I blinked. “Oh, I’m not going to leave it alone.”
“Why not?”
“Why would I? How can you ask me to let my family history slip away?”
“I’m sure there’s other ways you can find things out. Other people you can ask.”
“You’re so sure about that?” I tilted my head. “It’s not like the Nazis left so many alive to tell their stories.”
He paused, then blew out a breath. “You’re kidding.”
I smiled. Checkmate. “I’m really not.”
“That’s not playing fair.”
“I know.” You couldn’t really turn away people trying to learn about their survivor grandparents. Sort of a faux pas. I took a bite of my pancakes.
He frowned at me. “Why don’t you know anything about her?”
“Oh. She came here when she was super young, so she didn’t remember much. We don’t know where she’s from originally—somewhere in Germany—or if there’s any living family left over there. And even what she did remember, she didn’t like to talk about. Mom says a lot of survivors don’t like to talk.”
“She’s a Holocaust survivor?”
“Yeah. Well, to be honest, she didn’t identify as a survivor, because she didn’t live through the war in Europe. She came over here when she was four, right before the war started.”
He dropped his fork to his plate. “She came over before the war. From Germany.”
“Yeah.”
“With her family?”
His intensity almost alarmed me. “No—they stayed, her parents. She was placed with a Jewish family in New York until she was eighteen.”
He stared at me.
“What?”
There was a strange sort of silence when people hadn’t quite finished saying what they wanted to, a silence where you had to gauge whether to urge or lie in wait. I lay down my fork and watched at Noah. Waiting.
“My family’s from New York.” His eyes stayed steady on mine. “They took in a German girl. During the war.”
Pure satisfaction rocked through me, akin to the pleasure of trying one puzzle piece after another and finally having the right one snap in. They took in a German girl during the war. Of course they did. Of course O’ma had come to Nantucket because the family she’d lived with vacationed here, and she’d fallen in love with the son of the house. Why else would her picture be in a photo album? “That’s it, then.”
He shook his head. “It’s too coincidental.”
“It’s not. It’s why I’m here. She grew up with your family. It’s why her photo was in one of your family’s scrapbooks.”
“What? Why didn’t you mention that?”
“I forgot!”
He pinched his nose. “If she moved in with them when she was a little kid, they would have been like siblings.”
“I hate to disappoint you, but they weren’t.”
He leaned forward, as though the sheer force of his personality could make me renege. “They grew up together. Siblings write letters.”
“Not like these letters. Not outside of Westeros.”
“Are you sure?”
“So very, very sure.”
“You might have misread them.”
“Dude. I didn’t. Want to read them yourself?”
“Yes. No. Maybe.”
He could sort out his feelings on his own time. “Let’s ask your grandfather, then.”
“Right. We could. But—” He shoved his fingers through his curls. “We can’t.”
“Really?”
He rubbed his forehead. “Look. My family worked hard to get where they are—”
“If this is a lecture about the American dream or pulling yourself up by your bootstraps—”
“It’s about anti-Semitism.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. People were happy to hire Barbanels, but they didn’t want to socialize with us. We weren’t Christian enough, we weren’t white enough, we weren’t enough. My family went through a lot to fit in on this island. If my grandpa had an affair when he was engaged to my grandmother? People don’t need to know.” He dropped his head in his hands. “And for it to be some weird pseudo-incestuous relationship . . .”
“Hey.” I was bizarrely affronted on my O’ma’s behalf. “It wasn’t incestuous. And maybe they never felt like siblings! I mean, obviously they didn’t if they fell in love, and maybe no one else thought of them sibling-like, either. And—I get struggling in the forties and fifties to be accepted, but I don’t think anyone’s going to care today.”
“Yeah, well, you can leave the island afterwards, so it doesn’t matter to you, does it? People like scandals here.”
“But it’s not even a very good scandal!”
“I think my grandma would disagree.”
I digested his statement. “So this is the reason you don’t want me talking to your grandparents? Because you think your grandmother would be mad? About—what, about Edward having an affair, or if other people found out about it?”
He ignored my question, which seemed to be his MO. “We can find things out without involving my grandparents. You’re here all summer, aren’t you? I’ll help you. My help might be even better than talking to my grandparents. You said your grandmother clammed up about the past? Yeah. My grandparents aren’t exactly oversharers, either.”
Not a bad point. I’d been thinking of the boy who wrote It has been too long since I last saw you—but I should remember he’d also written You’re being ridiculous.
“I can give you a tour of the house. I can get you access to the scrapbooks.” He leaned closer, pinning me with his gaze. “You want my help, Abigail.”
He wasn’t wrong. What if his grandparents were like mine, and refused to talk about the past? At least this way I could look for more photos of my grandmother, and see the gardens at Golden Doors. If you miss the rose garden so much, come back, E had written. They’re blooming like crazy this year, and my mother planted a new kind, and you know she loves to show them to you. You know how much I love to see you in the garden, too . . .
I cleared my throat. “But if I asked your grandfather . . .”
