O’ma’s life had always seemed like a story: dangerous and glamorous, and here was one more unexpected chapter, pages that I hadn’t realized had been stuck together. Had she looked as happy as everyone here did? Hard to picture. All her life, she’d seemed a little sad.
Every so often, one of the other caterers would point out a board director or a CEO. Even a senator made an appearance. “Is it always like this?” I asked Lexi when we both dropped off our trays of empty glasses at the same time. “All these famous people.”
“Everyone comes to Nantucket in the summer.”
Everyone in the one percent, maybe.
By 9:45, the party was in full swing. We’d been told to use the bathroom off the kitchen, but the wait was interminable, so I went searching for another. I wandered deeper into the house, taking in the perfectly placed mirrors on the hallway walls, the tiny tables with fresh flowers. I found another bathroom, filled with thick, lush towels, and seashells, and prints from old newspapers. Good lord, this bathroom was better decorated than my whole room.
On my way back, I peeked down an empty hall and caught sight of framed photos and paintings. I paused.
A quick look couldn’t hurt, could it?
I walked down the hall, all my senses on alert, aware I wasn’t supposed to be here. In this part of the house, the sounds from the party were softened, muted, like they belonged to another world. What was I even looking for? A photo of O’ma? A framed letter? Ha.
A door to my right swung open.
I jumped back, but the man exiting didn’t see me as he strode in the opposite direction. The slowly closing door displayed an office with a giant painting of the ocean. A Monet-esque painting, if you would.
I stuck my foot out to stop the closing door.
And froze. Still as the girl in Jurassic Park trying to avoid detection by dinosaurs; still as Medusa’s victims after they’d been caught in her sights. Because I didn’t do this. I didn’t break into places. I didn’t break rules.
But the painting—
A chime of laughter sounded nearby, and I dove inside and shut the door. I leaned against it, heart in overdrive and hands sweaty. I could get in so much trouble. I needed to leave. But what if I opened the door and someone saw me? And arrested me for trespassing? And threw me in jail (did Nantucket have a jail? Nantucket had to have a jail. Who was housed in Nantucket’s jail? Tax evaders? Joyriding teens?). And what if they posted bail but no one paid and my parents were too far away—
I took a deep, calming breath, counting to ten. Okay. Breathing. Important to remember.
I walked over to the framed oil work hanging on the wall behind a massive desk.
I doubt I’ll accurately capture the light on the sea if I paint every day for the rest of my life . . .
But this painting had. The artist had used greens and yellows to suggest light penetrating the waters’ depths, so the ocean glowed from within. I was used to paintings where the ocean looked foreboding or refreshing; not many made me long to wade into the water.
In the bottom right corner, white script stood out against the blue. Even in scribbled cursive, the two initials were clear—an E and a B.
My hand rose as if to trace the letters, but years of museum-going stopped me short. Instead, I leaned close, holding my breath as though it might move the waves. I didn’t need any more proof. It had been Barbanel. Edward Barbanel had written my grandmother love letters.
I drew back and took in the room. It had all the hallmarks of a well-used study: papers and pens littered the desk; packed bookcases lined the walls. A luxurious carpet covered most of the dark wooden floor, but what I could see gleamed. Beneath the painting, a fireplace was set in the wall, and to the right, a window alcove with heavy velvet curtains looked like the perfect place to curl up and read.
I’d already trespassed—was it kosher to look around a little more, or should I duck out?
Okay, it probably wasn’t one hundred percent kosher, but surely it was more like marshmallows than bacon.
Hesitantly—as though walking with caution would make my actions any better—I moved to the bookcases, scanning the spines. Nonfiction all: books on business and history and accounting. Fun. Farther down, I noticed flatter spines with handwriting. Binders. I knelt on the ground, tilting my head to see the labels more clearly. 1990–1994. 1994–1996. 1997.
Albums. Dozens of them.
