cages dotting our beach protecting those nests.”

“Let’s hope.” Alice and I met on the night of my first turtle watch, back when I was a homesick intern questioning the path I’d chosen. She’d helped me build my first cage. Others saw her as the island eccentric, or the weird old lady, but her iconic beauty reminded me of Toni Morrison or Maya Angelou. Others found her collection of alligator teeth, feathers, animal skulls, and such to be freakish. Not me.

“Come inside and have some iced tea.”

“I wish I could, but I’m running behind today. I’m supposed to meet Mr. Blaid. He has some extras he plans to toss.”

“He keeps building those spec homes, and this island is going to lose its charm.” She wasn’t the first person to gripe about his success, nor would she be the last.

“Our business wouldn’t be doing nearly as good without his referrals,” I offered as a defense of the balding builder.

“I know. And I like what you and Laura do. You renovate. There’s an art to making the old new. And that, I think, is good for Haven Island. Good for the world. But this constant tearing down of trees and destroying undeveloped land, it’s gotta stop.”

“It’s a problem everywhere. They call it suburban sprawl.”

“Well, Haven Island is not the suburbs.” She propped both her hands on her hips, ready for a verbal duel.

“Right you are.” Her white teeth flashed as she accepted my agreement. “I’m off to renovate. Maybe Mr. Baird has found some new owners who need someone to come in and freshen things up.” He often passed on minor projects that weren’t worth his time.

Savvy investors knew they could buy one of the island’s weathered cottages and, with some extra updates, flip the house and make a nice return. REVO was really Laura’s business, and I helped her out when I wasn’t needed at the conservancy. Shiplap boards on the walls, a fresh coat of paint, updated waterproof flooring, and kitchen and bathroom facelifts meant a cottage would sell above market price within hours.

I slid back into my golf cart, and Alice came around to the driver’s side and wrapped her weathered fingers around the stainless steel bar holding the plexiglass windshield. “There’s a new man on the island,” she teased with one dark eyebrow arched.

“I’m sure there are many. Every week we get ferry loads full of vacationers. Loads of married men and sometimes high school or college aged kids.” She ignored my college age quip, even though, technically, I too was a college student. As a grad student, I considered myself above the undergrad set.

“But this one…”