The boy lifts one foot and steps back.

He never turns around to look at me, and I am tempted to go over to see his face.

Brandy yells again. “Delsie! What are you doing? C’mon!”

I spin on one foot and run with her, but with every step, my brain asks another question about the boy dressed completely in black who stands at the water’s edge in the middle of a lightning storm.

Chapter 7

PLAYING GAMES

“Jeepers crow!” Grammy says, coming up behind me at Seaside Heaven. “I need your help with one of the rooms. The people turned the furniture upside down and asked to have the undersides of things cleaned. I don’t think it’s a joke because they left a hefty tip . . .”

I help Grammy with the cleaning, but turning the furniture back over is hard. So she calls the office and asks for help.

Soon the new guy who helps take care of the place shows up. Behind him is the boy in black.

Grammy extends her hand. “Bridget McHill. Thanks so much for coming over. I don’t know what these people were thinking . . .”

The guy reaches out and shakes Grammy’s hand. “Yeah, you never know,” he says. He turns to me. “I’m Gusty Gale. This is my son, Ronan.”

“Gusty Gale?” I blurt out. “That’s the best name ever. I mean ever in the history of the universe and the world. I totally love it.”

Father’s and son’s eyebrows pop up at the same time. Like they practiced it.

“It’s way better than plain old Delsie McHill,” I explain.

Grammy scoffs. “Delsie McHill, why, your name is like a song, honey bunch. Gusty Gale . . . is . . .” She glances his way. “Well, very nice, too.” Grammy turns a bit red.

“Well, thank you both,” he says, chuckling. “My legal name is Sherman, but I go by Gusty.”

“Oh, I don’t blame you,” I say. “Sherman is an old guy’s name. But Gusty’s a guy who treats everyone to fish and chips on Friday night. It’s much better!”

Grammy bursts out laughing. “You can see that we always know what Delsie is thinking.”

“No worries,” Gusty says. “I prefer people who say what’s on their mind.”

“Well, no worries there,” Grammy says.

The boy finally speaks. “You do know what a gale is, right? And what Gusty Gale would mean?”

“Oh yeah! A stormy storm. He’s two words that kind of mean the same thing. Like soaking wet.”

“Yeah, well . . . some say I am pretty stormy,” Gusty says.

I turn to Grammy. “Maybe I need a weather nickname, too. How about Muggy McHill? Or Monsoon McHill?”

The first few notes of a song begin on Grammy’s radio. I recognize it right away.

“‘The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.’ My papa Joseph loved that song,” I blurt out. “I bet the captain in this song was named Gusty Gale.”