Read Megan's Island for Free Online Page A

Maybe for the whole summer,” Grandpa said quietly.
    â€œThe whole summer?” Sandy considered this, then grinned uncertainly. “I was going to be on a softball team at home. But I guess swimming’s okay, too. The water’s kind of cold, though. I waded in it.”
    â€œIt’ll warm up pretty good by July, they tell me. Not too warm, I hope. Bad for the fishing when it’s too warm. Want to come along this afternoon, see if we can land ourselves enough bass for supper?”
    â€œSure,” Sandy agreed with enthusiasm, then glanced at Megan. “You want to come, Megan?”
    She shook her head. “No, thanks.” How could he think about just having fun, when something was so obviously and horribly wrong? She realized Grandpa was watching her and added, “I’ll find something to do. Read, maybe. I saw some books in the other room.”
    â€œOld, but some good ones. Left by a couple of generations of vacationers, I guess,” Grandpa said. He sounded relieved that she wasn’t making a fuss about her mother leaving so unexpectedly, and a part of her resented that, too, though she knew it wasn’t his fault. He’d tried to talk his daughter into being honest with them.
    It was strange to think of her mother as being dis honest. As if she’d suddenly become another person, not the mother Megan had known all her life.
    It didn’t seem to be bothering Sandy all that much. He finished his soup and crackers, drained his glass, and selected a banana for dessert. “We saw smoke from a log cabin up the lake. Who lives there?” he asked.
    â€œOh, that’s our only neighbor at the moment. Haven’t met him but once, when he was walking on the beach at sunset. Not a fisherman, I guess; I’ve never seen him out on the lake. Name’s Nathan Jamison. Seems like a nice fella; writes books, I understand. Came here for the peace and quiet.”
    There was only one thing wrong with peace and quiet, Megan reflected after Sandy and Grandpa had departed with their fishing tackle in the rowboat. It gave you too much time to think.
    Ordinarily she wouldn’t have minded. She enjoyed daydreaming. She could imagine all kinds of exciting adventures with the horse she would have—a palomino, with a flowing blond mane and tail, that could run like the wind. Sometimes she imagined meeting a faceless boy who would have a horse of his own—a black stallion—who would race with her on a broad, sandy beach, a boy who would think she was pretty. It was silly, but it was kind of fun, too.
    Only now she felt neither silly nor like having fun. She felt, in fact, like crying. She and her mother had always been so close. Why had Mom shut her out?
    Megan looked through the books on the brown painted shelves in one corner of the living room. Grandpa was right; they were sure old. Zane Grey westerns, and a whole shelf by someone named Grace Livingston Hill, which appeared upon investigation to be old-fashioned romances, and some National Geographic s with pictures of naked natives in Africa. The magazines were so old that she didn’t recognize the name of the country where they lived; no doubt the name had been changed years ago.
    She didn’t really want to read. She walked onto the porch and stared out over the lake. Grandpa and Sandy were tiny figures in the boat on the water. She felt a moment of envy that they could put aside worry and just enjoy themselves. Why wasn’t she like that?
    She went slowly down the steps and onto the beach. If they hadn’t taken the boat, she’d row back out to the island; it seemed a place of refuge, a place where trouble might not be able to follow her.
    What about the canoe?
    Megan walked over to it and ran a hand along its bright red surface. Though she’d never paddled a canoe, she’d seen it done in the movies often enough. Maybe if her father had lived, he’d have taught her