CHAPTER THREE

Staring down at the sliver of the library that I could see through the open door made me want to wither up like sea kelp in the summer sun. What if the boy was right? I’d always been proud to be from Maine. I’d been proud to claim Whickett Harbor as my home, even if it was about as isolated as a person could get. But now I couldn’t help seeing us through his eyes.

There wasn’t anything glamorous about Whickett Harbor. The cocktail party wasn’t like parties in the movies. The space was cramped, and I could see a red Jell-O mold sitting on the librarian’s desk surrounded by plastic champagne glasses and a box of wine. The desk had been covered with a tablecloth, but the tablecloth had been hand-knitted out of fishing net by Mr. Frankel, who’d donated his creation to the library. And the conversations I overheard weren’t exactly sophisticated.

“ . . . can’t remember the last time a hurricane hit Whickett Harbor. When was it? Hurricane Bob in 1991, I think.”

“Did Pat get the lobster boats tied up tight? Winds are gonna be high. We’ll be getting a heck of a storm surge.”

The weather. That’s what people in Whickett Harbor had to talk about? Nothing was more ordinary than the weather. If I could have climbed out the window and back down the tree, I would have, but I wasn’t about to let that boy know he’d gotten to me. Plus, I still held on to a ray of hope that J. E. Fairfax might say something that would teach me the secret to literary success.

Ana said she’d never met someone who wrote as much as I did, and that was a good thing, because without writing, my life would’ve been downright lonely. Ana spent time taking care of old Mrs. Wallace. Kitty took dance, piano, and gymnastics—all of which were over an hour’s drive each way—and Dad was always at the lab.

A microphone crackled and I finally caught a glimpse of J. E. Fairfax. She was tall and beautiful with her dark hair swept up into a feathery style. She wore heels that had to be two inches high and a pantsuit that glittered with shimmering sparkles. I’d read the “About the Author” paragraph that the library had posted online, and it said that J. E. Fairfax had been born in Brazil. Her skin was a deep tan, and she had high, sharp cheekbones. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever laid eyes on.

I dared a tiny glance over my shoulder to see if the boy was watching. Whickett Harbor might be common, but what would he think of J. E. Fairfax? Surely, he’d be impressed. But his nose was buried in the science book and he never once looked up.

Fine. I was more determined than ever to ignore him.

After what seemed like an eternity, Granny V concluded her introduction, and finally J. E. Fairfax took the microphone. The moment she opened her mouth, my world imploded. That British accent I’d heard moments before? That same accent was coming out of her mouth. Why did she sound British and not Brazilian?

It didn’t take a genius to figure out the truth. The boy, with his perfectly styled black hair and dark, brooding eyes, was her son.

Every muscle in my body twitched as I fought the urge to turn around, but I would not give him the satisfaction. I tried to listen to Mrs. Fairfax’s speech. I vaguely made out the words as she said how happy she was to be in Whickett Harbor. But now the whole speech was tainted. Did she really want to be here? Or would she and her son have a great time making jokes about us as soon as they left?

“The first time I visited Whickett Harbor,” Mrs. Fairfax said, “I was a young girl passing through on my way from Bar Harbor up to New Brunswick. My family’s car broke down, and we ended up spending a delightful day by the seashore. I was charmed. Utterly charmed.”

Behind me, the boy snorted. “Who could be charmed by this place?”

My lips pursed so tight, they hurt.

“I remember thinking that the coast of Maine was the ideal setting for a novel,” J. E. Fairfax said. “Sweeping and romantic. I fell in love with the rocky coastline and the white birch trees. Even as my family moved first to London, and then to Wales, my soul craved the slower pace of life here in coastal America.”

“Slower pace . . . that’s one way of putting it,” the boy muttered. “Try nonexistent. I bet this town hasn’t changed in a hundred years.”

I turned and glared. “Will you be quiet? I’m trying to listen.”

“Why?” the boy asked. “She just says what her audiences want to hear. She knows all the right words, but—”

I cut him off.

