The Summer of Lost Letters

by Hannah Reynolds

  “Because I’m asking nicely.”

  “This is your version of nice?”

  His lips pressed together. Then he let out a deep breath. “Please.”

  I crossed my arms over my clinging top, feeling exposed and going on the offense to hide it. “What do you want to talk about? Are you going to tell me not to interfere again, and I’ll tell you I’m not going to listen?”

  “I want to call a truce.”

  “I wasn’t aware we were at war.”

  “Weren’t you?” He took a deep breath. “We should talk somewhere—less distracting.” His gaze dipped slightly, then flicked away.

  Had Noah Barbanel just checked me out? He had. He definitely had. He thought this wet-shirt thing was distracting.

  I felt a very non-nemesis-like flicker of delight.

  Though maybe he merely found it unprofessional or whatever to talk to a sopping-wet girl. And in any case, talking to him was a bad idea. He’d just try to convince me not to do what I wanted to do. “I don’t think so.”

  “Come on.” He took a step closer and lowered his voice. “Please?”

  This was unfair, a hot boy blasting his good looks in my face. “I should get back to my friends.” I scanned the crowds, hoping to spot Evan’s six-two frame or Stella’s sparkler headdress.

  He caught my forearm. Now we stood perilously close. Ellie Mae sat and panted up at us. “Seriously, what will it take for you to hear me out?”

  Good lord. I could smell him, all beachy sunscreen and faint cologne. “Well, not threatening me, for one. And not grabbing my arm.”

  He let go and raised his hands. “Anything else?”

  “Hm.” I wrapped Ellie Mae’s leash more securely around my hand, pulling her close to my side. A child walked by with a giant stuffed animal in her arms, holding it out for Ellie to sniff. My gaze transferred to the booth she must have come from, rafters full of stuffed animals. I smirked at Noah. “I’ll talk to you if you win me a giant unicorn.”

  “What?’”

  I shrugged. “I don’t make the rules.”

  “You literally just did.”

  I raised my hands, palms skyward, and started to walk away.

  He caught up with me, practically bleeding haughty dignity. “I don’t do carnival games.”

  “Pity.” I shot him a sickly-sweet smile. “I don’t talk to threat-makers.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me and then, to my shock, stalked toward the vendor.

  I blinked and trailed after him. “I didn’t—I wasn’t serious—”

  “You had better damn well be.” Noah exchanged his money for a giant water gun.

  “No, I just said it because I knew—”

  “I wouldn’t do it?” Noah looked pained. He hefted the gun, took aim, and missed by a mile.

  I couldn’t help it. A laugh escaped me.

  Noah sounded wounded. “It’s harder than it looks.”

  “Is it?” I ruffled the fur behind Ellie’s ears. “Who knew.”

  He took aim again.

  Ten minutes and many shots later, Noah proudly presented me with a desolate-looking elephant. It sat on its haunches, staring out at the world with a tragic gaze. Its brows curved downward in an expression of despair.

  I held the elephant at arm’s length. At my feet, Ellie looked equally confused. “This is not a unicorn. This is the saddest elephant in the world.”

  “What are you talking about?” Noah sounded like a mighty hunter told his bounty was not worthwhile.

  “He’s so sad. Look at him. The last time an elephant was this sad, it was Dumbo and his mom had just been locked in a cage.”

  “He’s going to be even sadder if you reject him.”

  Probably true. Sure, you couldn’t anthropomorphize stuffed animals, but this elephant was one cruel comment away from sobbing beneath the bleachers. “What am I supposed to do with him? I don’t want to look at a sad elephant all day.”

  “You could give him to a little kid.”

  “And what, make the kid cry?” I clutched the stuffed animal to my chest. “No.”

  “Can we talk now?”

  I couldn’t help it; I’d been charmed by his willingness to bend to my absurd demand, and won over by how earnest he’d been as he played the game. “Fine. We can talk. But later.”

