I kept running, but not back to the boardwalk for my bike and backpack. I ran to the northern most estate in Seaside, the Anderson estate. I just wanted to see her. If she really was back and he wasn't lying, I needed to see her with my own eyes. Not just to know that she was okay, but just because.

The path to the estate had been purposely obscured, but I'd been using it to get to the house for as long as I could remember. The sawgrass came up as high as mid-thigh, scraping against my skin as I headed away from the beach. A half-mile in, the plants thinned out and the sand turned hard under my feet. Then suddenly, as if it appeared in the middle of nowhere was the gate to the pool. I brushed the sand from my legs and shoes the best I could and slipped through.

The pool was like everything else here, beautiful but understated. Even on stilts, the house was still half-hidden by plants and tall fences. From outside someone might have thought it was just another house. It wasn't until you had roamed the inside, looked out the windows, saw the view from the master bedroom balcony, that you realized what this estate was. From that vantage point, a person see all of Seaside, everything from the lighthouse to the boardwalk, which was fitting given that the Jacqueline Anderson practically owned all of it.

As I approached the back door that it occurred to me I was hardly dressed for some kind of reunion. It wasn't the first time I'd stopped here mid or post run, but that was usually while I was on some part of an errand and Jacqueline was home alone. This would be different. It was too late to turn around, though. I committed to this, and I needed to know, so I took a deep breath and knocked on the back door.

The door opened almost immediately. "You've heard?" Martina said, ushering me in and through the kitchen.

"It's true? She's—"

"Yes, even with all that makeup," she said with a smile. "We'd know her anywhere."

I would have stopped, simply to take it all in, but Martina had her hand on my back, guiding me to where they were.

Ivy was our tragedy. Eleven years ago, she was the life of this place. She belonged to Seaside, the first daughter, the youngest and prettiest child of our two wealthiest families. She was practically a princess. And she had this laugh. It was loud, explosive and infections, impossible to mistake for anyone else's and the most likely thing to come out of her mouth. She was the kind of person who laughed all the time.

When she was gone, stillness crept into the spaces she left behind, buried its way into the foundations of our buildings and the bones of our selves.

Something stirred deep inside me now, some mixture of hope, doubt, excitement and fear.

I heard them first. Voices I knew responding to this in ways I could have guessed.

Martina and I paused in the archway that led to the living room.

Charles Wright stood out in the cream-colored room in his charcoal business suit and blue silk tie, with his hair slicked back and car keys still in hand. He was the kind of man who commanded attention. He stood opposite two uniform cops, presumably the ones who brought Ivy here from wherever she was. "You can't tell me where she's been?" he said. "You still have no idea what happened to her all those years ago?"

Sheriff Platt stepped forward. He was so out of place here with his beer gut poor excuse for a uniform. "Charlie, we're going to work with them to resume the investigation. Now that Ivy—"

"This is unacceptable. She was taken from us, and you still haven't figured out who did this."

Right now, I didn't care. The cops would do what they would do. I'm sure Ivy could tell them what happened to her and they'd figure it out. Or they wouldn't. All I wanted to know is

I looked behind them and saw Jacqueline. Back straight and dabbing her eyes with a tissue, Jacqueline Anderson looked the way she always did: put together in white skinny jeans and navy blue blouse. Next to her was another woman, someone I didn't know, but she rested her hand on Jacqueline's shoulder and wore a bland colored pantsuit. Most likely a therapist called in from the city.

"Charlie, can you just—"

"We need to make sure the person responsible pays for what they cost us," he said. "I'm not about to just let them get away with this and keep walking around."

This wasn't the scene I needed. I wasn't here for the dialogue. I glanced back at Martina and followed the direction of her gaze.

Ivy. I almost missed her. I came here knowing how much time, how many years, had passed. Clearly, I had grown up. I wasn't the same girl I had been when I was eight.

I'd even seen the age progression photos. I knew what Ivy should look like now, yet somehow I still expected to see the same girl who disappeared. The girl with the long black hair, hazel eyes, the big smile and loud laugh, light colored sundresses, pink toe nails, always leaving her shoes discarded somewhere on the beach.

