Chapter 4

The sparse darkhair on my father's head is threaded with gray and gathered into a stringy ponytail. His face is creased and furrowed with deep lines, the scraggly gray beard making him look decades, rather than years older. Playing dead has clearly not been easy on him.

My father folds me into a tight hug as Wade waves and retreats into the mist, leaving us alone. I press my cheek to his shoulder, inhaling the scent of the woodsmoke that suffuses his old safari jacket, my tears staining the worn khaki. I've imagined this moment every day for the past five years. If I'm dreaming, I hope I never wake up.

"You've grown," Dad says, pulling back to look me over.

I swipe away the unruly curls that stick to my damp face. "We buried your ashes in the cemetery," I say, my voice breaking. "You died. In a really horrible way."

Dad hangs his head. "I know. I'm sorry. Obviously that's not what happened."

Though it's everything I'd wished for these past five years, my father's presence steals the air from my lungs. With the grief of Tyler's death pressing down on me, this new truth is crushing. My dad faked his own death and deceived the world.

He deceived me.

"Why?" I choke out. "How could you just leave me like that?"

"The media coverage was too much. The scandal. The fallout from the University. I was battling depression—I had debts, I…" His voice trails off. "I had to disappear. A good friend arranged for me to hide here in plain sight."

"You could have told me." My voice is a hoarse rasp. "All those nights planting our garden. I never told Mom. I kept that secret. I would have kept this one."

Dad sighsand peers across the dunes, his rounded shoulders slumped. "I know you could have. But it was best I stayed away. It was too big a lie, even for you."

I breathe in the salted air, trying to steady myself. How could he walk away from something so dear to him? How could he walk away from me?

On top of his absentee father act, the whole sex-and-drug-scandal thing, Mom always hinted that alcohol abuse and mental instability led my father to his grisly, very public suicide. The one that never actually happened. Anyone who stages their own phony death has to have a screw loose somewhere.

Dad places his large hand over mine. "This place…" he says softly, "it healed me when—when I almost did what the world believed I did. It will heal you, too."

The last time he saw me, I was a gangly thirteen-year-old. How could he possibly know what I need—unless he also knows what happened to Tyler?

"Dad," I say, my voice shaky. "Tyler, my best friend, is dead. And...he wanted me to come here. He's from here. What the hell are you doing here? Did you two know each other?"

"I knew him…in a sense," he says.

Holy fuck.

Volcanic heat rushes to my cheeks. Even my eyeballs feel hot. "What's that supposed to mean? I hardly saw you for the three years before you faked your own goddamn death. Yet you were in touch with Tyler?"

He lowers his head. "I didn't say I was in touch with him, did I?"

I pace the dock, trying to marshal my chaotic thoughts into something resembling order. But none of this makes any sense. "Does Mom know you're alive?" I blurt. I don't give voice to my other suspicion—that Tyler also knew. Maybe he lied to me. And maybe he was trying to come clean but never had the chance.

Dad nods. "She's had her own reasons for keeping my little secret."

Little secret?All these years, Mom let me grieve and fed me lies. It's a sucker punch in the gut. Bile bubbles into my throat. I'm shouting now, disturbing the heavy tranquility that hangs over the island. But I don't care. "Did you ever think what that was like for me?"

"We agreed you weren't ready to know the truth. But you're eighteen now, honey. I felt it was time." Dad's voice is professorial and measured. It's the same tone he always used to educate me about nature when we escaped our temperature-controlled sanctuary—and on those nights we secretly met in my garden, after he'd moved out.

I peer out at the Atlantic. The waves are ferocious and gray, so unlike the turquoise crests of the Pacific. "She's going to be furious when she realizes I ditched the program I was supposed to attend. It cost a king's ransom. But screw her. All these years she's been lying to me. How could she be so cruel?"

I can't believe I'm talking about how much Cambridge cost when my supposedly dead father has reappeared right in front of me. Maybe I'm in shock. Either way, Dad takes my cue and runs with it.

"If anyone can worm themselves out of a contract, it's your mother," he says. "And she can well afford it."