And these were the most recent ones. A dozen more sat on the shelf below, and my eyes jumped to them, almost faster than my mind. I was afraid to hope, afraid to think they would go back so far—
1947–51.
My breath caught so quickly it felt like my heart had been hooked on a rib. The letters had begun in 1952. 1951 might have been the year O’ma visited Nantucket. Almost reverently, I pulled the album into my lap and opened the green cover.
Not an album—a scrapbook. Small, square sepia-toned photos filled most pages, with the occasional colorful postcard or paper pressed between the plastic. Strangers smiled up at me, women with bouffant hairstyles, men with cigars—
O’ma.
The photo captured her in a moment of laughter. Her perfectly curled hair blew in the wind, and her dark lips were parted. She must have been around my age, skin unlined and eyes wide. I barely recognized her. Wide-legged jeans buttoned high around her ribcage, and a short-waisted, high-collared jacket finished the outfit.
She looked so young.
And so alive. In her last years, she’d been small and frail. Who was this vibrant girl who’d been so in love, who’d come to this island and left it and never spoken of it again? I’d known my grandmother; I’d known Ruth Cohen, who’d baked pies and spun stories and complained about air-conditioning, but I didn’t know this bold, bright young Goldman girl, who didn’t have a husband and a daughter and a granddaughter and a condo in Florida. Who was she?
“What are you doing?”
I screamed.
Just a little scream, shrill and quickly silenced. I twisted so quickly I toppled off-balance and sprawled on my back. The ceiling spun as I tried to catch my breath.
A boy my age stood in the doorway, limned by light. He stepped inside and closed the door.
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Hi.” Scrambling to kneel—why was I such a hot mess?—I shoved the album back onto the shelf and jumped to my feet.
A thunderous frown crossed his face. “Who are you?”
He was alarmingly good-looking, in the kind of way that meant I never would have spoken to him normally, with bronzed skin and dark eyes and cheekbones sharp enough to slice hearts in half. He wore navy slacks and a white sweater. In one hand, he held a single flower with petals both yellow and purple.
“I’m—I’m, um . . .” Crimson embarrassment crept up my cheeks. I didn’t dare name the catering company for fear of getting them in trouble. “I’m a cleaner. I’m cleaning.”
“And all I wanted was some peace and quiet,” he murmured, looking skyward before pinning me with his gaze again. “You’re cleaning.”
I winced. “Yes?”
“The study.”
In for a penny. “Yes.”
“In the middle of a party.” His voice was low, almost melodic, as he coolly unraveled my story. “Without any cleaning supplies.”
Right. Hm. “It’s a—new. Kind. Of cleaning.”
He lifted his brows in a mute response.
“I’m studying the room to see what I need in order to clean it.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
I know, right? I almost said. Instead, I sagged against the desk and spread my hands apologetically.
“Are you a thief?”
“No! God, no, I don’t steal things.”
“You just break into places.”
I could see how one might be confused. “I didn’t break in. I just
—accidentally entered.”
“What?” He stared at me like I’d spoken in tongues.
“It just happened. I was in the hall—and then I wasn’t in the hall—”
“If you are a thief, you’re the most incompetent one I’ve ever met.”
All of a sudden, I had thief pride and he’d offended it. “Oh, and you’ve met so many thieves? What are you even doing here?”
He ignored me, gaze falling to the bottom shelves of the bookcase. “You were looking at the photo albums?”
“No.” I didn’t even know why I denied it, unless, along with my thief pride, I had a heretofore unknown affinity for deception.
“Hm.” He crossed to the fireplace, lifting a tiny vase from the mantel and placing the flower in it. “Why were you looking at them?”
“You’re missing water.”
“Thank you,” he said, voice so dry that if any water had been present, it would have evaporated. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Eesh. What an honor, to meet the king of sarcasm. I looked at the strange multicolored petals again. “What kind of flower is it?”
“A poisonous one.”
“Oh.” I drew back. “Do you usually walk around fancy parties with poisonous flowers?”
