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Chapters (69)
  1. Other Titles
  2. Contents
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. Part One
  6. ROWAN
  7. MAISY
  8. MAISY
  9. ROWAN
  10. ROWAN
  11. MAISY
  12. MAISY
  13. ROWAN
  14. MAISY
  15. ROWAN
  16. ROWAN
  17. MAISY
  18. MAISY
  19. ROWAN
  20. MAISY
  21. ROWAN
  22. ROWAN
  23. MAISY
  24. MAISY
  25. ROWAN
  26. MAISY
  27. ROWAN
  28. MAISY
  29. ROWAN
  30. MAISY
  31. ROWAN
  32. Part Two
  33. ROWAN
  34. MAISY
  35. MAISY
  36. ROWAN
  37. MAISY
  38. MAISY
  39. ROWAN
  40. MAISY
  41. MAISY
  42. MAISY
  43. MAISY
  44. ROWAN
  45. MAISY
  46. MAISY
  47. ROWAN
  48. MAISY
  49. MAISY
  50. ROWAN
  51. MAISY
  52. MAISY
  53. ROWAN
  54. MAISY
  55. ROWAN
  56. MAISY
  57. MAISY
  58. ROWAN
  59. MAISY
  60. MAISY
  61. ROWAN
  62. MAISY
  63. Part Three
  64. ROWAN
  65. MAISY
  66. ROWAN
  67. MAISY
  68. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  69. About the Author

“Bertie’s?”

“Marilyn’s then.”

I realized he was asking about the cottage. Those must be the names of the actual owners. “Oh yeah. Yeah.” I nodded. “My dad knows her.”

“Figured as much. Bertie’s crowd is all button-down types, you know.” He smiled, touched the brim of his hat. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s good to meet new folks.”

I stared into the water, lifted my rod, pretended to check my hook. Black insects skated over the surface, looped around my legs.

“Fish bitin’?”

“I don’t think so.”

“My grandson pulled out a perch this morning. Close to the dock like you’re doing. Not much else, though.” He laid his oar across his lap.

“How do you know?”

“Know what, son?”

“If you got one hooked.”

“What? You’ve never caught a fish before?”

He was gaping at my face. Maybe at my split lip, still swollen. But then, with his finger, he patted near his left eye. People often did that when they noticed my spots. Touched their own skin in the same places where the white blotches were growing. To check, maybe. Or to feel if they were still normal. I could feel my cheeks go pink. “No, sir. I haven’t.”

“Oh, you’ll know, son. You’ll feel the pull. They don’t just sit there, all polite, waiting to be reeled in. They’ll fight you for their lives. Like they should, right?” He watched me for a second, then said, “Digging worms, I take it?” He pointed at my T-shirt. There was so much grime that it was hard to make out the picture of the donkey.

“Yeah. Playing around in the woods and stuff.”

“That’s what summertime’s for, isn’t it? Getting filthy and you couldn’t care less. Don’t tell my wife I said that.” A wink.

“Yeah.”

“Looks like the bugs made a meal out of you, though. Ran out of spray?”

I scratched my neck, and when I looked, my fingernails were filled with brown powder. Dried blood.

“Well, we’re just two over, if you and your dad need anything. I’m Jim Russell, and my wife’s Jackie.” He laughed, tapped his hat again. “Jackie Russell, you know, like those small dogs. No end to her energy. Always in a super mood.”