“Looks fine, darlin’,” he murmured, without even looking up.

Sophie sighed and began to gather the boxes and bags strewn over the plank floor. Why did she even bother? Trying to celebrate Christmas in the middle of the South Pacific was a lost cause. She remembered Christmases past, when she and her parents had traveled to places where entire towns had been decorated, places where it actually snowed.

Outside their small house on the tiny Polynesian island of Taratea, the trade winds kept the temperatures at a constant eighty-three degrees and the wet season made the air thick with humidity. The heady scent of tiare and hibiscus and frangipani seeped through the shutters that lined the lanai and she could hear the soft patter of raindrops on the tin roof. Sometimes it seemed as if it would never stop raining.

Sophie had hoped to spend this Christmas with her mother in Paris. But for the third year in a row, she’d reluctantly refused the invitation, choosing instead to stay with her father, Jack “Madman” Madigan. Christmas in Paris would have been a happy affair. Her uncles and aunts were all excellent cooks and there would have been food, followed by gifts, followed by more food.

When she broached the subject of spending the holidays in Paris, her father had told her to go. But as the time to leave got closer, Sophie saw him sink further and further into a deep depression. He had no one except her. No family, few friends. Since his eyesight had gone bad, he’d cut himself off from nearly everyone.

Sophie turned away from the tree and crossed the room, peering over her father’s shoulder. “What are you working on?”

He had a map of the Society Islands spread out in front of him and he was studying a small archipelago through a magnifying glass, squinting to see the fine print. Her father’s eyesight had been failing for nearly five years. It had become so bad, he’d been grounded, prohibited from doing what he did best.