Rogue Wave by Isabel Jolie (reading eggs books txt) 📕

he knocked someone up when he was pretty young. Something must’ve happened to her ma, and now he’s saddled with her.” He clucked his tongue and whistled. The contractor ferry horn announced its impending arrival and overshadowed Tony.

“What’ve you been up to?” he asked, nudging me to regain my attention. “Thought you’d up and left for good. Dr. Wilton has been back since January.”

“He gave me permission to work from home. After all, no one’s really here in December and January. I’ve been working on building connections for the conservation center with a few of the Florida universities…” I trailed off as Tony’s focus centered in on his phone.

If Tate returned here, then he wasn’t hiding from me. He never responded to my texts, but knowing Tate, he might’ve lost his phone and had no way of even finding me. I’d written him off. Assumed he’d gone back to Asia to deal with his exploding boat issue. Maybe he did. Maybe he saved someone and came back. No matter what Tony assumed, I couldn’t believe he had a daughter. The notion sounded absurd.

A tram driver approached, breaking me out of my thoughts. “Ma’am, is that your luggage?” He pointed.

“Yes, it is. I’m sorry, I just…” spaced. The uniformed man ignored me and gathered up my luggage, throwing it into the back of the truck bed.

The blue trams transported visitors and luggage to their cottages. I climbed into the back of my assigned tram and before long zipped past Tate’s cottage. Two rusted beach cruisers leaned against the outside of the golf cart shed. The open garage door exposed his golf cart and the small grill he wheeled in and out.

I threw open the doors to my little cottage, dumped my luggage inside the door, and sprinted down the hill.

Alice had assured me he’d be back. I hadn’t believed her. There’d been no sign or evidence he’d return. I’d believed his letter. I’d believed I wouldn’t hear from him for years—maybe not ever again. And he was back. He owed me answers. Did he come back for me? Had he expected me to be here?

I jumped up the steps to his porch and froze in front of the screen door. A woman with long dark hair stood before a clean cut, short-haired version of Tate, her hand on his shoulder. He gazed intently down on her.

I watched. Comprehension filtered through my pores. A crushing pressure around my chest cavity made it hard to breathe. So naive. So stupid. In all my what-if scenarios, never once did I think he’d found someone else. Or would bring her back to Haven Island.

My eyes stung, the world blurred, and I spun around and ran.

Chapter 25

Tate

“She’ll be ready to go to school in the fall. She’s dedicated. She works hard. It’s like I told you, kids learn a language through immersion so much more quickly than adults. Keep talking to her in English. She’ll get it.” Cali spoke to me like a patient teacher repeating herself. We had some form of this conversation almost every day. The idea of pushing Jasmine, my adopted daughter, into the U.S. school system terrified me. When Cali responded to my ad for a tutor on the island, and she was available to work with Jasmine full-time, and was fluent in Arabic, it had seemed too good to be true.

“I hear you. But if she’s not ready, will you consider keeping her on through next year?” I wasn’t paying Cali enough to live on, but she was recently divorced and didn’t seem to be worried about her income. I needed her to remain here, helping us. I didn’t like having a deadline for Jasmine.

Cali laughed and slung her backpack over her shoulder, signifying the end of the conversation. “That’s, what? Eight months away? You’re going to be blown away by her progress. But of course, if you need me, we’ll talk about it when the time comes.”

Jawaahir had asked about an English name. Actually, I wasn’t entirely sure she came up with that idea on her own. I thought Laura might have planted the concept. Nevertheless, through a disjointed conversation pointing at photographs and drawings, I got the point across that my grandmother’s name was Jasmine Pearl Tate, and she and I agreed she’d go by Jasmine, or Jazz, for short.

I fell in step behind Cali and halted when she unexpectedly turned. “Have you arranged for Jasmine’s therapy yet?”

“I’m working on it.” We’d been back for less than four weeks. Any therapy options were on the mainland, and I hadn’t had time to do the appropriate amount of research.

Cali placed her hand on my shoulder and lightly squeezed. She meant it as a comforting gesture, but her questioning me felt like censure. I couldn’t blame her. My parenting was hardly a safe bet.

“Hey, I’m not criticizing. You’re doing a great job with her. But it’s easy to put off scheduling therapy. Sometimes there is fear it will hurt more than help. But I suspect she’s experienced a lot. Talking about it, or even her emotions, will be good for her.”

“Will a therapist even be able to help her if she can’t speak English?” The chances of locating a Somalian or Arabic speaking therapist on the coast of North Carolina were slim. Callie spoke five languages, and she didn’t know Somalian.

“She’s going to be learning English more quickly than you think. If you find the right therapist, it can be more of a language lesson to start, and they can build a relationship, and as she becomes fluent, she’ll have a trusting relationship with someone. I’d expect the chances are good she’s been raped, or witnessed a rape, based on how you met her. Even if she hasn’t, watching her sister die, and then moving to another country—I can’t begin to imagine all the emotions she might have. At the very least, therapy will be one more tool in your arsenal to help her adjust to life here.”

“Thank