by Isabel Jolie
Rogue Wave
Isabel Jolie
Copyright © 2021 by Isabel Jolie.
All rights reserved.
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Editor: Lori Whitwam
Line editor: Heather Whitehead
Cover Design: Elizabeth Mackey
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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Isabel Jolie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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Isabel Jolie has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
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Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks, and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
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To Jake’s Watch… and our family beach days on Killegray Ridge
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Notes & Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Isabel Jolie
Chapter 1
Tate
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The screen flapped loose in the ocean’s wind. Rotten wood surrounded the windows and doorframe. The dark and weathered cedar shakes cried out for a coat of fresh paint. The house before me stood as a shadow of childhood memories, of past summers spent on Haven Island.
Back then, light gray paint covered the cedar shake siding, and white Adirondack rocking chairs with clean, colorful pillows filled the porch. Surfboards hung from hooks on the far back wall. A yellow bucket with seashell remnants rested near the outside water hose.
“Are you Pearl’s?” The voice carried over the distant sound of crashing surf and pulled me back to the present. An older woman, with weathered chocolate-brown skin and kind eyes, sat in a golf cart, watching me.
“Yes.” The wood board I stood on cracked beneath my weight, decayed and splintering. I mumbled, more to myself than to her, “I was.”
“You’re still hers. Always will be.”
I stopped looking at my feet and examined the woman behind the wheel. Her hair. The thick, woven braids pulled back. I remembered her. I used to debate with the other kids whether she wore dreadlocks or braids.
She stood and came around to me. In her palm, she offered a key. I stood staring, and she raised her arm. “Take it. It’s yours.”
“What is it?” The woman’s name eluded me.
“It’s the key to this place. Your grandmother asked me to hold on to it for you. She was a dear friend of mine, you know.”
“How did you know I’d be here?” I’d landed on the ferry less than an hour ago, then walked up Long Wynd, the one long road from the marina along the south side of the island. Golf carts whizzed by me, although I earned a few second glances. The long-haired, scruffy guy hauling a massive backpack didn’t blend in with the resort beach scene.
“Pearl asked me to keep an eye out. I’ve got your golf cart too. Been keeping it at my place. Your cottage took a hit in the last hurricane. Not too much damage, but the floorboards need to be replaced. You’ll need to have electrical and water turned back on. You can stay with me if you like while you get your place situated.”
“Thanks, but I can camp out.” Even without electricity, the place would feel luxurious compared to some of the places I’d lived over the last ten years.
My plan had been to break into the cottage, although my grandmother’s lawyer said he could get me a key. I hadn’t wanted to deal with him, or anyone else, longer than necessary. I’d arrived too late for her funeral, then learned she’d given my brother her Connecticut home, and me her beach cottage. Those were the only two items in the will my brother left out of the dispute.
A young teenager whizzed down the narrow black asphalt road in her two-seater cart, her long blonde strands flying in the wind. The low hum from a cranked-up radio overpowered the island lull. The surfboard strapped to the top of the golf cart delivered a wave of nostalgia. An intense longing for those carefree, sunny, warm days with a wide-open future struck hard. My grandmother’s crackly voice rang through my mind. “How was the surf today?”
The golf cart reached the peak and tipped down out of sight as her golden strands whipped behind her. “Go along and meet a new friend, Tate. Enjoy the day.” Nana’s words wrapped around me as if her spirit were here, welcoming me back home.
Every summer I begged to spend here. My brother would ask to go away to camp or on sailing trips to the Caribbean. Not me. Every single summer, I asked to spend with Nana Pearl.
Cars weren’t allowed on the island, so everyone got around on bikes or golf carts or skateboards. You could go anywhere, and none of the adults worried. The golden girl going by in a bikini and flip-flops reminded me of all the bikini-clad girls I used to hang out with every summer, on constant rotation as the renters came and went. The setting sun reflected in her sunglasses, and her blonde hair offset a perfect Coppertone tan, the smooth, even tan a summer in the waves delivered.
I closed my eyes, luxuriating in the sun's warmth. It had been over ten years since I’d stood here, since I’d seen Nana, and almost that long since I’d spoken to her. My last visit had been over Christmas break before graduation. “That water is too cold for me. I tell you what, I’ll have some hot cider waiting for you when you get back.”
