in the summer, and the planks on the deck creak when you walk across them. The wood is weathered, and you have to be careful of splinters if your feet are bare.
I brace my hands on the bed, overwhelmed by sound and sensation: A gentle lapping of waves against a shoreline of sand and pebbles. The distant putter of a fishing boat motor. Masculine laughter. A spray of cold water across my face. Sunshine warm on my back. My toes gritty with sand.
“I have been there,” I murmur.
Yes, Iris whispers.
In the sketch of myself as a toddler that’s hidden in Dad’s workshop I’m standing with my parents on a weather-beaten dock. The same dock pictured on the Winterhaven chamber of commerce website.
“Lily? Are you here?” Mom calls from below.
“Upstairs!” I yell, then quickly erase the computer’s search history.
Afraid of something I can’t name, I swing my feet to the floor and go to her.
8
Yesterday evening, Ty called and said he’d be happy to help with the roof. For the rest of the night, I kept hearing the way his voice sounded when he said my name. And I kept remembering how he looked at me with an intense, single-minded focus when I was standing with Sylvie at the lake. Even now, I get pathetically lightheaded just thinking about it.
This morning when he pulls up in front of our cabin, I go out with Mom to introduce them. It’s even warmer today than yesterday. A hummingbird is flitting around the feeder that hangs from the porch eave. Its hyperfast wings are no match for the fluttering in my chest when Ty sees me and his mouth curves into a crooked smile.
I bite my lip and look away for a second to calm down. I don’t want to do anything stupid, like trip down the stairs.
In the yard, as Mom talks to Ty, I do my best not to check him out in an obvious way. But it isn’t easy. As pitiful as it sounds, I could stare at him all day. His hair is messy, like he forgot to comb it when he got out of bed. All I can say is, tangles look good on him—really, amazingly good. He’s wearing a white T-shirt, ripped jeans, and black Converse sneakers. His arms are brown and strong—not in a bulky weight-lifter way, just lean, firm muscle. I notice a small tattoo on his right bicep, but can’t make out the design without staring.
As I watch him walk around the yard peering up at the roof, it’s as if my skin catches fire. There’s just something about the way Ty moves, so loose-limbed and sure, that gets to me. He doesn’t seem to possess even an ounce of self-consciousness. Then there’s his quiet, low voice. And the way his head tilts to one side and his eyes narrow when he talks, like he’s daring you to question him. He doesn’t come across as unfriendly, just sure of himself.
“I have a couple of other people to interview later today,” Mom says to Ty as she leads him back to the front of the house.
She’s lying. He’s the only person we’ve talked to about the roofing job. I don’t call her on it, though. She’s using a cane to help her walk this morning—something I’ve never seen her do before. I didn’t even know she owned a cane.
Mom glances at the list of references Ty gave to her when he arrived. “I’ll get in touch with a few of these folks this afternoon and let you know tomorrow.”
“Cool,” he says, and I get the most uncanny sense that although Ty is talking to Mom, he’s as tuned in to me as I am to him. I can almost feel his attention being magnetically drawn toward me. “I’d really like to work for you, Mrs. Winston,” Ty continues. “I’d do a good job, and I can start right away.”
“You’re sure you’ve shingled a roof before?” Mom asks, even though Ty already told her at least twice that he has.
“My parents own rental property,” he says. “I started helping my dad with maintenance during high school, and he and I have replaced a few roofs together since then. I also did maintenance part-time on some apartments one of my professors owns.” Ty gestures at the page Mom holds. “He’s on the list. Dr. Rigsby.”
She frowns. “Why aren’t you in school anymore?”
“Mom.” I glare at her.
Ty isn’t fazed. “I’m going back in the fall,” he says. “My family’s