"She'll go ballistic. She'll come for me."

"Not if you don't want to be found," he says without a trace of a smile.

"What do I tell her?" And just like that, Wild Rose recedes and Rosalie the rule-follower takes her place. The last time I defied my mother, Tyler died.

"We'll think of something," Dad says with a wry smile and that old twinkle I loved so much.

The mists that shroud the island have begun to thin. Dunes and rocky bluffs emerge, revealing a small cluster of shops that hug the boardwalk, miles and miles of ocean, and a strip of white beach that stretches in all directions. What has my father's life been like all these years, hiding out on this isolated hunk of rock? Has he managed to continue his work here?

I glance up at the rise of land that forms the island's interior. Above the town, a sleek modern mansion perches on a high point.

"That's the largest estate on the island." My father follows my line of sight, speaking conversationally as if he hasn't just risen from the dead. "I live in the caretaker's cottage, the original old house on the grounds. It's simple and cozy. I took a position as handyman for the owner, Mrs. Bailey, a widow. There's very little I need to do. Clip a few plants, clear debris off the beach. I think she likes having someone else around. I've got a nice room set up for you."

I want to scream at him that his absence left a crater in my chest nothing could fill, not even his miraculous return. That Tyler's death blasted it open even wider. That he left important work unfinished. But I can't find the words. "So, you've known for a while I'd be coming," I say, flatly.

"Who do you think paid for the plane tickets?"

I clench my jaw and stare out at the ocean, trying to rein in my rising fury. Threads of lies hover in the air connecting my dad to my mom to Tyler, but I can't untangle the knots.

Then a barely perceptible hum tickles the soles of my feet. There's a gentle pressure in one ear, like the breath of someone leaning in to speak. The drumbeat of questions with their chorus of rage quiets, and a small seed of hope lodges inside me.

Maybe my dad has been studying and documenting how the island's climate has been impacted. Maybe Tyler knew and this reunion was the surprise he was keeping for me. It could have been the three of us. It should have been.

My shoulders sag. "Fine," I say, every bone aching. "I'm exhausted. You can explain everything later on."

Dad reaches for my hand and presses it to his lips. "I promise that I will. You have no idea how glad I am that you came. I'll take you home to rest—but first, I've got to pick up my mail. I'm expecting a box of research books." And with that, he leaves my bags where they are and strides toward the small row of storefronts that flank the dock.

He's resurrected himself from the dead and dumped a shit-ton of revelations in my lap—and now he wants me to come with him to the post office? Enraged all over again, I suck in a lungful of salt air and open my mouth to let him have it, but the scent of the sea is oddly calming.

"What about my luggage?" I say instead.

"No one will touch it."

I hurry after my father toward the little row of weathered shops. With its large windows, gold hand-lettered signage, and baskets of tools sitting out front, the General Store and post office look so stereotypically quaint, they could be part of a movie set. Dad marches past the aisles of necessities, snacks, cans of beans, tuna, and tacky Salttain Island souvenirs to the counter. The store adjoins a café area with a sign for a paid dial-up internet connection. This does not look to be a promising setup for serious scientific inquiry. But since I'm here, I'm determined to try.

I trail a few steps behind, alternately charmed and weirded out by the frozen-in-time quality of the place. Behind the counter, a freshly-shaven young guy with a silly white clerk cap and eager blue eyes greets us. "Morning, Mr. Gatell! No sign of those books yet."

"Damn. I wanted them for tomorrow," Dad says, pulling at his beard. "Thanks anyway, Brody. Oh—this is my daughter, Rosalie. Brody is a very important guy here on Salttain," he says, turning to me. "Not only is he the postmaster, but he's also the dispatcher if you need outside help from the Coast Guard and such."

I nod and muster a weak smile. I'm pretty sure the Navy Seals will be descending upon this island with a full-force extraction team once my mother locates my coordinates. At this moment, with my emotions ping-ponging, I haven't decided if I'll surrender or resist.

