The Islanders Read online

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Okay then.” She pointed out the accelerator, the brake, the switch for reverse and forward.

  “Seems easy enough.”

  She chuckled. “Well then, let’s go.”

  “Now?”

  “I sure don’t mean tomorrow.”

  I scooted forward on the seat and put my foot on the accelerator. I imagined it was like driving a go-kart. I had done that bunches of times back home with Carlos and Nick. So I pressed hard on the pedal. The cart lurched forward. Shocked, I lifted my foot off the accelerator. We jerked to a stop.

  Not too smooth. I was embarrassed, but Honey only laughed.

  “That’s normal for the first time. But Jake, don’t rush it. You’ve got to remember to take it slow and easy. Kind of like life, eh?”

  I took a deep breath. Slow and easy, I told myself. I carefully pressed the accelerator. This time, we took off without a jerk. I clutched the wheel tight. I was driving!

  “Driving a cart is like riding a bicycle,” Honey said. “You have to find the right pace and balance for you.”

  Honey guided me along the bumpy road. I drove really slowly, but Honey didn’t mind. Another cart zoomed by us, kicking up a dust cloud. I glanced over to see a woman wave. She was wearing a flowing dress with all the colors of the rainbow and big jewelry to match. She looked like she could be the queen of the island.

  As they passed, I spotted the boy from the ferry riding in the back seat. He didn’t wave or smile, but his eyes widened and his jaw fell open when he spied me driving the golf cart.

  I sat up a little straighter, pretending I didn’t see him. We caught up with their cart when they slowed to turn right onto a narrow driveway.

  Honey waved cheerfully. “That must be the Simmons family. Moved in across the way from us. I’ll have to bring a pie to welcome them.”

  In front of their driveway I saw a wooden sign that read TESSA & REGINALD SIMMONS, ATLANTA, GA.

  “All the property owners out here mark their place with a sign that says where they are from,” Honey said. “Most folks here split their time between the island and elsewhere. Not many of us live here year-round.”

  “Like you.”

  “Like me,” Honey replied.

  We drove a little farther when Honey told me to slow down and turn right onto a narrow path marked with a sign that read THE POTTERS, DEWEES ISLAND, SC. Weeds were starting to grow in front of it.

  The dirt lane to Honey’s house was even more marked with ruts and overgrown vines and branches that smacked the sides of the cart. Tall, thick grasses scraped the bottom.

  “I feel like we’re going through a car wash,” I said, ducking my head to avoid getting smacked by a thin, leafy branch.

  “Oh dear. I’m afraid I’ve let this place get a bit out of control,” Honey said. The tone in her voice changed. “I’ve been meaning to get out here with clippers.”

  A machete, more likely, I thought to myself.

  But I couldn’t really think about that. I was too worried about getting through the tangles of vines and weeds. At the end of the winding path, looming high in the treetops, stood what looked like a gigantic tree house.

  “Welcome home,” Honey told me.

  I stopped the golf cart with relief. Taking a breath. Home? This wasn’t my home. Not really, I thought. But… where was home now?

  Suddenly my dad and mom felt a million miles away.

  CHAPTER 3

  The House in the Trees

  Books take you on an adventure.

  I PARKED THE GOLF CART in an open area under the house that looked like a garage without any walls. A mixture of dirt, sand, and dead leaves covered the concrete floor. Cobwebs dangled from the ceiling. Yard tools and beach chairs hung from the walls.

  All the houses on the island were built high off the ground on pilings of wood or cement, in case of flooding. This made the entrance to the house a long walk up. Honey led the way up the two flights of stairs, but so slowly I had to stop and wait as I followed behind, carrying my duffel bag and backpack, which were getting heavier by the second. She stopped one time to “look at the view,” she said, winded.

  We finally reached the top. Her front door was painted a bright ocean blue with a metal turtle door knocker. On either side of the door were flowerpots filled with dead brown plants and sprigs of green weeds.

  “Home sweet home,” Honey said, and pushed open the door.

