I still went to the shelter three days a week until just recently, but the commute into the city finally took its toll. Jane watched the twins on the days I volunteered, but it was time to do something different. I set up a charitable foundation to assist homeless families, and I run it out of our home office, the twins playing at my feet. It makes me happy. Henry’s shelter gets a large donation every year and always will.
I also tacked up a flyer at the local high school and I’ve picked up a few students to tutor. They come to our house in the evening and we sit at the kitchen table crossing off completed assignments one by one. Sometimes I miss standing in front of a classroom, but I think this is enough, for now.
T.J. runs a small construction company. He builds homes, one or two a year, framing them alongside the men he employs. He never went back to school after completing his first semester at community college, but I don’t care. It’s not my choice to make. Outside is where T.J. is happy.
He also gives his time, and money, to Habitat for Humanity. Dean Lewis volunteers there, too; the sixth house he helped build was his own. He married Julie, a girl he met at the restaurant, and Leo loves being a big brother to the baby girl his parents named Annie.
I brought lunch to T.J. at his construction site a few months ago. Watching him do what he loves makes me happy, too. A new subcontractor, there to work on the plumbing, whistled and yelled out “Hey, baby,” when I walked up, not knowing who I was. T.J. set him straight immediately. I know I’m supposed to be offended, to view the catcall as an affront to women and all that. I’m okay with it, though.
T.J. and I found out something interesting a couple years ago. A police officer from Malé called us with a few questions, hoping to close out the case of a missing person. The family of a man who disappeared in May of 1999 recently discovered a journal in his belongings. In it, Owen Sparks, a dot-com millionaire from California, wrote in meticulous detail about a plan to trade his high-pressure lifestyle for the peace and solitude of island-living in the Maldives. They followed his trail to Malé, but that’s where it ended. The officer wanted to know more about the skeleton T.J. and I discovered. There’s no way to know for sure if it was him, but it seems likely. I wonder if Owen would have made it if he’d had someone to lean on, the way T.J. and I did. I guess we’ll never know.
I carry a pitcher of lemonade out to the front porch and refill drinks, inhaling the smell of fresh-cut grass and spring flowers. Tom pulls into the driveway. We decided that a feast from Perry’s Deli is perfect for this warm May evening and David comes out of the house to help Tom carry it all in. Stefani and I set it out on the kitchen island and I am just about to call everyone in to make a plate when Ben walks up to me, holding Mick out in front of him. The smell of the dirty diaper is hard to miss.
“I think something came out of Mick’s butt,” he says.
“There are diapers and wipes by the changing table in the nursery and can you make sure to use plenty of diaper cream because Mick has a little bit of a rash.”
Ben stands, frozen, wondering how he’s going to get out of it when T.J., who has been watching the whole thing, starts laughing.
“Dude, she’s messing with you.”
Ben looks at me and I shrug, smiling. “It’s just so easy.”
The relief on his face is so profound it’s almost comical.
T.J. holds out his arms for Mick. “Josie’s got a load, too. I might as well change them both.”
“You’re a good man,” I say. And he is.
Ben hands the baby over.
“Pussy,” T.J. says to him as he walks out of the room, his arms full of his children. I smile because I know T.J. is teasing, but also because I know he’s happy to have his best friend involved in our lives. At twenty-four, Ben could just as easily be at the bars instead of here, holding a baby. He has a serious girlfriend named Stacy, and T.J. says she’s the one responsible for turning Ben into a mature adult. He’s not quite there yet.
Everyone fills a plate and finds somewhere to sit. Some choose the front steps, some the screened-in porch, and others, like T.J. and me, remain in the kitchen.
We strap the twins into their high chairs and give them small pieces of bread and deli meat. I spoon potato salad into their mouths and take bites of my sandwich and sips of my iced tea. T.J. sits beside me, retrieving the sippy cup Josie insists on flinging to the ground, just to see if he’ll pick it up for her. He always does.
When everyone finishes eating, they sing happy birthday to me. I blow out all thirty-eight candles Chloe insisted on putting on the cake. It’s an absolute inferno, but all I can do is laugh. From now until September twentieth, when T.J. turns twenty-five, I’m technically fourteen years older than him, not thirteen, but there’s nothing I can do about that either.
They all toast me with their drinks. I’m so happy I feel like crying.
Later, when everyone has gone and we’ve put the twins to bed, T.J. joins me on the screened-in porch. He brings two glasses of ice water and hands one to me. “Thanks,” I say. The novelty of cold water in a glass has not worn off for either of us. I take a long drink and set it on the table beside me.
He sits down on the rattan love seat and pulls me onto his lap.
“You might not be able to do that much longer,” I say, kissing his neck, which I do for two reasons: T.J. likes it, and it’s how I check for lumps. Thank God I’ve never found one.
