The Summer of Lost Letters

by Hannah Reynolds

  Excruciating embarrassment came for me in the morning.

  I opened my eyes to a dark room, the sky outside gray and low. Without the bright sun, I’d woken later than usual—and of course, I’d stayed up later than usual, too. Good lord. What had I done last night? I’d basically begged Noah Barbanel to kiss me. Noah. Rich, hot, popular Noah Barbanel.

  Worse, he hadn’t even been interested.

  I squeezed my eyes shut as though I could block out last night. Why was I such a disaster?

  Should I text Noah? Say something about my hot-mess state?

  No. Better not.

  I pulled up my covers and tried to read a few pages of Moby-Dick, which I’d picked up in an attempt to really get the historic vibe of Nantucket. I liked it well enough, save a casual dig about the ability “to detect a Jew in the company, by the nose,” which, like, leave me alone, Herman Melville. But after a while I peeled myself out of bed and into a hot shower. More than books, I needed to debrief the night. And to eat a breakfast sandwich.

  Fog lay across the town as I walked to Jane’s family’s bakery, pulling a hazy curtain over the cobblestone streets. I’d never been in a jungle, but I imagined this might give me a taste of the tropics. The humidity was so oppressive it was difficult to breathe, and I couldn’t tell if sweat or condensation coated my skin. Beads of water gathered on clusters of hyacinth petals, and all the grass and leaves seemed overgrown and green and lush. Everything was heavy with moisture; even my limbs weighed down as though the water within them longed to return to the earth.

  Jane’s bakery, clean and cozy, was a welcome relief. She waved me behind the counter and handed me a tub of cookie dough. “Place those on sheets two inches apart from each other, stick ’em in the oven, let the previous batch cool for ten minutes before plating them.”

  “Can I eat one?”

  “No. You can eat these broken scraps, though.”

  “Yum.” I popped one in my mouth and it melted on my tongue. “Mm, delicious. I heard you wake up at, like, six. How much sleep did you get?”

  “Three hours.”

  “Kill me.”

  “I’m gonna crash after this. What about you, how was the walk home with Barbanel?”

  “Literally just a walk.”

  “Seriously? Not even a kiss goodnight?”

  “He said I was drunk.”

  “Well, you were. Maybe he was afraid you’d be sloppy.”

  “Thanks. No, he’s not interested. I mean, he’d be way too complicated. He was totally right not to do anything. One hundred percent.”

  “Wow, you’ve definitely convinced me.”

  “Ugh. What about you?”

  “Well, I went back to make out with the guy you saw, and he was already hooking up with another girl.”

  I dropped my head into my hands. “I hate boys.”

  “Mood.”

  The cookies had just come out of the oven when a guy our age approached the counter. “Hey, Jane.”

  “Oh, hey, Mason.” She pushed off from the counter she’d been leaning against. “The usual?”

  I aspired to have someone, someday, ask if I wanted “the usual.”

  “Yes, please.” As she rung up his order, he watched her with a nervously determined gaze. He cleared his throat. “Did you see Stoned Lake is playing at the Chicken Box on Friday?”

  “Really?” Jane handed his card back. “Cool.”

  “Yeah. You should come.”

  “Sweet, thanks for the tip.”

  “No prob.” He hovered for a second more, then smiled and left.

  I waited until the door clicked closed behind him. “Explain.”

  “What?” Jane looked up from refilling the soup. “Oh, Mason. He’s one of the locals.”

  “He’s cute.”

  “Go for it.”

  “No, I mean for you!”

  “For me?” Her whole body jerked. “What?”

  “He obviously likes you. He asked you out.”

  “He did not.”

  “Pretty sure he gave you a time and a place to meet.”

  “He knows we both like the band. He was being nice.”

  “I don’t think people smile so hard when they’re being ‘nice.’ We should go.”

  Her eyes narrowed. Dangerously. Enough to make me suspicious. “What are you thinking?”

  “Just . . . wondering if we should invite the group.”