  “Are you always this difficult?”

  “At least eighty percent of the time.”

  He shook his head, but couldn’t entirely suppress a smile. “Tomorrow, then.”

  I headed back to my group, who lounged on a side street with drinks and fried dough, getting powdered sugar and cinnamon all over themselves. Jane took Ellie’s leash, struggling to keep the pup from eating her food. “How’d it go?”

  “Where did this come from?” Stella snagged the sad elephant from my arms. “He looks tragic. Like he’s been orphaned or had an enema.”

  “Thanks for the visual,” Evan said.

  Jane grinned. “It’s from Noah, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t make this a thing.”

  “It is one hundred percent a thing.”

  Our group spent the rest of the day indulging in too much food and silly games. At Jane’s family’s cookout, her uncle flipped burgers and charred corn on the grill, and her youngest cousins threw water balloons. After, we headed to the beach for the fireworks, crowding the sands with thousands of other tourists and locals. We danced to the music of a stranger’s boom box. We were young and alive and filled with effervescent joy.

  I snapped a picture of the scene and sent it to my best friends:

  Happy fourth!! Love you all, wish you were here Miss you all!!

  The responses flooded in immediately:

  Haley:

  Happy fourth!!! Love you guys!!!

  Niko:

  I love you guys but would like my dislike of rampant patriotism to be noted

  Brooke:

  Noted

  And omg fun!! Can’t believe I’m missing the 4th. Miss you guys!!

  My cheeks hurt with the strength of my grin. Nothing could dim my love for these girls, no matter how far apart we were.

  Slipping my phone back into my purse, I turned to Jane and the others. We ran into the surf as fireworks burst above us, golden sparks sizzling against the black night, giant red globes stretching out in long, arching strands. I breathed in salt and summer and threw back my head and laughed.

  That night, when I went to bed, I slept deeply, and dreamed of floating.

  Seven

  The next day, I waited for Noah at Centre Street Bistro. The restaurant occupied the ground floor of a yellow Victorian. A privet hedge protected the patio diners from the hustle and bustle of the busy street, and umbrellas shaded them from the sun. I snagged an outside table at ten a.m. on the dot, looking around hopefully for Noah.

  Twenty minutes later, the waitress swung once more by my table, where I’d almost finished a hot chocolate. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “I’m sure he’ll be here any second.” After the waitress smiled sympathetically and left, I checked my phone again, all too aware no other single parties filled the tables surrounding me. No text, and I didn’t want to text first. He’d asked me to meet. He’d picked the time and place. And now what, he was standing me up? Was this the Nantucket equivalent to asking a girl to prom and ghosting?

  Whatever. People ran late and forgot to text. I’d wait ten more minutes.

  I stilled my vibrating foot. Noah’s surprisingly good-natured attitude regarding the sad elephant (now safely tucked in bed alongside my stuffed horse) made me hope he wasn’t still on the help-or-hinder, I-rule-this-island kick. This conversation would be fine. Besides, he couldn’t actually keep me from doing anything. He was a teenage boy; he didn’t have any power.

  Rig
ht?

  He’d said he wanted to talk about a truce. What did a truce mean?

  At 10:26, he breezed in. He wore a fitted oxford shirt, his curls carefully styled (at least, I hoped he’d styled them; if he woke up with them so perfectly done I’d be forced to shave his head out of sheer envy and possibly keep his locks. Note to self: that thought got bizarre fast, best never to share it with anyone).

  He dropped into the chair across from me. “Hi.”

  “You made it.”

  “Ah, the passive-aggressive equivalent of ‘You’re late.’”

  I crossed my arms. “All right. You’re late.”

  “Had to help an old lady cross the street.”

  “Liar. What was this, some weird power play?”

  He raised his brows. “Work went long.”

  “You work?” I sounded more surprised than I meant to.

  “What, you think I lounge around all day?”

  “Kind of. Also, it’s very early for work to be finished. Unless you’re a fisherman.”

