Summer of Lost and Found

Summer of Lost and Found by Rebecca Behrens Page B

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Authors: Rebecca Behrens
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at the same time it was nice.
    Ambrose and I strolled to the American Indian village. “The park is very accurate. It’s almost as though the people who created it had been able to see John White’s drawings. Or speak with Manteo themselves,” Ambrose said.
    John White —I remembered that name from Lila’s lecture on the bookstore porch. “He was the governor of the colonists, right?”
    Ambrose grinned at me. “Yes! So you know about him?”
    â€œA little. I’ve started learning the history of this island—I figured I might as well, if I’m stuck here for the summer.”
    Ambrose nodded. “Me too.”
    â€œI thought you lived here all the time?”
    He paused thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose I live here and I’m stuck.” His voice still had an accent. It wasn’t unlike the one Renée at the bookstore had, and other people in the area, too. Maybe that was some kind of Southern drawl, although it sounded more like a brogue. I smiled at him, and we kept walking.
    â€œDoes your dad work here too?” I didn’t know why I’d asked that. I wasn’t normally so nosy, and I’d been trying to keep off the subject of dads as much as possible, so long as mine was MIA. But there was something about Ambrose—he was easy to talk to. Mellow. The opposite of Lila, who made me feel oddly competitive with someone I’d just met and never had to see again.
    â€œMy father left us,” Ambrose said. “But he’ll be back someday.”
    I felt like someone had punched me in the gut. I actually stopped midstride, and Ambrose took two steps ahead of me before he realized that I was standing still. “Nell?” he asked. “Are you all right?”
    â€œSorry,” I said, a little dazed. Hearing Ambrose talk so matter-of-factly about his own dad leaving was a shock. I still hadn’t even told Jade what was really going on with mine. “It’s that, well, my dad is gone too, and I don’t know when he’s coming home.” It felt good to say that out loud to someone. I let out a deep breath.
    Ambrose’s smile showed so much sympathy that I thought I might cry. “Home to Roanoke?” Ambrose stood next to me, so close our arms were almost touching. It felt like we both wanted to reach out and give each other a hug, but neither of us had the guts to do it.
    I shook my head. “New York City. Where I’m from. Apparently he went to London.”
    â€œLondon!” Ambrose said, grinning. “That’s where I’m from.”
    â€œI knew it! I could hear it in your voice.” It wasn’t just the fake colonial speak, or that local twang, but traces of a British accent that hid in his vowels and certain words, like “over” and “never.” “How long have you lived here? And why’d you move?”
    He shrugged. “My parents wanted a new life, I suppose. We’ve been here a few years.”
    We’d walked past the village and were at the edge of the park, close to the shimmering Shallowbag Bay. “So if you work here, you must know a lot about the lost colonists,” I said.
    Ambrose was quiet. I hoped I sounded curious and not like an interrogator, as Lila had, even though Ambrose had brought John White up in the first place. Being near the water reminded me of the scene I had imagined, of the man on the coast with the doll for his granddaughter, Virginia. Even though I had made it up, I couldn’t erase it from my brain. It was so painful to think of the friends and family of all those colonists, never knowing what became of them. “I can’t get it out of my head. It’s unbelievable that they still don’t know the truth, after all these years.” Right then, I had a thought—one that should’ve occurred to me sooner. This island was the site of a massive, centuries-old mystery. My dad writes about those two very

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