Winter on the island held a unique appeal. In the offseason, the island pared down to the two or three hundred locals. The ache in my chest drilled home what I had already known before ever stepping off the ferry—I missed all the seasons.
“Come back with me. I’ll get you your golf cart. Give you the numbers you’ll need to get things turned on in your place. It’s almost dinnertime. You can make an old woman’s day by agreeing to have dinner with her.” Nana’s friend’s voice broke my reverie, reminding me she stood nearby.
I lifted the brass key from her palm and slipped it into my pocket. I squelched the desire to roam through the cottage, to see what kind
of disaster waited inside, and climbed into her golf cart. All my life’s material possessions leaned against the front door of the place, but I knew they’d be safe. The people who came to Haven Island, well, they weren’t the kind of people to steal. You could leave an umbrella or surfboard out on the beach all day—all night, even—and it would be waiting for you when you returned. I guessed that was why I expected so much when I set out on my own.
“I’m Alice. Do you remember me, Adrian?”
I smiled at her and bowed my head in reverence, for some reason I didn’t understand. Just felt like the right way to address her. It felt natural she’d call me the same name my grandmother used. Nana had been the only person I allowed to call me Adrian; everyone else called me by my nickname, Tate. I slipped my hand into my pants pocket, located the smooth sea glass, and flipped it between my fingers as she drove deep within the island. “Yes, I do, ma’am. But please, call me Tate. Everyone does.”
Her withered, warm hand patted my thigh the way you’d pat a dog. “Just like your grandmother.” She drove slowly and spent more time studying me than watching the road. “Tell me. Are you running? Or are you home?”
Chapter 2
Luna
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Alice’s dark green two-story home, nestled into a canopy of trees with a matching dark green picket fence, came into view as my golf cart bounced high, sending the little basket of leathery turtle shells into the grass.
“Luna, is everything all right?”
I scooped up the last piece of shell and rose. “Forgot to hold on to the basket—those blasted speed bumps.”
“You mean you were going too fast on that cart of yours. Kids like you, that’s why they had to install those speed bumps.” Her words scolded, but she wore a teasing smile as she took the basket from me and fingered through the egg remnants. “Those tourists didn’t take much, huh?”
“No. The group last night showed more interest in the constellations.”
“If I know you, they left with a solid appreciation of the sea turtle plight, and a healthy respect for the cages dotting our beach protecting those nests.”
“Let’s hope.” Alice and I met on the night of my first turtle watch, back when I was a homesick intern questioning the path I’d chosen. She’d helped me build my first cage. Others saw her as the island eccentric, or the weird old lady, but her iconic beauty reminded me of Toni Morrison or Maya Angelou. Others found her collection of alligator teeth, feathers, animal skulls, and such to be freakish. Not me.
“Come inside and have some iced tea.”
“I wish I could, but I’m running behind today. I’m supposed to meet Mr. Blaid. He has some extras he plans to toss.”
“He keeps building those spec homes, and this island is going to lose its charm.” She wasn’t the first person to gripe about his success, nor would she be the last.
“Our business wouldn’t be doing nearly as good without his referrals,” I offered as a defense of the balding builder.
“I know. And I like what you and Laura do. You renovate. There’s an art to making the old new. And that, I think, is good for Haven Island. Good for the world. But this constant tearing down of trees and destroying undeveloped land, it’s gotta stop.”
“It’s a problem everywhere. They call it suburban sprawl.”
“Well, Haven Island is not the suburbs.” She propped both her hands on her hips, ready for a verbal duel.
“Right you are.” Her white teeth flashed as she accepted my agreement. “I’m off to renovate. Maybe Mr. Baird has found some new owners who need someone to come in and freshen things up.” He often passed on minor projects that weren’t worth his time.
Savvy investors knew they could buy one of the island’s weathered cottages and, with some extra updates, flip the house and make a nice return. REVO was really Laura’s business, and I helped her out when I wasn’t needed at the conservancy. Shiplap boards on the walls, a fresh coat of paint, updated waterproof flooring, and kitchen and bathroom facelifts meant a cottage would sell above market price within hours.
I slid back into my golf cart, and Alice came around to the driver’s side and wrapped her weathered fingers around the stainless steel bar holding the plexiglass windshield. “There’s a new man on the island,” she teased with one dark eyebrow arched.