  “No. Definitely not. You’re not inviting Pranav and then flirting with Mason to make him jealous.”

  “What, who, me? God, Abby. So suspicious.”

  “Mason seems really nice, you should give him a chance.”

  “You literally don’t know anything about him.”

  “Um. True. But he likes the same music as you! Clearly the mark of a brilliant mind.”

  “You’re trying too hard.”

  “It’s one of my many failings.”

  “Okay.” She heaved a huge sigh, as though doing me a favor. “We’ll go.”

  When the bakery got too busy, I headed out. The sky had splintered, letting out a loose, slow drizzle. I still had a few hours left before my shift at the Prose Garden, so I headed to Nantucket’s town hall.

  Twice in the letters, E had mentioned a woman named Nancy: I ran into Nancy on Main Street today and when you and Nancy snuck into Tom’s house. So I got a hold of several phone books from throughout the years and started calling.

  In general, I hated calling people, though it was, according to my mother, a Necessary Life Skill (Mom called our senators and representatives on a rolling basis to tell them how to do their job better. I’d only escaped having to do this myself because I couldn’t vote yet, but I was fairly certain Mom planned to present me with a packet of phone numbers and scripts on my eighteenth birthday, like a political fairy tale).

  So it was good practice, calling up Nancy after Nancy and asking if they’d known a woman named Ruth Goldman in the 1950s. I called them before work, during my work break, and after work, sitting on the sofa in Mrs. Henderson’s living room with Ellie Mae curled beside me. Outside, the skies had opened completely and a downpour drenched the world. I hung up the phone and dialed again. Each subsequent call became easier, especially since they all went the same way, with each Nancy politely letting me down.

  Until one didn’t.

  “I did know Ruth,” Nancy Howard told me. “When we were children.”

  I sat up straighter on the couch, my hand stilling on Ellie Mae’s head. She swiveled her snout toward me, confused that the pets had stopped. “Really?”

  “For years. You say you’re her granddaughter?”

  “Yeah. I’m trying to find out more about her life on Nantucket . . .”

  When we hung up, I was practically shaking. My first real success. Well, other than the whole Barbanel situation.

  And speaking of . . .

  Noah had told me to keep him informed about what I planned to do next in my search for O’ma’s history, but how much had he meant it? Did he want me texting him? But. What did I care what Noah Barbanel thought of me? “Get yourself together, Abigail,” I muttered, and shot off a message.

  Found a woman who used to know my grandma—going to see her tomorrow if you’re interested

  I’m in, when?

  I told her I’d see her at 4 if that works?

  Yeah sounds good

  Can we take your car? She’s in Madaket

  Using me for free rides, Schoenberg?

  Pretty much

  I’ll pick you up at 3:45

  Thanks!

  I’d expected Noah to text when he arrived, but instead, the doorbell rang at quarter of four the next day. I looked up from my seat at the kitchen island as Ellie Mae darted to the door, tail wagging. Mrs. Henderson opened
it.

  “Hi, Mrs. Henderson.” Noah smiled at her, then bent to ruffle Ellie Mae’s ears. She barked, delighted. “How are you?”

  “Noah, how lovely to see you. How are your parents?”

  “They’re great. Dad’s managing to be here most weekends.”

  “How nice. I ran into your grandmother at Bartlett’s a few weeks ago, and she says you’re going to Harvard.”

  “I am, yes.”

  “You must be excited.”

  He smiled politely and murmured something noncommittal, letting go of Ellie Mae, who promptly decided to run herself in circles until she collapsed in a puddle of exhaustion.

  We said goodbye to Mrs. Henderson and ducked out the door. I slid him a look as we walked down the porch steps. “Everyone seems to like you.”

  “I’m very likable.”

  “Really?”

  “Don’t you like me?”

  I looked straight ahead, gathering my hair on the top of my head and knotting it into a messy bun. Was he mocking me? Baiting me? “You’re all right.”

