Saltwater Secrets - Cindy Callaghan

Prologue Josie, Age 9

Beach—Whalehead, New Jersey

The Minotaur Coaster was a new addition to my favorite place on earth: Murphy’s Pier in Whalehead, New Jersey.

Every summer I found this place exactly the way it was when I left: the ocean, the boardwalk, and my and Stella’s special secret hiding place under the boardwalk.

But what I liked most of all was being with my sister, Stella. Well, she’s technically my half sister, and she’s my best friend. Since we live so far apart, and I can only see her during the summers, we spend every waking minute of the summer together.

We sat on the sandbar, our legs floating in the salt water. From out there, I could either face the New Jersey coastline, the boardwalk, and all of its wild excitement, or I could look out at the vast ocean and imagine that this water touched the coastline of my home, Australia.

A speedboat zoomed by, towing tandem parasailers in flight, a flock of white seabirds behind them. The parasailers waved down to me and Stella while we stacked fistfuls of wet sand on each other’s shoulders.

“Ready for the fun house?” I asked her.

Stella yelled to Dad, who sat at the water’s edge under a beach umbrella. “Dad, can we go to the fun house?”

He hollered back, “As long as you get yourselves water ice, too.”

We trudged our way back to the beach.

Dad pulled out money, then turned his chair to face the boardwalk. “I’ll watch you from here.”

“Want one?”

“Nah.” He patted his round belly. “I’ll just have some of yours.” He gave us each a hug and kissed the tops of our heads.

Stella broke away first and dashed toward the boardwalk. When she was a safe distance, she turned, giggled, and said in her New York accent, “What are you tawkin’ about? I’m not sharing!”

Dad chased her. “Oh yes you are.” When he caught her, they both toppled into the sand, laughing.

I pounced onto his back. “Let my sista go!” My accent was so different from Stella’s, but we understood each other perfectly.

“You win. You win,” Dad said. “But, for the record two against one isn’t fair.”

We hopped on the hot sand until we got to the boardwalk. We waved to our shore friend, Dario, who bobbed up and down on a big horse on the merry-go-round. After waiting for the oncoming traffic of surf bikes to pass, we finally got into the fun house line.

“Do you have it?” I asked Stella.

She held up the plastic tail from our kite. It had broken off last night, and I wanted to save it to remember what a great night it was. We had a special secret place where we stashed these kinds of treasures.

We entered Kevin’s Fun House, zipped to the bright, shiny hall of mirrors, and paused to laugh at our ultrashort, ultratall, or ultraround selves. Then we giggled our way through foam pillars—a tight fit—and scaled the rope bridge, finally racing to the barrel that marked the loose floorboards. We waited for a crowd of toddlers to pass, and I quickly slid the barrel aside; Stella stomped on the end of the loose boards, popping them up to create enough room for us to jump to the sand below. I pulled the rope we’d tied to the underside of the boards, and the trapdoor slammed shut above us.

This was our hiding place under the boardwalk. I walked to our rock that marked the spot where we’d buried a box—not just any box. It held our special treasures. I dug it up, opened it, and added the kite tail to the gum wrapper, shell, Matchbox car, marble, Barbie, midway game tickets, and other items that represented our many summer adventures—mine and Stella’s.

A few minutes later we were plopped on the edge of the boardwalk, Water Ice World paper cones in our hands, watching the bustle of vacationers who smelled like coconut sunscreen and sweat. Our feet swung over the sand below, and even though we licked, dripped water ice went onto our chins and arms.

I asked, “Stella?”

“Yeah? What?” Stella wiped red water-ice juice off her face with her sleeve.

“I love it here,” I said.

“Me too.”

“Can we do this forever? Exactly this same exact thing every single summer? Just like this. It’s perfect, and I don’t want it to ever change.”

“Sure, Josie. Nothing’s gonna change.”

* * *

But, like all perfect things, it did.

Part One Four Years Later

One Stella

603 Whalehead Street

June 18

The music on the car radio broke:

“Murielle duPluie here with the Whalehead news from