  I followed my grandmother inside the shadowed house. I caught the dank scent of dust and something old, maybe old fruit. I’d last been here when I was six but didn’t remember anything. From what I could tell, everything was made of wood, from floor to ceiling. Big windows opened to all the trees surrounding us.

  “I call this place my Bird’s Nest. Don’t you remember?” Honey asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, and thought it was a good name. That’s what it felt like up here in the trees. I dropped my backpack to the floor and craned my neck as I turned from left to right. Honey flicked on the lights.

  Books were everywhere. On tabletops, the fireplace mantel, stacked on every surface and tilting in towers on the floors. I have to say, I love books. I won my school’s award for the most books read over the summer. But this many books lying around was kind of crazy. And not just books. Magazines were stacked twenty high under tables.

  I scrunched my nose, holding off a sneeze. The books, the magazines—everything was coated with dust. Dirty coffee mugs and crumpled tissues were scattered on the table. This house looked more like a forgotten library than a home. Where would I sit down? Or eat?

  Honey must have seen my expression. She hurried to the windows.

  “I have to tidy up a bit. Your coming was a surprise. A happy surprise,” she hurried to add. I could tell she was a bit embarrassed. “I’ll throw open a few windows,” she said, and began pushing a few open. The air from the ocean gushed in, summer warm and smelling of the ocean not far away.

  “Well now,” Honey said, wringing her hands. Her face wrinkled with worry and she glanced around the house with uncertainty. “I suppose you want to see where you’ll be sleeping?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  Her pale blue eyes glanced up toward the ceiling as she pointed. “It’s right up there.”

  I looked up. The ceiling vaulted two stories high. I spied a wide wooden ladder against a wall that led up to a spindled railing.

  “Up there?” I asked with doubt.

  “It’s a loft!” she exclaimed. “Don’t you remember? Come along, child. You’ll love it.” She led me to the ladder. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  I gripped the sides of the ladder and, curious, scampered up. From the top I could look over the wooden railing down below to the entire first floor of the house. The area itself was small and compact, but cozy like a fort. It was private even though the space was missing a wall. But it was cool!

  “This is better than a room,” I said as I walked toward the enormous round window perched over the bed like a window to the world. It dominated the wall and made me think of the window I’d imagined in a book my dad had read to me called Heidi. Only in that book, Heidi went to the mountains to live with her grandfather. I was sent to an island to live with my grandmother.

  As I looked out, everything was so different from the small, square, treeless backyard I had in New Jersey. Here, I couldn’t see another house. Only the high branches of trees, tangled vines, and far beyond, a small glimpse of the blue ocean.

  I heard Honey climbing into the loft.

  “Lord help me, I’m too old to climb up here any longer.” She put her hand to her chest. “I need a moment to catch my breath.” Her face softened to a slight smile. “Do you know whose room this was?”

  My gaze traveled to the wooden twin-size bed covered with a blue and gold star-patterned quilt. Beside it was a wooden nightstand, and on it a lamp carved in the shape of an anchor. Across the room stood a painted blue dresser. A wall of shelves
stretched from floor to ceiling. I walked to it, curious. They were jammed full. Lots of kids’ books filled two shelves. They looked like they’d been read many times. There were some shark teeth, a small animal skull, and a small collection of stones. A tortoise shell sat next to a few faded green military action figures. I reached out to touch a pair of antlers, but my hand paused when I spotted a few framed photos. I picked one up.

  A boy, about my age, with brown wavy hair dangled by his arms from an enormous tree branch. Standing beside him was a redheaded boy of about the same age. I reached for the second photograph. In this one, the brown-haired boy was at the beach, holding a dripping ice cream bar. His arms were wrapped over Honey’s shoulders—a younger Honey. I knew who the boy was.

  I looked up to see my grandma watching me. “Is this my dad’s room?”

  Honey’s lips curved into a grin and she nodded. But her eyes were teary. “Seeing you standing in this room… I swear, you’re the spitting image of your daddy when he was your age. Same brown eyes. Shaggy brown hair. Same posture even.”

  My chest swelled—I was happy at the comparison.

