Chapter 11

Randy drivesus home in his truck since Dad's buggy took a beating in the storm and needs repairs. We thank him but he shrugs it off, even returning later with a dozen bottled waters and some canned goods. He instructs us to wait twenty-four hours until we drink the tap water again due to possible storm contamination.

"Great guy, isn't he?" Dad asks after we're alone. "The man has boundless energy. And knows how to fix just about anything."

I shake my head, consider bringing up the erratic weather again, then think better of it. The main house and cottage are unscathed, and the electricity is on, but the grounds took a hit. The worst casualties are Dad's vegetable garden and the field of Midnight Lady Skirts. I remember my promise to meet my new friend Evan later tonight and wonder how he'll deal with the loss of the glowing bushes. Or maybe he's used to weird weather patterns, too.

Over the canned chili we heat up for dinner, I think about Randy's explanation for how I ended up on Salttain. Tyler happened to want me to visit the place my father's been hiding to meet his nonexistent aunt, but died instead?

Randy's story doesn't ring true. Nobody's stories in this place ring true. I'm on my own here. Amateur climate sleuth and crackpot hunter—that's me.

We retreat to the living room to watch old movies on the ancient TV, but soon Dad is asleep in his recliner and I'm left to ponder the additional mystery of Liam: his lies about the garden, his stunts with plants, and that thing I really don't want to admit to myself—how those silver eyes of his pierce through all my defenses, damn him.

Worse yet, when I grab a fresh notebook and set about recording my observations, my recollections are hazy, the details slipping away. The hours tick by, punctuated by Dad's snoring and the gentle lull of the waves outside the open windows. It's no use. I throw the notebook across the room. My usually sharp brain doesn't function properly on this island.

Distracted, I lose track of time. At 2:05 a.m., I grab a sweater and dash out to meet Evan. I'm stunned to find bushes laden with brightly glowing Midnight Lady Skirts stretching down to the sea, no sign of the destruction the tornado caused.

Wearing his now-familiar gloves and a hat with an LED light clamped to it, Evan waits in the clearing, canvas, easel, and paints already set up.

"Sorry I'm late," I say, traipsing through the growth, which seems improbably thicker than before the storm. Yet another island head-scratcher.

"No worries," Evan says. "Not like I have any place else to go."

He seems paler, thinner, and almost ethereal, yet comical with his LED hat.

"It's odd the way these plants have all filled in," I say, testing to see if he's drunk the magic Kool-Aid, too, or if he still has a functioning temporal lobe. "Just this afternoon they were trashed."

"Interesting, isn't it?" Evan says, his voice barbed, almost knowing. "There's only one person I know who can…"

Before he can finish, twigs snap and leaves rustle. "Hello, Evan."

Liam steps from the shadows into the soft glow of the Lady Skirts and my traitorous heart immediately begins to pound. Great going.

"It's good to see you again," Liam says to Evan, his tone flat. "It's been too long."

"It has, hasn't it?" Evan doesn't sound surprised at all.

"Much too long." Liam stands motionless in the bushes, arms by his sides.

Neither of the boys makes a move to step closer. The stiff formality of their conversation makes it seem as if they're speaking in code.

"I didn't tell anyone I met you," I say to Evan. "Certainly not him."

"You didn't have to." Liam is half in shadow, half lit by the glow of the flower bushes. "The island tells me what I need to know."

Oh great. Not this magic stuff again. Liam O'Donnell is seriously giving me the creeps, along with all of the other feelings he stirs up in me. "You were about to say something when you were interrupted, Evan," I murmur. "About the only person who could…"

Evan cuts me off. "I guess you're not aware of Liam's special talent for..." He pauses a beat, then adds, "…gardening."

"You mean his skill with pruning, planting, and fertilizing?" My gaze darts to Liam. "Or how he lies about it?"

"I shouldn't have come," Liam says, his tone biting. "I'm sorry."

In the dim light of the Lady Skirts, he stands bristling, fists at his sides. Then, without another word, he slips back into the bushes.

"What's he so angry about?" I ask. "It's not like we invited him."

"Liam's a moody guy. But some of my best memories are of the summers when we used to play together out here," Evan says, sounding sad. "This field was foreboding at night, except when there was a full moon. Liam would never admit it, but I've always believed he created these plants for me after I told him I wanted to paint at night."

