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Chapters (47)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraphs
  5. Prologue
  6. Part One
  7. ONE
  8. TWO
  9. THREE
  10. FOUR
  11. FIVE
  12. SIX
  13. SEVEN
  14. EIGHT
  15. NINE
  16. TEN
  17. ELEVEN
  18. TWELVE
  19. THIRTEEN
  20. FOURTEEN
  21. FIFTEEN
  22. SIXTEEN
  23. SEVENTEEN
  24. Part Two
  25. EIGHTEEN
  26. NINETEEN
  27. TWENTY
  28. TWENTY-ONE
  29. TWENTY-TWO
  30. TWENTY-THREE
  31. TWENTY-FOUR
  32. TWENTY-FIVE
  33. TWENTY-SIX
  34. TWENTY-SEVEN
  35. TWENTY-EIGHT
  36. TWENTY-NINE
  37. THIRTY
  38. THIRTY-ONE
  39. THIRTY-TWO
  40. THIRTY-THREE
  41. THIRTY-FOUR
  42. THIRTY-FIVE
  43. THIRTY-SIX
  44. THIRTY-SEVEN
  45. Acknowledgments
  46. About the Author
  47. Newsletter Sign-up

Could she give up the tides and the moon and the damp warmth and move back to Milwaukee? Milwaukee: the name of her hometown sounded funny, strange. She could return to the Wellfleet house. It didn’t matter how far away she got from it; it called to her. All it took was the smell of a marsh or the sound of a catbird to make her want to go back. Was that what she should do next?

As if in answer to the question, she finally checked her “poppybythesea” email—something she hardly ever did, because it was a pain to get to the library. Mixed in with all the spam, she found about ten messages from Ann, who rarely wrote unless she had updates about Noah.

She opened up the last email Ann had sent:

Where are you? I have no idea how to reach you. Look, I didn’t want to say this in an email, Pops, I really didn’t, but you need to know: Mom and Dad were in an accident. A bad one. They didn’t make it. I’m sorry. It’s already been two weeks, so I guess there’s nothing you can do at this point. Everything’s been taken care of—for now. Call me when you get this, send a smoke signal, something—please?

NINETEEN

Michael

It was so cold that February day that it seemed like a miracle the salt water managed to shove its way into Drummer Cove and escape back to the sea without hardening into ice. The Cape was so quiet, so frigid. The water was the only thing that moved.

It was high tide. From the roof, Michael took a break from his work and stopped to admire the view—there were so many trees around the Gordons’ house that this was the only real way to take it in. The surface of the water sparkled royal blue against the light dusting of snow that had fallen earlier that morning on the bluff and the small islands of beach grass. The storm was off to sea now. Michael could see the thick layer of once-threatening clouds, like an army in retreat in the distance. It created a dramatic contrast between the hovering darkness on the horizon and the pure, high midday light of winter.

Michael loved the cove, a place that felt special and secret, especially this time of year, when it was hidden from the tourists’ greedy eyes. He wished like hell that the Cape’s economy and his own livelihood didn’t depend on weekly renters who arrived on summer Saturdays in their minivans, armed with cell phones, floaties, flip-flops, and People magazines. In winter, the tourists and all their crap were thankfully gone. The roads were clear, and the greasy sheen of sunscreen had vanished from the surface of the ponds, now frozen and still.