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stared anxiously at the ominous rocks of the jetty nearly upon them. The waves were picking up speed, growing wild as they headed toward the cliffs.
    “’Ang on,” Flannigan warned. Isabelle clutched Sean with one hand, the seat cushion with the other.
    At last they broke through the riptide. The engine quieted and the boat scuttled into the lagoon, still rocking. The captain called his steward to take the wheel. Sean and Isabelle followed him to the lower deck. They grasped the railing for support, while the captain seemed balanced and cheery.
    “Land ’o!” he shouted, and prepared for docking.
    The engine hummed pleasantly and Isabelle felt her heart begin to calm. There were seagulls overhead, tiny sparrows tweeting, and the boat chugged along on tepid waves.
    Monica followed Luke out of the cabin and they stood at the rail.
    She turned up a lip. “ That’s it? Where’s the palm trees? Those look like Christmas trees.”
    Luke chuckled. “We’re in the north Atlantic. It’s not tropical. Did you think this was a tropical island?”
    “ No, ” she said quickly. “But I thought it would at least be warm. Not so hideous. Jeez, this is gonna suck.”
    Up close it was all wilderness and jagged rocks, and along the shore was a thin strip of black beach.
    “That’s not even sand,” Monica said. “It’s like … dirt.”
    “Tar Beach,” Isabelle said. “That’s what my mother called it.”
    Luke shook his head. “It’s not tar or dirt. Probably volcanic rock. Fragments of lava, just like Hawaii.”
    “This is so not Hawaii.”
    “It does seem a bit creepy,” Isabelle said to Flannigan. “Especially those woods.”
    “’Eard some bad stories aboyt dem woods.”
    “Yes,” she replied. “My father told me many.”
    “Yer fodder was a tough old bird. Just loike dis oiland.” Then his grin slipped away. “Ye be sure to stay indoors at noight. Gets cold enough to skin ye.”
    The boat pulled up to the dock, where Nicholas Bonacelli was standing in a suit and overcoat. He waved as they pulled into the mooring.
    “Eh-yuh, mister lawyer, sir,” Flannigan shouted. “’Oweya gettin’ on?” He jumped ashore with the dock lines and quickly wound them around the cleats.
    Everyone grabbed suitcases and backpacks and lined up to depart. Luke was first to hop off the boat.
    “Careful, fella, dock is greasy,” Flannigan said, tying up the stern.
    They were all finally standing on land and no one was more pleased than Isabelle. The air was cold and damp like she remembered. A constant breeze blew over the island, carrying droplets of salt that coated everything in a layer of white.
    She was struck with a feeling of being home as she gazed over the beach, and a flood of memories assaulted her senses: the smell of fish, the ripping sound of wind, the taste of salty air in her mouth. She used to paddle around the shallows, squealing with delight, until a wave hit the back of her head and her body would roll over itself, white foam and sand churning before her eyes, stinging her throat. She’d laugh as the tide dumped her onshore, coughing, sputtering, and running back to the sea for more. When it was warm, she’d lie on a towel and read stacks of books, or catch minnows in the tide pools with her hand, scooping up their slippery bodies as they flailed, and dropping them in a bucket.
    Isabelle turned her gaze to the jetty, where she would sit on the cool wet stones and look out to sea, watching for boats that never came, feeling the rush of wind on her cheeks and hearing the roar of the waves that smashed against the cliffs. And all around, towering trees hemmed the beach, sentinels of the island.
    Bonacelli reached for Isabelle’s suitcase and started down the gangway. Normally, she would have insisted on carrying her own bag, but the lawyer seemed like the type of gentleman who might be insulted.
    Luke watched him, impressed by his chivalry, and picked up Monica’s duffel bag, rocking as he walked