Chapters (47)
- Title Page
- Copyright Notice
- Dedication
- Epigraphs
- Prologue
- Part One
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- Part Two
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Newsletter Sign-up
“Like the flower. Gotcha.” Kit’s grin was crooked and revealed front teeth that were a shade yellower than the rest. Caps. Poppy figured she’d broken her front teeth on her board or a rock. Kit stared at Poppy with eyes that seemed to be in a perpetual squint. “Why are you alone?”
The way she said it implied that being alone was unnatural. “Everyone else in my family is busy.”
“Screw your family.”
Poppy smiled. That was exactly what she needed to hear.
Kit gestured at the orange dunes and the great big ocean. “You got good balance? You skateboard or ski?”
“Does cross-country skiing count?” She and her mom liked to ski on the trails through Riverside Park.
“Your name is Poppy and you fucking cross-country ski. God, you kill me. Where are you from?”
“Milwaukee.”
Kit let out a snort that made Poppy laugh. “That’s fucking rad. Of course you’re from Canada.”
“No, Wisconsin. Milwaukee is in Wisconsin.”
“Whatever. May as well be nowhere if there’s no ocean.”
“We have Lake Michigan.”
Kit snorted again. “A lake is no ocean.”
“You can’t see the other side when you look across it. It’s big.”
“You kill me, flower girl.”
Poppy liked Kit immediately.
“Not a lot of girls who surf out here,” Kit said.
“I’ve always wanted to try.”
“OK already, so I’ll teach you.”
“Seriously?”
“Sure.” She shrugged. “I brought my long board. It’s easier for beginners. The surf is ankle busters today. Waves are shit. They almost always are this time of year unless there’s a storm. But good for learning.”
Poppy looked out at the ocean. The waves were gentle bumps lumbering toward shore, nothing like the waves that scared Michael when they’d first taken him to this very beach last summer, when she found out her family was about to change forever.
“Follow me,” Kit said, walking toward the ocean. “Your gremlin days are over.”
FOUR
Ann
Brooks and Toby were easy. Too easy. Mostly they ignored Ann. She wasn’t of much interest to them, just the hired help, one of many in a long string of au pairs and nannies. Toby was right: he didn’t need a babysitter and neither did Brooks. What they needed was a chauffeur—one who could tolerate listening to their Backstreet Boys CD on constant repeat. She’d rather stuff tinfoil into her ears.