“You shouldn’t talk that way about your mom,” I said, taking a chance that I was right about how they were related. Sure enough, his expression changed.

“My mum has more than enough people who are nice to her. They fawn all over her. That’s all she really cares about.”

Although I hated to admit it, I could relate. My mother had moved from being an actress to a filmmaker, and she’d long ago chosen her career over me. Dad always said that when it came to parenting, Mom was doing the best she knew how, but one week in August, one week over Christmas break, and a gift on my birthday wasn’t saying much.

I gave the boy my worst death glare. “Maybe people aren’t fawning over your mother, they’re giving her a little respect. Unlike her ungrateful son.”

“I’m not ungrateful,” he said. “I’m just telling things as they are.”

“Please,” I scoffed. “I bet your family is super rich and you get to travel all over the world doing incredible things, but instead of appreciating it, you moan and groan about how you’d rather stay home.”

“Oh yes? Well . . .”

I could tell he didn’t actually have anything to say, and it would have felt good to watch him sputter, but at that moment I heard the words I’d been waiting to hear for weeks.

“So, I’ll give you my very best writing advice . . .”

The boy started to say something, but I shushed him with a sharp, sweeping hand motion. I held my breath.

What would she say? Would it be something profound? Some bit of technical knowledge that only a best-selling author would have discovered? I closed my eyes, waiting for the words that would change my life.

“Write what you know,” J. E. Fairfax said.

I opened one eye. Wait. What?

“Each of you has been granted a wonderful, unique life,” she continued, “and the insights you’ve gained are unlike the insights of any other person on this planet. No one else has experienced exactly what you’ve experienced. We all have different families, different homes . . . We grew up in different settings and see the world through our own lens. When you bring that to your writing, you will have found your true voice as an author.”

Write what you know? Those were J. E. Fairfax’s words of wisdom? That had to be the worst advice I’d ever heard! How in the world was I supposed to create amazing stories when all I had to draw from was boring old Whickett Harbor?

Behind me, the boy chuckled. “Disappointed? I tried to warn you.”

I whirled on him. “All right, you. Listen up. If you think—”

The lights flickered. A titter of nervous laughter came from downstairs, but then Mrs. Fairfax resumed her speech. The boy and I got up at the same time and headed to the attic window. Outside, the clouds had gotten so dark, it looked like night had fallen early. It wasn’t raining yet, but the wind whipped the birch trees so hard, they bent halfway to the ground.

“Whoa,” the boy breathed. He was standing right next to me, and when our pinkie fingers touched, there was a flash of lightning outside. “Have you ever been in a hurricane before?”

I shook my head. “Nope. Last one to hit Whickett Harbor came before I was born. We’ve gotten the outskirts of hurricanes, but I’ve never seen one make landfall. You?”

“Same,” he said. “Wish I could see what the ocean looks like right now.”

I paused. Was I about to make trouble? Perhaps. But wasn’t that the only way anything exciting would ever happen for me to write about?

“You could see the ocean,” I offered. “It’s not that far. If you climbed down the tree and ran to the end of the road, you’d see the shore and the breakwater.” I paused. “Of course, a boy like you would never do that, so maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

His brows made a deep V. “What’s that mean? A boy like me?”

I gestured to his sweater vest. “You know . . . someone so tidy. I bet you’ve never climbed a tree in your life.”

“I’ve climbed plenty of trees. And if you can do it wearing . . . that”—he pointed at my bedraggled Hello Kitty turned Pet Sematary dress—“then I certainly can.”

“So, go ahead,” I prodded. “Unless you’re scared. Do proper British boys do anything daring?”

“I’m not British; I’m Welsh,” he growled.

That was interesting, but since he’d been tearing down the place I lived all night, I shrugged as if I couldn’t care less. This seemed to infuriate him more than anything else I’d said so far. He walked to the window, opened it all the way, and before I had a chance to take back my taunting words, he’d made a flying leap onto the tree. The whole thing happened so suddenly, I just stood there blinking as he climbed to the ground.