  “I help out my dad. He wanted me to finish pulling a report for him.”

  “Oh.” I liked the idea of helping out the family business. “That’s sweet.”

  “Is it, though?” His voice had an edge.

  The waitress appeared, beaming at Noah. She apparently shared my relief in not being stood up. “What’ll you have?”

  Noah ordered a breakfast burrito and a coffee, and I ordered buttermilk pancakes with berries. Once the waitress walked away, Noah took a swig of my hot chocolate and pulled a face. “Not coffee.”

  “I’d be sympathetic except you literally stole my drink.”

  He did not look repentant. “Okay, Abigail Schoenberg. What’s your deal?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know anything about you.”

  “I don’t know anything about you, either.”

  “Except you do, don’t you? You showed up on Nantucket, in my house, prying into my grandparents’ lives.”

  “That’s your grandparents, not you. And this is very aggressive for a truce.”

  The edge came back to his smile. “Think of it as pre-truce. Who are you?”

  I shifted in my seat, awkward and uneasy. I’d expected to talk about the letters and our grandparents, not me. “No one.”

  The chipper waitress appeared and set a steaming mug in front of Noah. “Here’s your coffee!”

  He thanked her, then turned to me as she departed. “Try again.”

  “I’m serious. There’s not much to say.”

  “So you think it’s normal for people to spend the summer on a remote island in order to find out more about their family’s past? And to escape your ex.”

  “He doesn’t have anything to do with it,” I shot back, and, surprised, realized I hadn’t thought about Matt at all in the last week. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  He tilted his chair to balance on two legs and slung his arm over the back, regarding me steadily. “I’m pretty sure we’re each other’s business now.”

  I could feel my cheeks turning red, with anger or something else. “What do you want me to say? I’m not getting anything else out of this except family history.” I tried to sound glib, one of my favorite forms of defensiveness. “Unless, if I’m lucky, a really good college app essay.”

  His chair’s front legs landed solidly on the ground and he stared at me, appalled. “You’re prying into my family for a college essay?”

  “No! God! I’m just saying I’m not going to get anything else out of this.”

  “Your essay doesn’t even really matter. It’s your grades and your well-roundedness.”

  That stung, mostly since I was afraid he was right. While my grades were fine, they were nothing to write home about, and did joining minimal-effort clubs count as being well-rounded? It seemed unlikely. I needed a perfect essay to convince colleges to give me a scholarship.

  So I stung right back. “Oh? And here I thought it was how much money your family had donated.”

  He straightened. “I didn’t get into college because of my family.”

  “I didn’t say you did.” I shrugged, overly nonchalant. “Though I did read an article about how several prominent schools often accept donors’ children.”

  “My family donates to schools they attended. Alumni donations.”

  “Right.” I widened my eyes innocently. “And I take it you’re not going to any of those schools?”

  “You’re a real . . .” He pressed his lips together, then shook his head.

  Bitch? Pill? Piece of work? Probably. I sighed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to jump down your throat. You stress me out.”

  “I stress you out?”

  “Yes! I didn’t think there’d be so much—antagonism—with me looking into O’ma’s past. And I didn’t mean to be rude about the college thing—I’m, I don’t know, stressed about school, too, and getting in, and having money. You’re right. Maybe my essay won’t even matter.” I offered an awkward, apologetic smile.

  He didn’t look at me.

  Welp. So much for our truce. I looked down.

  “I’m going to Harvard,” he said after a stretched pause. I peered up from my drink to see him looking steadfastly away from me, two dark swathes of color high on his cheeks. “My family does donate.”

  Ah. I’d pressed a hot button.

  “But I had really good grades.” He finally looked at me again. “I was valedictorian.”

  Of course he was.

  “You’re starting in the fall?” I said, as an olive branch. “What are you studying?”

  “Econ.”

  “Cool. Do you want to go into . . . the economy?”