  “Eric spent a lot of time up here.” She pointed to the bookshelf. “He read every one of those books. Books take you on an adventure, you know. And your dad loved adventures.” She smiled at the memory. “Those were his favorites.”

  Honey walked to the bed and smoothed out the wrinkles in the quilt. I noticed that this room was spotlessly clean. That made me feel she was happy I’d come to visit.

  “I don’t come up to this room much,” she told me. “I can barely make the climb. Being up here sends my heart worrying all over again about your daddy.” She turned toward me, her eyes searching my face. “How are you doing since the news?”

  I wanted to confess, I’m horrible. I have nightmares every night. I hate to see Mom so sad. But I was spared by the ringing of the doorbell.

  “Jake, be a good boy and get the door. I’m slower than a slug getting down that ladder. It’s probably just a neighbor checking on me again.”

  I flew down the ladder to the door, pulled it open, then stood stock-still. I was face-to-face with the girl who drove the boat. I recognized her long blond braid.

  She shot out her right hand and said, “Hey! I’m Lovie Legare. You must be Jake. Honey talks about you a lot. Except when she’s talking about animals, and… oh!” Her smile fell. “I’m sorry to hear about your daddy. We all hope he’s going to be okay.”

  Lovie was talking so fast I couldn’t even speak—which was good because I didn’t know what to say. I just extended my hand to shake hers.

  Honey came up behind me. “Jake, where are your manners? Invite her inside and shut that door before all the mosquitoes swarm in.”

  “Oh. Sorry,” I said, and quickly dropped Lovie’s hand.

  Lovie stepped inside and held up a woven basket with her left hand. “Mama and I picked these out at the farmers market just for you, Honey.”

  I was surprised to hear Lovie call my grandma “Honey.” Lovie showed us everything in the basket. “We got you fresh-baked bread, jam, tomatoes, and farm eggs. And I picked these wildflowers myself on my way to your house.”

  “Mercy, what a treasure. Thank you, dear. And thank your mama. This is the second-best gift I’ve received today.” She smiled at me.

  “You’re welcome,” said Lovie. “Mama told me I must bring the sweetgrass basket back, though. She’d kill me if I forgot it.”

  “I know those baskets are treasured local art. You tell her I’m honored she used it for me.” Honey turned toward me. “I see you’ve met my grandson, Jake. I think y’all are the same age. He’s eleven, going into sixth grade. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes,” I said a bit shyly.

  “I’m going to middle school this year too,” Lovie said to me.

  I smiled. She seemed to be trying to be friendly.

  “Isn’t that a nice coincidence? I have a feeling you two will be fast friends.” Having emptied the basket, Honey returned it to Lovie. “You wouldn’t mind showing Jake around the island, would you? He doesn’t know anyone from here.”

  “Sure, I will. But first I’ve got to go check in with my Aunt Sissy.” She turned and flashed me a smile. Her eyes were bright blue, and her nose was lightly freckled. “See ya, Jake.”

  I waved. With her, I could barely get a word in.

  “Such a sweet girl,” Honey said, turning to begin putting away the food.

  I turned to my grandmother. “What kind of name is Lovie?”

  “Why, it’s her nickname. Her real name’s Olivia. She was named after a dear woman who passed a while back. She’s been Little Lovie since she was born. But now, seems everyone just calls her Lovie.”

  Olivia… Lovie. No matter what her name was, I wanted her to show me her boat.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Tropical Depression

  A naturalist observes and listens.

  MY SUNNY ARRIVAL TO THE island was quickly dashed by two straight days of rain. The sky opened up and dumped bucketloads. Outside, the wind whistled and rattled the windows. Honey’s dirt driveway turned into a muddy creek. It was as if the house had become its own island.

  Honey said the summer storm was called a tropical depression. It was depressing, all right, being cooped up in the house without a computer or video games or my phone. After breakfast of a piece of Lovie’s bread and jam, I walked around the house, browsing through the books, looking at photographs in frames on the tables and paintings of sea turtles on the walls. I even tried to make the TV work.