  We climbed into his car, one of the off-roaders popular on the island. The windows were already rolled down, and we cranked up the music as we set off across the island. The rain last night had broken the relentless heat, and the temperature was a perfect midseventies, the sky blue and cloudless. I turned my face out the window to avoid revealing my deadly embarrassment. “Sorry if I was weird the other night. About the whole . . .” I waved a hand.

  “The what?” I could hear a hint of a smile in his voice.

  He was going to make me say it? “Never mind.” I hung my arm out the window. “Is this how you expected to spend your summer? Carting a random girl around the island?”

  He glanced at me briefly, before redirecting his attention to the road. “I don’t hate it.”

  “But you must have had plans. You know. To uproot spotted knapweed, and all.”

  “Mostly I just wanted to be outside.” He was silent for a moment. “Nantucket’s my time to be free. To visit the marshes. To be out on the water. I like being the only person you can see in any direction.”

  I was silent a minute, too. “Not very like New York.”

  “It’s why I like coming here so much.”

  “If you love nature so much, isn’t it a bad idea to go to college in a city?”

  “Boston’s small. And you can go rowing early in the morning, or get out of the city pretty quick. But yeah.” He paused. “Sometimes I feel like I need to soak up all the nature here, when I can. Like it’s a recharge. I get three months, and then it’s back to real life.”

  “It sounds relaxing,” I agreed. “Except for the whole stressing yourself out to make sure your family doesn’t get stressed.”

  “Someone has to do it.”

  I glanced over at him, at this boy who acted like he was some knight sworn to protect his liege lord. The old nursery rhyme ran through my head. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men . . . “And you think you can?”

  His fingers tightened on the wheel, though he kept his voice light. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  * * *

  Madaket tipped the western edge of the island, past fields and bright yellow flowers and bushy trees. Nancy’s cottage lay outside the village proper, tucked high up and covered in roses. Noah parked and we walked under an arbor to knock on the gray slate door.

  A woman who looked to be in her sixties opened it. “You must be Abigail. I’m Laurie, come in. My mother’s out back.” She led us through the small and neat house. “It’s so nice you came. Mom misses young people. She’s been talking about this ever since you called.”

  “Oh.” Great. Now I felt added pressure.

  A woman in a wheelchair beamed up at us when we stepped onto the porch overlooking long, rolling fields. Despite the day’s perfect warmth, she wore a sweater and long pants. “So you’re Ruth’s granddaughter.”

  “Yes. Thanks so much for seeing me. This is Noah.”

  “Of course.” She smiled at him. “Noah Barbanel.”

  He jerked his head up. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I know your grandparents.”

  Noah and I exchanged a quick look. But of course she did; Edward had written of her in the letters. And everyone on Nantucket seemed to know the Barbanels.

  “Come, sit down. Would you like some lemonade?”

  We took our seats in wicker chairs around a table with a pitcher and a plate of shortbread cookies. Mrs. Howard poured us tall glasses of lemonade, and the loose floating pulp made me think she’d made it herself. “I was so sorry to hear about Ruth’s passing.”

  Another surprise. “Um. Thank you.”

  She nodded. “We hadn’t seen each other in years, but we still wrote occasionally. Your grandmother wrote wonderful letters.”

  Apparently. “Had you known her a long time?”

  “Since we were little girls.” She smiled fondly. “My mother was the housekeeper at Golden Doors, and Ruth and I used to play together. We had quite the imaginations. Ruth said she knew the house was hers as soon as she heard its name.”

  Only it hadn’t really been hers, had it? “What was she like as a kid?” I asked. “My mom and I don’t know too much about her past. She never mentioned Nantucket.”

  Nancy smiled. “Most people would have called her quiet, but most people didn’t know her, not like I did. She had a will of iron, Ruth. And there was a brightness about her, when we got older—when she talked, people listened. She didn’t mince words. People wanted to hear what she had to say. And she was very pretty, of course, which helped.”

  “She was?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Do you think . . .” I hesitated over the question, something I never would have dared asked O’ma directly. “She was happy?”