“Sure I will,” he says, smiling and rubbing my belly.
We decided to try for one more child. It happened the first month, surprising us both. There’s only one baby this time and we don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl. We don’t care, as long as it’s healthy. I’m due in four months so the twins will only be fifteen months old when I give birth, but that just means that sometimes we get what we wish for.
I often think about the island. When the kids are older, we’ll have quite a story to tell them.
We’ll edit, of course.
We’ll also tell them that this house, and the property that surrounds it, is our island.
And that T.J. and I are finally home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Without the contributions, assistance, and support of the following individuals, On the Island would still be a file taking up space on my hard drive. Words cannot express how truly thankful I am to have such wonderful and enthusiastic people in my life.
I owe a huge debt of gratitude to author Meira Pentermann. Meira believed in me long before I did and her valuable guidance helped make On the Island the book it is today. She is the ultimate critique partner, beta reader, and cyber-sister.
My twin sister Trish who will always be the first person I show my words to.
My husband David because his encouragement means more to me than he’ll ever know.
My children Matthew and Lauren. Thank you for being patient while mom spent all that time with her laptop. I love you both.
Elisa Abner-Taschwer, for being the best de facto publicist and all-around cheerleader a writer could ever hope for.
I’d like to give special thanks to my beta readers and those who received advance reader copies of On the Island. You made me smile with your kind words, and you built my confidence more than you’ll ever know. Penne Heede Pojar, Beth Knipper, Elisa Abner-Taschwer, Lisa Green, Brooke Achenbach, Julie Gieseman, Trish Garvis, Trish Kallemeier, Noelle Zmolek, Stacy Alvarez, Stefani Blubaugh, Mindy Farrington, Taylor Kalander, David Green, Tami Cavanaugh, Amy Gulbranson, Stefanie Martin, Shellie Mollenhauer, Christy Cornwell, Missy Pomerantz, and Jill LaBarre.
I was also fortunate to work with the following talented people who were instrumental in making sure On the Island was the book I hoped it would be. I look forward to partnering with them again.
Developmental editing by Alison Dasho.
Copyediting by Anne Victory at Victory Editing.
Digital formatting by Guido Henkel.
Cover image by Getty Images.
Cover design by Penne H
eede-Pojar.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tracey Garvis-Graves lives in a suburb of Des Moines, Iowa with her husband, two children, and hyper dog Chloe. This is her first novel. She blogs at www.traceygarvisgraves.com using colorful language and a snarky sense of humor to write about pop culture, silly television shows, and her suburban neighborhood. She is hard at work on her next book. You can e-mail her at
[email protected]. She’d love to hear from you.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 – Anna
Chapter 2 – T.J.
Chapter 3 – Anna
Chapter 4 – T.J.
Chapter 5 – Anna
Chapter 6 – T.J.
Chapter 7 – Anna
Chapter 8 – T.J.
Chapter 9 – Anna
Chapter 10 – T.J.
Chapter 11 – Anna
Chapter 12 – T.J.
Chapter 13 – Anna
Chapter 14 – T.J.
Chapter 15 – Anna
Chapter 16 – T.J.
Chapter 17 – Anna
Chapter 18 – T.J.
Chapter 19 – Anna
Chapter 20 – T.J.
Chapter 21 – Anna
Chapter 22 – T.J.
Chapter 23 – Anna
Chapter 24 – T.J.
Chapter 25 – Anna
Chapter 26 – T.J.
Chapter 27 – Anna
Chapter 28 – T.J.
Chapter 29 – Anna
Chapter 30 – T.J
Chapter 31 – Anna
Chapter 32 – T.J.
Chapter 33 – Anna
Chapter 34 – T.J.
Chapter 35 – Anna
Chapter 36 - T.J.
Chapter 37 – Anna
Chapter 38 – T.J.
Chapter 39 – Anna
Chapter 40 – T.J.
Chapter 41 – Anna
Chapter 42 – T.J.
Chapter 43 – Anna
Chapter 44 – T.J.
Chapter 45 – Anna
Chapter 46 – T.J.
Chapter 47 – Anna
Chapter 48 – T.J.
Chapter 49 – Anna
Chapter 50 – T.J.
Chapter 51 – Anna
Chapter 52 – T.J.
Chapter 53 – Anna
Chapter 54 – T.J.
Chapter 55 – Anna
Chapter 56 – T.J.
Chapter 57 – Anna
Chapter 58 – T.J.
Chapter 59 – Anna
Chapter 60 – T.J.
Chapter 61 – Anna
Chapter 62 – T.J.
Chapter 63 – Anna
Chapter 64 – T.J.
Chapter 65 – Anna
Chapter 66 – T.J.
Chapter 67 – Anna
Chapter 68 - T.J.
Epilogue - Anna
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tracey Garvis Graves, On the Island
(Series: # )
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