"Pleasure to meet you," Brody says, beaming, his teeth perfectly straight and white. Maybe he came with the movie set. There must be a good dentist somewhere on this hunk of rock. "Sorry about the books, Mr. Gatell. But this came for you, Miss Rosalie."

"For me?"

Brody hands me a parcel messily wrapped in crinkly paper. From: Aunt Millicent is scrawled across the top in cramped handwriting.

"Came with today's mail," Brody adds helpfully.

My stomach goes queasy. Aunt Millie. "Where is she? I need to see her."

Dad lifts his glasses and examines the package. "Don't you have an Aunt Millie on your mother's side? Someone else your mother has stopped talking to?"

I frown at him. "I have no idea what you're talking about. Tyler told me he had an Aunt Millie here who took care of him after his parents died. But, I don't even know how she'd know I'm here. No one does except you, the guy who picked me up at the airport, and Randy Lambert, whom I'm guessing you know." And my forum buddies—who don't know who I really am or have any concrete info on my whereabouts.

It occurs to me that maybe Aunt Millie is still expecting the two of us and this is her welcome gift. That no one bothered to tell her Tyler won't ever be coming. My chest tightens with the dread of having to be the one to break the news.

"Wade's my brother and Randy's our da," says Brody, the bright smile still plastered on his face.

"Nice," I mutter. "I guess the whole island's expecting me then."

"The arrival of the long-lost daughter is big news." Dad smiles.

I roll my eyes and return my attention to the package. Maybe this was Tyler's idea of a joke, a little gag gift for my visit here that he somehow mailed ahead of time, hoping I'd come. He always was a prankster. My eyes burn.

"Try to relax, Rosalie. You have no tests to study for, nothing to prove here. You're going to love this place, won't she, Brody?"

"Yes sir!" Brody affirms with his bright white smile.

"This island has miles of beaches. And the Gulf Stream keeps it temperate here all year round. Let's get going," Dad says, heading for the exit. He marches out of the store, screen door slamming behind him.

I flash a sheepish grin at Brody, whose brilliant smile hasn't dimmed. Clutching my package, I rush out of the store after my father, jogging past the few other storefronts that line the waterfront boardwalk, my head a brewing storm. The nerve of him, walking out on me already when I've only just gotten here.

When I reach him, he's still rambling on like a tour guide, as if I've been in hearing range this whole time. I listen closely to every word he spews, trying to decide for myself whether my father is completely off his rocker and Mom was right to keep me away from him.

"Everything grows here," he babbles, turning to flash me a wink, "which I'm sure you'll appreciate."

How dare he bring up our shared love of botany, when he left me grieving underneath that stupid coral tree for years. "Enough with the tourism spiel," I snap. "You really have no idea who sent me this package?"

He has the nerve to sigh, as if I'm overreacting. "Let it go, Rosie. I'm sure if the elusive Aunt Millie is somewhere on this island, she'll make herself known. In the meantime, try to unwind and enjoy yourself."

Enjoy myself?I want to kick him where it hurts for the years of grief he's caused me. But I also want to bury my head in his old jacket and live there forever. By the time we reach my bags, I'm shaking from the war inside me. I jam the package inside the duffel, grateful for the opportunity to hide my face.

Dad is still talking, oblivious to my misery. I suppose I should be comforted that, though he's changed outwardly, his demeanor is the same. He's always had his head in his research and his books. The only time he was fully present was when we talked about plants. "It may not seem like it," he says, continuing his one-sided conversation, "but there's plenty to do on this island. You can't see it clearly through the fog yet, but over there's the Sea House Resort. My landlady is one of the owners, so we're allowed full use of its facilities."

As if the island's recreational options—or lack of them—are my top priority. I'm about to tell him as much when the trumpet flowers that curl lazily around the weathered wood of the dock railing lift their faces to the emerging sun. The fragrance of the vibrant purple blooms intensifies, reverberating like the echo of a faded memory. My heart thumps against my ribcage as my chest fills with longing. My fingers prickle, like when I thrust my hands into the soil of my garden back home. Only here, it's somehow amplified.