  Wow, brilliant. I should get a Pulitzer in small talk.

  His mouth twitched. “The plan is econ for undergrad, then business school.”

  Literally all I knew about business school came from my older cousin Sarah, in the form of her disdain for the business school bros she met via Tinder. “So you want to run a business?”

  “It’s kind of the deal.”

  It took a minute to click. “Oh. You mean—your family’s company?”

  He nodded shortly.

  “Huh.” I tried to process this. My life plan had no more details than 1) get into college, 2) graduate from college, 3) get a job, 4) support parents in their old age (and my brother, if necessary). “You want to work at Barbanel?”

  “‘Want’ doesn’t come into it. I have to.”

  “I mean, you don’t have to have to.”

  He did not look amused.

  I slowly put the pieces together. Edward Barbanel, chairman of the board, inherited Barbanel from his father, and grew it into the empire it was today. Harry Barbanel, Noah’s father, was currently CEO. I blinked. “They don’t expect you to . . .”

  He raised his brows.

  I laughed a little nervously. “I mean, you don’t have to take over a giant firm if you don’t want to.”

  “Someone does.”

  “Don’t you have any cousins? Or siblings?”

  “No siblings.” He tossed back the rest of his coffee. “Shira’s the closest in age to me, so she’s kind of like a little sister. She wants to study sea turtles.”

  “Sea turtles.”

  “In Ecuador. They’re endangered.”

  I digested the sea turtle news for a moment. Poor sea turtles. “Okay, well, what about your other cousins?”

  “None seem interested.”

  “You don’t seem interested. Why’s it fall on you? Are you, like, the oldest son’s oldest son or something?”

  Embarrassment flickered across his face.

  Oh my god. “That’s ridiculous. And incredibly unfair. I mean, to you, yes, but also, what about everyone else?�
�

  He looked away, then back, and spoke firmly. “So. What do you want to study?”

  Fair, I’d been being pushy. “I want to be a historian, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Would it help anyone? Or are historians just modern-day Cassandras, doomed to cry warnings and be ignored?”

  He looked surprised. “Do you think so?”

  “Well, I think historians are important, but I also feel like they keep saying, ‘Hey, this is how dictatorships start,’ and everyone’s like, ‘Cool, got it, let’s ignore you.’ So does being a historian help? What helps?” I gestured at him. “I mean, besides being wealthy and directing your wealth in useful ways.”

  “Here you go.” The waitress reappeared at our table, cheerful and sunny. “Breakfast burrito and pancakes.”

  “Thank you,” we chorused.

  She beamed at us. “Anything else?”

  We shook our heads. I took a bite of my pancakes, finding it surprisingly deep in flavor, and deliciously soaked in butter. “Wow, these are excellent.”

  Noah cut his burrito methodically in half. “What counts as useful ways?”

  “What? Oh, for money. You know, donating it toward useful causes and stuff.”

  “Like?”

  I shrugged, swirling two square bites of pancake through the maple syrup on my plate. “Well, what are you passionate about?”

  His gaze flicked up to mine. He smiled slightly. “I know what I consider useful causes. I wanted your take.”

  “Oh.” Hot embarrassment flushed through me and I focused in on my food for a moment. Why had I assumed he wanted an explanation about how to make an impact?

  He took pity. “I like the Nantucket Conservation Foundation.”

  “Oh?” If I kept asking questions, maybe my embarrassment would drain away. “Why?”

  He shrugged. “My mom works in ecological conversation and my grandma gardens, so I guess I’ve always been tuned into the environment. And—well, my life has a huge carbon footprint, and my family uses up lots of resources, and I think it’s important to offset it if you can.”

  I stared at him with surprise. “That’s nice.”

  He looked embarrassed, turning to stare distractedly across the patio. When he turned back, his expression had shuttered. He leaned forward, a cryptographer faced with a code he couldn’t quite crack. “What’s it going to take to get you to leave this letter thing alone?”