“Give me a month. One month. Then you can talk to him, if there’s anything left to ask. And you get my help in the meantime. I can open doors for you.”
“Golden doors?”
“Is that a yes?”
“I suppose.”
“Good.” He smiled, and it was like the sun. He speared a piece of my pancakes with his fork. “You’re right. This is excellent.”
Eight
Over the next few days, an oppressive heat swept the island. Jane and I slept with our window wide open and a fan swiveling between us, damp towels pressed to our faces. We spent as much time as possible on the beach, where we could peel off the sticky fabric of our clothes and lie exposed to the elements, wholeheartedly putting our faith in sunscreen to ward off cancer and burns. When it became too unbearably hot, I’d fling myself into the water, stripping away the sweat and dirt and heat. I kicked and floated and splashed, and when I tired myself out I’d return to my towel, only to begin the cycle all over again.
During work hours, the bookstore’s AC was a blessing: cool, breathable air I would down in gulps after coming in from the muggy outdoors. The walk from Mrs. Henderson’s only took fifteen minutes, but by the time I arrived at work, sweat always pasted my clothes to my back. Customers came in to escape the humidity, saying over and over, “You must be so glad to be in air-conditioning!”
The Thursday after the Fourth, Jane and I had both gotten home from our respective shifts when her phone pinged. She turned it toward me so I could read the text from Lexi: We’re going skinny-dipping—you in? We can pick you up whenever.
When I looked back up at Jane, she made an exaggerated face. “Are we doing this?”
I’d never been skinny-dipping. But you know what? Summer of chutzpah. “Hell yeah we are.”
Lexi and Stella swung by to get us, and we drove out to a pond surrounded by trees and darkness. It was as though some cross-island memo had gone out to all the teens, telling everyone to meet here. Crowds gathered on the shores, laughing and drinking in the moonlight. We clamored down to the water’s edge, where gentle waves lapped at the brief beach.
“Let’s do shots first,” Stella said.
“With what shot glasses?” Lexi said.
“Don’t be so literal.” Stella told her girlfriend, pulling a bottle of amber liquid from her brightly embroidered tote. Lexi groaned and Jane laughed.
“What is it?” I asked, wanting in on the joke.
“It’s Fireball—it’s cinnamon flavored,” Jane said.
“Architect of many hot-mess nights,” Lexi added.
“Don’t be haters,” Stella said. “I love it, it’s delicious.” She raised the bottle to her lips and took a swig, then handed it to me.
I took a more cautious sip, and still coughed as the liquor burned down my esophagus. It did taste like cinnamon, sweet and rather sickly. But I liked it significantly more than beer.
After a few more rounds, we looked at each other. “Ready?” Stella said. “We’re doing this?”
We nodded, privates in an army, before bursting into giggles. “Go, go, go!” Lexi shouted, and we shucked off our clothes, shirts and bras everywhere, and ran screaming into the water. We windmilled our arms and laughed wildly as we fell into the cold, bracing lake.
“It’s freezing!” Jane screamed.
I’d never been naked outside before, and I felt daring and exhilarated, sexy and childlike at once, utterly free. It was too dark to see anyone but my friends, and they were friends who only knew me as someone who would sneak into millionaires’ homes and go skinny-dipping and drink shots (kind of). I loved it. I floated on my back, exposed to the wilderness. Above me, the waning moon shone, bright as a streetlamp.
“I feel like we should be casting spells,” Stella said, her voice muffled by the water filling my ears.
“What kind of spells?” Lexi asked.
“Health, wealth, happiness.”
“Acceptance to the colleges of our choice,” Jane added.
“World dominance,” Lexi said. “We can’t be worse than the current leaders.”
“Also, I look great in black.” Stella again. “We’d make excellent witches.”
“The moon is bright tonight,” I murmured, and lowered my legs to the lake floor. “I’d cast a divining spell to find out where my grandmother’s lost necklace is.”
“Don’t look now,” Jane said. “But Noah Barbanel is here.”
“What?” I whipped my head around and scanned the shore. Sure enough, he stood on the shore in a large group, which looked peak preppy in their pastels and polos.
“I said don’t look!”
“I’m screwed.”
“Honestly, he’d at least be worth making out with, don’t you think?” Stella said.
No way was I climbing naked out of the lake in front of Noah Barbanel. Not in a million years. “I live in this lake now.”
Jane smirked at me. “Do one thing every day that scares you.”
“Thanks, Eleanor,” I snipped.
I looked at Noah again, and almost screamed when he turned right toward me. I could tell the instant he recognized me, because he stilled, then leaned forward, then stilled again—then raised his beer in a silent toast.
“Okay, here’s the plan,” I told the others. “I’m going to swim across the lake. You’ll meet me on the other side with a change of clothes.”
Jane glanced toward the far edge of the water, hazy in the darkness. “You’re such a freak. No.”
“You could go out and toss me a towel?”
“Also no. Don’t show any weakness. You have to own it.”
“Own what, precisely? Being cold and naked and wet in front of Noah Barbanel?”