“Only when I need to confront secretive thieves.”
“I’m not a thief.” I scowled, then held up my hands. “See? Nothing.” I darted a glance at the door. He was several steps away. If I dashed for it—
I dashed.
He moved faster, throwing his body before the door. I skidded to a halt an inch away from him, and now we were too close, so close I could see each of his black lashes. My pulse ratcheted up and I hopped back, unable to catch my breath, unable to stop staring at him. His throat worked convulsively, his chest rising and falling like he, too, couldn’t find enough oxygen.
But any momentary enchantment died when he opened his mouth. “Empty your pockets.”
“These are girls’ shorts,” I shot back. “They don’t have pockets. They’re fake pockets.”
He blinked. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I know.”
“Your purse, then.”
“Why should I listen to you? You’re sneaking in here, too.”
“Because I actually belong here.”
I sighed and handed my bag over. I’d brought almost nothing—phone, keys, wallet. He flipped open the wallet. “Abigail Schoenberg,” he read. His eyes flicked up. There were cues you looked for when you were trying to decide if someone else was also Jewish. Abigail could go either way, but my last name and my dark corkscrews were a strong signal. (And fine, my nose wasn’t precisely subtle.) His gaze returned to my license. “Nice picture.”
It was not a nice picture.
“If I was going to steal something,” I said witheringly, “I wouldn’t put it somewhere so obvious. I’d tuck it in my bra or something.”
He looked up. The corners of his mouth twitched.
Shoot. “Which you’re not checking. Obviously if I had, I wouldn’t have planted the idea in your head.”
“Unless you’re really cocky.”
“I’m not. Trust me.”
“You do seem like a shitty thief.” He held my bag high. “Tell me what you’re doing here and I’ll give it back.”
“You can’t take my stuff hostage.”
He didn’t say anything. Apparently he could.
“Fine. Whatever.” I swept my hair out of my face. “I was snooping. What about you? What are you doing here?”
The knob behind him twisted. I inhaled sharply, and the boy jumped out of the way as the door swung open.
Uh-oh.
An older man entered, then stopped short, a frown etched on his brow. He looked me up and down, then focused on the boy. “Noah. I thought you might be here.”
“I was getting a vase.” He held up the flower. “Mrs. Greene picked this. It’s endangered. Why don’t people get that endangered means you’re not supposed to pick it?”
“There are vases in the dining room.”
“Giant vases. I wanted this one.”
“Hm. Your parents are looking for you.” His eyes slid back toward me. “Who is your . . . friend?”
“This is Abigail Schoenberg. Abigail, this is my great-uncle Bertie.”
I gave a self-conscious wave. “Hi.”
“Mm.” He appraised my outfit. “Are you with Lindsey’s?”
For a minute I stared blankly, before remembering Lindsey’s was the name of the catering service. “Yes?”
“Then shouldn’t you be out front?”
I glanced at Noah—ridiculous, since he had no reason to cover for me. But. Solidarity in youth. Old people clearly couldn’t be trusted, not after they’d so casually ruined the planet.
For whatever reason, Noah stood up for me. “I wanted her help with something.”
The man’s brows rose perilously high.
Oh, great. Great-uncle Bertie definitely thought we’d been hooking up.
“But we’re done now,” I said hurriedly. “You’re right, I should get back to my job. Those champagne flutes won’t serve themselves.”
Honestly, sometimes I said things so cheesy I made myself lactose intolerant.
“Someone else can handle it,” Noah said.
“Noah.” His great-uncle sounded impatient. “You should say goodbye.”
Noah’s lips pressed together, and I thought for sure he’d rat me out. Instead, he nodded. “Give us a sec, then I’ll find Mom and Dad.”
Looking mulish, the older man backed out of the room and closed the door.
Not entirely, though. Noah pushed it the rest of the way shut. Turning back, he hoisted my bag. “Well?”
But something had clicked in the back of my mind. “Your name’s Noah.”