“I’m sure there are many. Every week we get ferry loads full of vacationers. Loads of married men and sometimes high school or college aged kids.” She ignored my college age quip, even though, technically, I too was a college student. As a grad student, I considered myself above the undergrad set.
“But this one…” she reached out and tapped the tip of my nose, “this one, you should meet.”
“Are you trying to play matchmaker?”
She grinned, and I shook my head at her. I slipped the lever over to the R, and the reverse warning blared over the low hum of crickets and frogs surrounding Alice’s marsh side home. “If he comes out for a turtle watch, I’m sure I’ll meet him. I’m working every night this week.”
“He needs you.” Her plea had me moving the lever back to N. The jarring reverse alarm ended, and the marsh once again filled the air with a shrill chorus.
“Moved here yesterday. Doesn’t know anyone. Needs lots of repair work. Think you can help him out? His grandmother is a good soul.”
“You’re talking about Pearl, aren’t you?” Alice’s sad nod and gentle smile said it all.
“I’ll stop by and offer my help.” I had been sad to hear that Pearl had passed away. I’d spent more than one afternoon sipping iced tea with Alice and Pearl. And I loved seeing her carry her board out to the waves. There was something kick ass about watching an older woman with long gray hair climb on a surfboard. She’d also been an active volunteer at the conservancy where I worked. She spent most of her time helping with the fundraisers, but I’d seen her every Wednesday at the Turtle Trots, the 5Ks we ran through summer to raise money. Another intern told me she used to bring cut up oranges and bananas, but she’d pulled back on some of her involvement last summer—my first summer as an intern. Rumors swarmed that she wasn’t feeling well, but she didn’t show it. I thought of her every time I drove past her cottage and saw the peeling paint and rusted nails.
“How’s that Poppy doing?” She nudged me, and her teasing smile brightened the space between us, and I barked out a laugh. Poppy used to be the bartender at Jules, the restaurant and bar at the marina. Then COVID hit. The pandemic was now behind us, and life had returned to normal with the help of the massive vaccination rollout, but Poppy never returned to bartending. Still, everyone on the close-knit island knew and loved her. She and I were among the few year-round residents our age, so we’d bonded pretty quickly when I moved onto the island at the beginning of summer for my one-year stint as a junior scientist.
“She’s good.” I wrapped my fingers around the lever, conscious of the time.
“What exactly is Poppy doing now?”
“I’m not sure anyone knows. She keeps changing the subject every time I ask.”
“Well, can't be proud, can she?”
“I don’t remember her bragging all too often back when she was bartending.” What in the world, Alice?
“Bring her by sometime. I have an herb blend for you both.”
“Is this in the tea or brownie variety?” She mixed her concoctions in soups, teas, and even gooey desserts. I didn’t think she used marijuana, but her lot backed up to the marsh, and if she wanted to grow a few plants, no one would catch her. Potted herbs filled her home and all around her property.
“What would you two prefer?”
“Whatever you like. What about we try to make it by this weekend?”
“I’d love that. I’ll be here. And you’ll stop by and offer Pearl’s grandson some help?”
“Absolutely.” I waved goodbye, pressed the accelerator, and caught air over the remaining speed bumps on Currituck Way.
Mr. Blaid’s spec house on Horsemin
t Trail came into view just as a text alerted me one of the turtle cages on Access 36 had been tampered with. My job at the conservancy took priority. I whipped the cart around and changed course to head up Long Wynd to meet the volunteer interns and oversee repairs. I cranked up the volume to a Jack Johnson tune and hummed along.
The road curved down, and Pearl’s weathered cottage caught my attention. A tan, bare-chested man stood by one of the porch posts. Unruly light brown with sun bleached streaks hung below his ears, a mass of loose curls. He tucked the front pieces behind his ears. The rough, golden scruff along his jaw glinted in the sun. His longboard shorts hung low on his waist. He focused on the hammer in his hand as he pulled the screen taut.
The faded, worn shorts exposed hip bones that jutted out slightly, and a narrow band of pearly white skin hovered above the waistline, below his bronze tan. He looked like a typical surfer, with lean and fluid muscular lines.
My foot slipped on the pedal as I passed by, taking in every detail as if I’d never seen a shirtless man. Every part of his skin bore the sign of time spent under the sun. There were no tan lines, other than along the edge of the top of his low-slung shorts. A tattoo of a large compass accentuated the muscles of one bicep, and foreign lettering trailed up and down his rib cage on one side.