My brain churns with questions. About Liam and his odd talents, real or imagined.

"I have a thing for plants, too," I say. "But Liam's abilities defy natural law. How can a person…create plants?"

Evan shrugs. "Salttain Island is fun like that. Makes you question your own sanity."

"Can I tell you more about how weird he is? About how weird this island is?"

"You can tell me anything," Evan says with a tired smile. "I'm so stoked to have a friend, I'd listen to you read the warning labels on my paint tubes."

"I'm guessing Liam is not a confidant? Seems to be a popular consensus to avoid him around here. Why is he such a pariah?"

"I don't hate Liam," Evan says with a sly smile. "He's just—how can I say it—a little slippery?"

I laugh. "That's for sure. Seriously, I stumbled upon a walled garden the other day, but Liam insists I imagined it. But I know what I saw. After the storm today, I swear he pulled up a giant vine from under the wet sand and made us a raft. Nothing makes sense here. Do you know anything about this garden he's so desperate to hide?"

Evan shrugs. I decide not to mention my hallucination of the dancing plants, in case he already thinks I'm a complete lunatic. "My father says the people on this island arrived generations ago and are all related. Are you one of them—I mean, are you…" I trail off, not sure how to finish the sentence.

"No," he says, so softly his words are barely audible. "I'm not. And they never let me forget it."

After an awkward pause, Evan speaks again, sounding like an old man whose best years are behind him. "There are a lot of things I'll never get about this island. Like why Liam is so strange. And what happened to my father." He falls silent and stares at the ground. I wait for him to go on, but he doesn't.

"Maybe we should do this another time," I say. "You seem tired."

"I'm always tired," he says. "But I'd like to paint you now, if that's okay. I don't mean to be pushy about it, but…"

"You're not pushy."

"I can't tell anymore."

I'm tempted to probe further about his father, why he's treated like an outsider, and his history with Liam. Instead, I let him instruct me to sprawl on the ground, my hair flared across the dewy grass. He places an LED light beside me, then settles onto his stool. "Salttain brings out the best in you," he says.

I catch the sorrow blowing through his words. "It's an enchanting place," I say lamely.

Evan smiles, intensity sparking in his eyes. "I'm usually stuck inside the house, cut off from things. But tonight, the breeze is speaking in my ear, guiding my brush. I'm going to paint you as the island wants me to see you."

"You feel it, too?" I ask. Out here in the sea breeze, among the fragrant flowers, the island's gentle presence is hard to deny. But is it magic—or just the way the currents move the air around? I'm surprised by the next thing that pops out of my mouth. "Like this place is—I don't know—aware?"

"I don't know what I feel anymore, Rosalie. I just want to paint you and forget about everything else."

We lapse into silence. Evan's brow furrows in concentration as he paints, the brush poised in his gloved hand. The salt air continues to soothe me until I don't care what any of it means. The distant waves are a lullaby, the tingle in my fingertips a warm steady vibration.

After a half hour, I step around to get a glimpse of what he's done so far. I'm stunned. Though the strokes are still roughly sketched in, Evan's skill and mastery are evident. With an economy of paint, he's captured the moonlight in the russet tones of my hair, the play of light and shadow on my deep olive skin as if it glows from within. In his interpretation, my clothes are leaves. I'm one with the vines and stems, a creature of the earth.

"Wow," I say, for lack of a better response. "Is this how you see me?"

"I painted you as you are."

"It's not how I see myself."

"You will," Evan says, his smile enigmatic.

"What makes you say that?"

"There's not always a scientific explanation for things this island draws forth from people. Liam has a knack with plants. I can see people as they are."

I can't take my eyes off the painting. It may not be who I am, but it's someone I'd like to be. "How would you paint Liam?"

"I wouldn't," Evan says, his smile dimmed.

"Why not?"

Evan ignores me and begins to clean his brushes in a jar of turpenoid. He winces as he screws the caps onto his paints, as if the movement is painful. Packing his supplies away with meticulous care, he stands. "Good night, Rosalie."

"You okay?"

"Fine. Just fine." He gathers his materials and walks away, back erect, a slight stiffness to his gait.

Evan is like Liam. He's hiding something, too.

Apparently, the whole island is.