Stella started giggling.
“I hate you,” I said, splashing water in her face. Her makeup had miraculously stayed on. “This is weird, right? A bunch of boys standing clothed on the bank while we’re naked in the water?”
“I mean, there’s also a lot of naked boys in the lake and clothed girls on the beach,” Jane said.
“Right. Fair. What do I do?”
I didn’t get a chance to strategize, because I heard my name from the shore, carried in a low, amused tone. “Hey, Schoenberg,” Noah called. “How’s the water?”
Okay. We were doing this. I swiveled toward the shore, keeping my chin and everything below it safely submerged. “Great,” I hollered back. “Coming in?”
“Nah.” He shrugged, barely able to swallow a smirk. “I think I’ll stay here. Enjoy the view.”
My friends snickered and started dog-paddling away.
“You’re on my side,” I hissed after them, then raised my voice for Noah. “Coward.”
“Really? What about you? Plan to stay there long?”
“Maybe.”
He waded in, pulling his shirt off.
“What are you doing?” I squealed.
He balled it up. “Catch.”
To my utter surprise, I did. Noah turned around and strolled back to his friends.
I watched him go, holding his shirt above the water. What was his deal? He could have left me to fend for myself. He could have made me more uncomfortable, or ignored me.
Was he trying to preserve my theoretical modesty? (Which, to be honest, I was glad for, because I was one hundred percent not up for owning it per Jane’s suggestion.) I turned my back on the beach and shimmied into the shirt. When I’d made sure Noah had rejoined his friends and wasn’t looking, I darted to shore and tugged on my bikini bottom, then did some careful maneuvering to get my bikini top on beneath his shirt.
I should have pulled off his shirt and pulled my own on then. I should have. But summer nights were not made for should-haves.
Instead, I looked up and found Noah again, and not a minute later, he glanced my way (did this mean he’d been periodically glancing as I awkwardly got dressed? Hopefully not!). A moment later, he strode over. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing.” I heard the smile in his voice. “I thought you’d be busy Nancy Drew–ing all summer. Isn’t this a waste of time?”
“Rumor has it you’re only young once.” I tugged at the shirt and glanced over at the crowd of people he’d emerged from. “Those are your friends?”
“Yeah.” I must have made some kind of face, because his eyes narrowed. “What?”
“Nothing. They look”—homogeneous and one-percent—“nice.”
“You have a terrible poker face.”
I knew I should keep my mouth shut, but I wanted to prod him, make him as uncomfortable as he made me. “The whole Nantucket vibe is a bit preppier than I usually go for.”
“Because you didn’t expect Nantucket to be WASPy,” he said dryly, and I couldn’t hold back a smile. “You’re kind of judgy.”
“Isn’t everyone?”
“I try not to judge anyone until I know them,” he said mildly.
Good lord. “Well, I guess you’re just a better person than I am.”
He grinned at me. “And I’ll have you know preppiness is actually very Jewish.”
“Sounds fake.”
“Ralph Lauren went to a yeshiva.”
“He did not.”
“His parents wanted him to be a rabbi. His name was actually Lifshitz.”
I laughed. “You’re making this up.”
“You can google it.”
“I will.” I looked over at his friends again, with thei
r skins tanned and their hair lightened. “So you’re saying you’re preppy because you’re Jewish, not because you’re trying to fit in with the Nantucket elite?”
He gave a wry smile. “I mean, yeah, it’s easier to be preppy on Nantucket.”
“Easier? How?”
“You know. More comfortable.”
I considered him, tilting my head. We were in our own little bubble, with the moon shining down on us, the lake water leaving me feeling silky and new. “Like you actively dress preppy so you’ll fit in?”
He, too, looked over at his friends, then back at me. “Yeah, a little. Not in a bad way—it doesn’t stress me out or anything. But—sure, in the past few years, I’ve noticed it’s different here than at home, and it’s easier to not stand out. Which sounds dumb out loud.”
“I mean, it sounds real.” I paused. “Stand out how?”
“Oh, you know,” he said with a slight smile. “In New York, I don’t have to think about being Jewish at all. No one blinks if you mention Solomon Schechter or Simchat Torah or the JCC. I don’t have to represent Judaism, or even particularly be Jewish if I don’t want to be, because other people are, and I can be nonreligious and have critical debates. Here—sometimes I feel like I have to think about it more, make sure I’m not doing anything that’ll add to a negative stereotype.” He looked at me. “Do you know what I mean?”
In my town, the Jewish community was so small I didn’t feel like I had a match for either of Noah’s experiences—I’d never felt surrounded by Jewish communities or references, but I’d also never really felt like I had to represent Judaism. Being Jewish was something my family did in private. But maybe that also made it easy, since I never felt like I had to represent anything? “A little. It sounds stifling.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I never used to think about this as a kid—I was just so happy to be here, to escape the city and go swimming and sailing. But now—” He shrugged. “My family also cares so much about appearances. I don’t want to do anything to stress them out.”
The Summer of Lost Letters Page 8