  “Oh, well, what’s happiness?” Nancy said, which wasn’t the kind of response I’d expected. She smiled wryly. “It wasn’t such a bad childhood. She and Eva were very close.”

  “Eva?” I echoed, confused.

  “Mrs. Barbanel. Your great-grandmother,” she added, with a nod to Noah.

  Mrs. Barbanel. The woman who’d taken in my grandmother—who’d raised her. “How were they close?”

  Nancy considered. “Mrs. Barbanel didn’t have any daughters, so I think she bonded with Ruth differently than she had with her sons. They had a special connection. She didn’t dote—she wasn’t given to large displays of emotion—but I remember Ruth telling me they learned to bake together. Eva went out of her way to learn how to make German pastries, kuchens and gugelhopf, so she could teach Ruth. So Ruth would feel connected, and know something, about where she’d been born.”

  O’ma had taught me to make apple kuchen and gugelhopf. Crystalline memories of forming dough for the pie crusts flashed through my mind, of O’ma urging me to really learn how the dough should feel. Of O’ma showing me how to place dollops of chocolate batter on top of the vanilla batter in the gugelhopf pan, and using fork tines to swirl it in. I’d never questioned how she’d learned to make them. “That was good of her.”

  “Eva was a good woman. Tough, but good. I think she wanted to keep the memory of Ruth’s parents alive—even if Ruth didn’t have much of a memory of them.”

  Poor O’ma. Poor Eva. Poor everyone. “Did my grandmother tell you about her parents? I know their names, but nothing else, and I can’t find anything online.”

  “Only once.” Nancy met my gaze. Her eyes were a pale, filmy blue, gauzed over by time. “She wrote me, to say her parents had died. She’d suspected, I think. But she held out hope until some organization wrote to her, after the war.”

  I nodded, throat tight. “And she didn’t mention other family, or people in Germany?”

  “I’m sorry. None I remember.”

  I swallowed over an unexpected lump in
my throat. “Can you tell me more about your childhoods? About growing up here?”

  Her daughter let out a soft groan.

  Nancy leaned forward. “Let me tell you about Nantucket, back in the day. The government almost took control of the island. The Navy planned to seize our ships and press them into war!”

  From beside her, Laurie waved a hand parallel to the ground in silent negation. “It was a rumor, Mom,” she said gently. “They weren’t going to take anyone’s ships.”

  Nancy scowled. “How do you know? Were you here?”

  Laurie sighed.

  Nancy ignored her. “The Germans sent one of their submarine packs here in ’42. You’ve heard about them? The wolf packs?”

  “U-boats?” Noah said.

  “Exactly. They went up and down the entire eastern coast, torpedoing and sinking ships, tankers and merchant alike. American, British, Dutch, Norwegian. Over five thousand people died—did you learn that in history class? We had fuel shortages during the war because cargo ships couldn’t get through. The Germans called it Operation Drumbeat, and our government pretended they didn’t exist. The Navy didn’t disclose anything, and the media agreed not to report on it. They pretended the U-boats weren’t here at all, but they were.”

  Good lord. Where was this World War II blockbuster? “When did people find out?”

  She nodded sagely. “A floundering ship ended up on our shoals, and some of our fishing vessels came across lifeboats filled with survivors from U-boat attacks. We knew what was going on.” She leaned forward. “The government sent the navy here, and they built an auxiliary air facility where the airport is. They buried mines on our land in case the Germans took over. We thought the war was coming to our doorsteps.”

  “Wow.”

  “Wasn’t good for tourism, either.” Nancy stirred her lemonade. “The rich families decided to vacation elsewhere. Even the Barbanels, and they’d lived here before the war. But they were Jewish, and worried, I think.”

  I blinked. “Wait, so—were they not here during the war years? I thought my grandmother came here as a little girl.”

  “Maybe she came when they first took her in, in the late thirties, but then they went back to New York until the midforties. We met after; we must have been ten or twelve.”