Rogue Wave

Rogue Wave
Isabel Jolie


Copyright © 2021 by Isabel Jolie.
All rights reserved.
Editor: Lori Whitwam
Line editor: Heather Whitehead
Cover Design: Elizabeth Mackey
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.
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.
Isabel Jolie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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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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
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