He shot me an impatient look.
Why so interested? Jane had said when I asked about the Barbanel house, and Evan—wealthy, summer-people Evan, who ran in these circles—had said, Noah? “You’re a Barbanel.”
He nodded. “Be a little weird if someone outside the party ducked in here, wouldn’t it.”
A strange sensation swept through me—déjà vu, though of course we’d never seen each other before. “You’re Edward Barbanel’s grandson.”
“So?”
I laughed, a little frantically. “It’s just funny, is all. You. And me. Here.”
He looked at me like I was insane. “What?”
I gestured. “The painting captures the light on the water.”
“Is it always this difficult to talk with you?”
The doorknob rattled, and we both jumped. Noah glared at the door like he could will the outsider away. Instead, a girl’s voice made its way in. “Noah! I know you’re there. Your dad wants you, like, yesterday.”
Noah sighed and opened the door. A girl a year or two younger than me squeezed in. “Uncle Bertie wouldn’t say—” She stopped, and her tone shifted. “Oh.”
Noah groaned. “Tell them I’ll be there soon.”
She ignored him and studied me. Against her, I definitely came up lacking. She wore a black dress with colorful flowers embroidered along the hem, and had curls the glossy brown of tempered chocolate. My own hair frizzed à la Anne Hathaway in the first half of The Princess Diaries, and even after I’d learned the First Hair Commandment (finger comb instead of brushing your hair post shower), my curls still dissolved as the day went on. She narrowed her eyes. “Who are you?”
“Abby. Hi.”
She regarded me critically. “Are you . . . on the catering team?”
“Um.” I tried to push my glasses up and poked my nose bridge. Right. I’d worn my contacts today. “Sort of.”
“Okay.” She turned an expressive gaze on Noah—you’re making out with the help?
“I’ll tell Uncle Harry you’ll be there in five. You owe me.”
After she left, I spread my hands. “Seems like you really have to go.”
“You’re going to tell me more about this. Tomorrow.” He pulled out his cell. “What’s your number?”
I typed it into his phone. “I’m working tomorrow, though.”
“I’ll meet you after. Where and when?”
“Five. I’m at the Prose Garden.”
He frowned. “You work at a bookstore as well as catering?”
“Oh. Um.” I swallowed. “The catering is more of a—one-off thing.”
He let out an exasperated breath. “You had better have a damn good excuse for being here, Abigail Schoenberg.”
“I do. I swear I do.”
Did intense curiosity count as an excuse?
I was so very, very screwed.
Four
March 30, 1958
You’ll get over me. People say love is choosing to be together, choosing the other person every single day. It’s showing up for each other. Well, we’re not going to show up anymore, are we? You’ll stop loving me. Choose to love Helen. I mean it. Be happy.
I wore my Alice in Wonderland dress for my first day at the Prose Garden. The same shade of sky blue as Alice’s dress, it matched my mood of feeling lost in Wonderland; this wasn’t my world, with its too-big houses, strange characters, and enough wealth to have all the roses on the island painted red—but I found it baffling and intriguing and delightful.
Though early in the day, people already strolled through Nantucket’s cobblestone streets, swinging their beach and designer bags. A breeze ruffled the trees’ leaves, carrying the ocean’s tang, and the morning sun made me feel warm without overheating. I still couldn’t get over the town’s charm; I didn’t think I’d ever be numb to the quaint storefronts. Flowers spilled from window boxes and beautifully lettered signs announced bakeshops and antique stores.
Jane had told me most of the buildings on Nantucket had gray shingles not due to paint, but since natural cedar eventually weathered into a calming gray. But the bookstore—tucked between two tall redbrick buildings on a side lane off Main Street—had white shingles. A rose-covered trellis led to the entrance. My nerves jangled as I walked beneath it. I’d worked at the public library long enough to have confidence in my bookish knowledge, but new jobs—new starts—were always scary.
The Summer of Lost Letters Page 4