She didn't look anything like the miniature Snow White she had been when she was taken. She still had fair skin and black hair, but what had once made her the kind of child everyone knew would grow into a classic beauty was covered with makeup too dark, ears pierced too many times, and the left side of her head shaved.

In ripped jeans, a gray t-shirt, black military combat boots, and a faded green military jacket, Ivy Anderson-Wright had returned to Seaside.

After a second, or maybe a thousand of them, Ivy smiled.

That's how I knew it was her. She saw me. She recognized me, and it was a punch to the gut. It vacuumed the air out of the room. The background chatter slipped away, and all I could do was look into those eyes. She was older, thinner, a little more angular in her face. The hair and the clothes looked so strange on her, but it didn't matter. Under all that heavy black eyeliner, those hazel eyes were still so very familiar.

Her smile was small, maybe even tentative, a slip of a smile, but I felt light and even a little dizzy with relief. I smiled back at her, one of those goofy grins that shows too many teeth.

Then cargo shorts and a faded gray t-shirt stepped in front of me and obscured my view.

Jacqueline Anderson was like a living porcelain doll. Her boyfriend was blond, tanned, and scruffy—the typical Seaside local. He was also my uncle. It didn't matter how many times I saw them together, I couldn't quite see how they worked.

Matt nodded toward the kitchen and slipped past me. I looked at Ivy. Her eyes were still focused on mine, her lips upturned. I wanted to rush her, throw my arms around her, welcome her back, and beg for forgiveness.

Matt cleared his throat, and when I looked at him, he mouthed "family moment." He was right. As much as he or I tried, we weren't actually Andersons, and this moment was about a mother being reunited with her daughter.

So I locked eyes with Ivy one more time, tipped my head towards her father and rolled my eyes.

Her smile grew.

Then I gave her a small wave and followed my uncle back through the kitchen and outside, careful to shut the door behind me as quietly as possible. Neither of us said anything, partly because we didn't have anything to say to each other, partly because we were both relieved that we didn't have to think back to that fateful day, and partly because this was a moment better observed in silence.

Dusk was beginning to settle in, and the sky had a grayish tint to it. The water in the pool looked dark blue and peaceful, but I could still hear the ocean calling, a constant reminder how vast and lonely the world could be. We stood still and side by side. When he exhaled, I smelled the sharp tang of whiskey on his breath just the way I had the day he'd come over to tell me that the ransom notes were fake and that Ivy really was gone. We'd sat next to each other then, staring at the ocean.

It was strange how similar and different this moment felt. He was my mother's brother, but they had some kind of falling out the year after Ivy disappeared. They hadn't spoken since. I didn't hold Ellen's moods against anyone in town (she didn't talk to Jacqueline anymore either), but it meant he didn't drop by the house anymore. He wasn't a stranger, that's not possible in a town with more houses than permanent residents (more than triple if you did the math).

"She's back," I said. It felt good to hear the words.

He smiled. "Jackie recognized her right away. She took one look at her and almost fainted."

"Bet you never thought you'd see that," I said.

He laughed and shook his head. Despite her name and the way she looked, Jacqueline Anderson wasn't delicate. My uncle knew that better than anyone else. He was the only one who called her Jackie. He'd been dating her off and on since they were fourteen. She just married Charlie Wright and had two kids during one of those off moments.

"It's her eyes," I said.

He nodded. "She has the birthmark too."

It didn't surprise me that he'd looked for it: the heart-shaped birthmark behind Ivy's left ear. We'd had people show up over the years offering up information about Ivy for money.

After a while, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. It was full but open, as if he'd bought it just to carry them around, but hadn't actually smoked them.

I gestured to the cigarette. "I thought you quit."

He shrugged but didn't smile. "It's a special occasion."

******

And now you've seen Ivy and got to know a bit more of Emma's world. Seaside is inspired by Fire Island and Ocean City, two of my favorite summer places. Thank you for reading--definitely let me know if you have any comments and suggestions.