Dad watches me closely. "I told you this island's special," he says, gesturing to the vine. "Imagine all the exploring you can do here, Rosie."

Despite my simmering rage, I feel myself folding. Leaning in. I'm so tired. Could I be on a flight to Cambridge, dreaming that my father's standing next to me, talking about plants? I still need to understand why he's hiding out on the island Tyler comes from. Nothing adds up. Maybe if I can find Aunt Millie, she'll fill in the blanks, since Dad won't tell me much of anything.

I hear laughter and swivel around as a group of figures saunters along the boardwalk. It's a threesome—two guys and a girl, all around my age. One of them is Wade. He waves happily to us.

As they draw closer, my gaze latches onto the taller boy. Lean and muscular, sun-bronzed skin with a head of long dark wavy hair, all angles and liquid grace, the boy is a reverse image of Tyler's blond surfer-boy looks. If Tyler really does have roots here, this guy must be a closer relation to him than either of the Lamberts.

Before I realize what I'm doing, I pull away from Dad and stride across the dock toward the group. I freeze mid-way. The closer I get, the less the boy resembles Tyler. His light eyes lock briefly on mine, a faint smile flickering across his lips before he shrugs and walks on with his friends.

Embarrassed, I turn back. The hollow space inside me yawns wider and emptier than ever as Dad motions me toward a dune buggy parked nearby. The pungent scent of the flowers intensifies, cloyingly sweet. My fingertips pulse and throb. Can a person have an allergic reaction to a place?

Shaking, I work to steady myself as Dad clears his throat. "Mrs. Bailey has a dinner party every other Friday night. She's specifically requested that I ask you to join us. And, um, I don't care to refuse her."

And that's it—the straw that breaks the back of this very agitated camel. I stop to glare at him, arms falling to my sides. "Tonight?" I'm shouting, heat flushing my face. "I don't want to go to some stupid party. I want the truth. Did you and Mother set this whole thing up? Or did Tyler?"

"When your mother learns you're here on this island with me, she will, in fact, be furious." His voice steady, he loads my bags into the back of the buggy. "But I promise you, Rosie, she won't be surprised in the least that you've found me."

"Dad." Trembling, I hug myself. "Please don't keep lying to me. How well did you know Tyler Fredericks? Are you really sure you don't know Aunt Millie?"

My father stops what he's doing and looks me squarely in the eyes. "I knew poor Tyler well enough."

Poor Tyler?

"How? What about his aunt?" I bite out. "Where is she?"

"I honestly have no idea. I wasn't on the island then, but I know Tyler lost his parents when he was nine. From what I've heard, he was shunted from house to house until it was finally arranged for him to go to California."

I try to channel Mom's steady voice and fail miserably. "And you met him, when? Did you arrange for us to meet?"

Dad shrugs. "Randy introduced us in Cali when I came in from Maine to see you. Asked me to keep an eye on the kid, as he had a tendency to get into trouble. So, I'd meet with him occasionally to make sure he was on top of his studies. But I swear I had nothing to do with you two meeting each other."

No wonder Tyler had a daddy fixation. But in all the years we knew each other, all the times we talked about him, never once did Tyler mention knowing my dad. The lies keep piling up like layers of sediment.

I swallow back a scream. "So, you met with him after you moved to Maine and never bothered to mention it…and then you…er…died."

If my dad's troubled by the sarcasm that laces my tone, he doesn't let it show. "Right," he says.

"Did he know you were really alive?"

Dad shakes his head. "Of course not," he says, but I'm not sure I believe him.

My whole life has been a charade perpetrated by the people I love most.

I storm away from him, tears stinging my eyes. The pulse in my fingers intensifies, the whispers inside the wind buffeting me.

Lost in my turbulent thoughts, I almost trip over the sprawling vine of purple flowers that has slithered off the dock railing and inexplicably wrapped itself around my ankle like the tentacles of a leafy octopus. Plants aren't supposed to do that, are they?

Secrets. Everyone has one.

But something deep inside tells me this island has even more.