“Of course. Take it for as long as you’d like. My dad would be right tickled to know someone’s appreciating his handiwork.”

“Thank you so much, Jim. I promise to take good care of it.”

“My absolute pleasure, Ms. Bennett,” he says, as I follow him out of the office.

“Please call me June,” I scold, once we’re back out on the dock. “Every time you call me Ms. Bennett, I feel like my mother.” He laughs and holds up both hands in apology.

“Did you say June Bennett?” I turn at the question and see a man bent over in the act of tying up his boat while at the same time staring right at me.

He stands up, and I can’t help but notice how handsome he is—tall, slim, tanned, with dark hair and sharp blue eyes. I’m guessing he’s somewhere around my age. I feel like I should know him, but I can’t put my finger on why.

“Yes. I am June Bennett. Do I know you?” I ask, sounding aloof, but mostly because I’m totally intimidated by his good looks.

“June!” he says in response. “It’s me, Ezra. Ezra Keen.” He points at his chest, but the name doesn’t fit this person in front of me.

Back in the day we had a caretaker for the island, West Keen. He often brought his son, Ezra, along to help. That boy is locked in my brain somewhere around adolescence. I’ve thought of him many times over the years, but always as the boy I knew— stripped T-shirt, dirty knees, a laugh that carried, and the softest lips I’ve ever known.

This man in his white T-shirt with his man muscles and arm hair, khaki shorts, and clean knees—how could this be my Ezra?

He takes a step forward. “June?” he says again.

I look down at his feet—they’re bare. It’s this detail that makes me believe his identity. Ezra never wore shoes anywhere, not even into town.

I look back at his face, study the laugh lines, the stubble on his face that has hints of gray in it. I look right into his eyes, and that’s where I find the boy I knew. The blue is just as deep, the look just as expectant and open, as if he’s waiting for me to catch up, just like he always did.

“My god.” The words breathe right out of me. “Ezra.”

As though my recognition finally brings permission, he leans in to give me a hug. I return it awkwardly, one hand still clutching the thick scrapbook. “I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you at first.” I try to explain my rudeness away.

He shrugs. “It’s fine. I mean.” He shoves a hand through his thick, messy hair. “It’s been almost thirty years.”