I never thought he’d do it!

Reality hit me like a breeching whale smacking the water. What if he’d fallen? I could’ve gotten J. E. Fairfax’s son killed. In fact, right at this very moment, he was running down the street, heading for the one place anyone with sense knew not to go in a storm. What if he went out on the breakwater and a rogue wave pulled him in?

Me and my stupid mouth.

Down below, I could hear J. E. Fairfax taking questions from the audience, unaware that her child was in mortal danger. I took a deep breath, trying hard not to glance at the street. Slowly, I climbed onto the windowsill and stood so my bare toes curled over the edge. I squeezed my eyes shut.

“Oh lord, oh lord, oh lord. Please don’t let me die.”

I flung myself at the tree. I aimed for the trunk and smacked into it before sliding down a branch or two. I caught myself in time, but not before I heard a loud tearing sound. I’d ripped a long gash in the side of Kitty’s dress. Blood rose to the surface of my palms as my skin throbbed in time with my heartbeat.

“Stupid boy. What kind of person listens to some girl he doesn’t even know?”

When I got to the ground I found Kitty’s shoes where I’d left them and stuffed my feet into them. Then I took off running, straight down Moxie Lane.

I was so mad, I could hardly see straight. I’d gone from future New York Times best seller to America’s Most Wanted in one disastrous moment. I strained for any sign of the boy, but I didn’t see him.

Until I reached the breakwater.

The breakwater was constructed from a collection of huge stones, some of them the size of small cars. I wasn’t sure when it had been built, but it sheltered the area where boats came and went from the local marina. The breakwater was tall, twice my father’s height above the ocean’s surface, and it stretched out for nearly a half mile. Some of the boulders were flat and some were rounded, and there were spots where huge gaps opened up between them. The rocks were often slippery, and people had toppled off them during storms, pulled into the churning waters and drowned before they could fight their way back to shore.

The boy was already climbing the lowest boulder.

I picked up speed. “Hey! Stop!”

He wasn’t that far from me, but my voice was carried away by the wind that whipped against me, lashing my face. He’d taken off his tie, so he looked like any other boy now, and I was sorry I’d ever been so angry at him.

“Hey,” I called again. “Stop!”

This time he heard me and slid down to the sandy beach.

“You shouldn’t go out there,” I hollered over the wind. “The breakwater is dangerous in a storm.” I’d been running so fast, it was hard to catch my breath. I bent over, leaning my scraped hands on my knees. “What were you thinking?” I demanded. “Your mother is probably panicking by now.”

The boy laughed a dry, bitter laugh. “Mum didn’t even know I was there. I was supposed to leave with my older sister, but she’s a prat and I’m tired of Caroline being in charge all the time, so I stayed and snuck upstairs.”

“What about your dad?”

“My parents got divorced.”

“Oh.”

“Besides,” the boy said, “no matter what punishment I get, it will be totally worth it. I mean, look at the ocean! It’s incredible!”

He was right. The sky was a solid gray, and the waves frothed with a deafening roar. Sea spray filled the air with every slap of the surf against the boulders.

We were silent, in awe of the scene before us.

It was beautiful. In all my life, I’d never seen the ocean look quite like this. Not a single boat was in sight. There weren’t even any seagulls in the sky, just roiling clouds that looked like they might burst at any moment. We stood there for a long time, too transfixed to move.

“Guess we should go back,” the boy said at last, yelling over the howling wind.

I nodded, still watching the waves. As if on cue, the first splatters of rain hit my face. I’d have thought the boy might panic, but he’d gone back to staring at some spot far past the horizon. Was Wales across the ocean from here? Did he miss it?

“Hey,” I said at last, “what’s your name anyway?”

“Devon,” he said. “What’s yours?”

“Jane.”

“Let’s go,” he said. “Before anyone misses us.”

Unfortunately, we were already too late for that.