  It looked older than I was and had skinny metal antennas that she called “rabbit ears.” After a lot of wiggling around I managed to get the local news station and one other that came in fuzzy because of the rain. It was so lame, I didn’t care and turned it off.

  Honey seemed down in the dumps too. She cleared the table and washed the dirty dishes, then swept the floor. It made a dent in the cleaning. But I could see her heart wasn’t in it.

  “Honey, want to play a game of cards with me?”

  She offered a tired smile. “Not today, Jake. Maybe tomorrow, okay?”

  She picked up a book from the table and walked over to a faded blue recliner in the corner of the living room. There was a table next to it with a lamp made to look like the shell of a turtle. As the rain pattered the roof, Honey sat in her recliner reading, or sometimes took a nap in her room. Her mood seemed to change just like the weather. One minute she was cheery, the next she seemed sad.

  The worst part about sitting around with nothing to do was that I worried about my dad… a lot. It was not knowing about Dad’s condition that made the waiting so hard.

  I wondered if a person could die of boredom. To pass the time, I hung out in the loft. I felt closer to my dad being with all his stuff. I studied the different shells my dad had collected. He carefully labeled each one in a shadow box: moon shell, whelk, angel wing, pen shell, lettered olive. He had a mason jar filled with sea glass and another with shark’s teeth. He even had a big horseshoe crab shell. Its rounded shape looked like an old Army helmet. I checked out his collection of rocks, too, careful not to peel away the layers of mica. I even played with the Army soldiers, but that didn’t last long.

  As the afternoon passed, I turned to the bookshelf. It was jammed full of books. My dad was always reading something—a newspaper, a book, a magazine, even a cereal box. He had books by his bed, in his truck, downloaded on his phone. He even packed a book on our camping trips. I guess he was a lot like his mom.

  I liked books too, but I liked playing video games more. When I squatted down to scan the book titles, I remembered all the times Dad read to me at bedtime when I was little. It was our ritual any night he was home from duty. He read to me even after I could read chapter books on my own. We would sit side by side in my bed, our legs outstretched and our backs against pillows. Sometimes his voice would lull me to sleep. I closed my eyes at the memory, wishing I could transport myself bac
k to that time, when we were together… and safe.

  I looked at all the books and magazines on the shelf and thought, Did Dad really read all of them? My finger slid past the titles: Hatchet, The Call of the Wild, Where the Red Fern Grows, The Swiss Family Robinson, A Wrinkle in Time. He must’ve liked Roald Dahl because there were a lot of titles of his. There were also nonfiction books, mostly about animals and living in the wild. The U.S. Army Survival Manual stood out to me. It was tucked among several guidebooks about Carolina beaches, identifying fossils, and night sky constellations.

  I pulled My Side of the Mountain off the shelf and read the back cover. It was about a boy who taught himself to survive in the wild. I figured I had a lot in common with this kid and decided to read this book first.

  Outside my window the storm moaned, and the trees shook like wild things. I clicked on a table lamp, lay down on the bed beneath the portal window, settled the pillows, and opened the book.

  I don’t know how much time had passed, but when I suddenly looked up, it was dark outside. It wasn’t the noise of the storm, but the lack of it that distracted me. I looked outside the big, circular window to see that the storm had passed. In the foggy night, a sliver of moon was rising.

  What time was it? My stomach rumbled. I climbed from my bed and went to lean over the railing. I could see the living room, kitchen, and the hall leading to Honey’s bedroom, but she was nowhere. I was shocked that Honey had not made dinner, or even hollered to tell me she was going to bed. In just my short time here, I’d learned that Honey wasn’t into cooking or cleaning or grocery shopping. But still, I was just a kid. And I was hungry.

  I climbed down the ladder and began snooping around the kitchen. I didn’t see much to eat in her cabinets. Next, I opened the fridge. It was packed full! I had hope as I pulled out a small Pyrex bowl and peeled back the plastic wrap. Yuck! My stomach turned at seeing mold on whatever tomato sauce it was. I put that back and grabbed another plastic container. This time I was wary as I pried off the top. It looked like pasta salad, but giving it a whiff, I almost hurled.