The Summer of Lost Letters

by Hannah Reynolds

  “Oh.” I supposed if there were U-boats running around the island, you wouldn’t want to chill here if you didn’t have to. “So what was it like then?”

  “Ah.” She smiled, lost in thought. “It was wonderful. We used to run free all over the island. It was wilder then, only thirty-five hundred people during the winter months. A third of what we have today.”

  “And she kept coming here until she was eighteen?”

  “Every summer. We wrote during the year, too.”

  “You don’t have her letters left, do you?”

  She patted my hand. “I’m sorry, dear, I got rid of all my old papers year ago.”

  “Did you know my grandfather, too, then?” Noah asked.

  She looked at him consideringly. “Eventually. He was gone most of the time when we were growing up, off at his private school, then Harvard. But during the later summers, he was around more often.”

  Noah and I exchanged a quick glance. “So our grandparents didn’t really . . . grow up together?”

  “Oh, no.” She laughed. “Not really. They were barely even in the same house except for holidays and several summers.”

  Very interesting. I considered asking about any romantic entanglements, but the force of Noah’s presence warned me against it. Instead, I pulled out my phone, bringing up the photo of O’ma wearing the necklace and turning it so Nancy could see. “Did you ever see her wearing this necklace?”

  She frowned. “It looks vaguely familiar . . .”

  My heart jumped, and I looked at Noah.

  He, on the other hand, frowned. “Did you know my grandmother, too?”

  “Ah. Helen.” Her smile bordered on a smirk. “Did we ever.”

  Noah kept his voice polite—a cool politeness I recognized as plastering over other feelings. “Oh?”

  “We were teenagers the first time she showed up. What a time we had.”

  Something clicked, something that charmed me. Nancy had been my grandmother’s best friend; she’d been on O’ma’s side, the way I would always be on Niko’s side, or on Jane’s. Helen had probably been their nemesis.

  Nancy switched from mischievousness to decorous, from past to the present. “Your grandmother is a real gift to the island, Noah.”

  Nice save. I took a sip of lemonade. “If Edward and my grandmother didn’t really know each other until they were teenagers . . . did they not have . . . a typical sibling relationship?”

  “Oh, no,” Nancy said firmly, switching her pale eyes to me. “They were madly in love.”

  Noah started coughing.

  “It was all very proper,” she assured him. “Over and done with before he married your grandmother.”

  “You knew?” I said. “Did everyone know?”

  She spat out a laugh. “Not likely! No. No, I think only we knew. I hope!”

  “What happened?” I asked. “How did they fall in love?”

  A smile teased her mouth and she looked away, into the rolling fields. “It was a long time ago.”

  I waited. Noah waited. Nancy’s daughter waited, then finally broke the expectant silence. “Seriously, Mom?”

  “A lady likes to keep some things private.” She winked at me. “Though I’m not much of a lady.”

  “Why did they fall out of love?” Noah asked. “Can you tell us?”

  “Oh, they never fell out of love.”

  Noah clasped his hands between his knees as he leaned forward, gaze intent. “They must have. If they loved each other, they would have gotten married.”

  “Sounds like a question for your grandfather.”

  “Something must have happened.” Noah leaned back, frustration clear in every line of his body.

  Nancy set her drink down, unsurprised and unfazed as she took in Noah. “He’s a Barbanel,” she said, clear and precise. “And Barbanels always do what’s best for their family.”

  * * *

  When we finished our lemonade, Noah turned us toward a path he said would lead to the sea. “If you don’t mind,” he said.

  “Of course not.”

  We waited a respectable distance before talking. “This makes more sense, doesn’t it?” I said. “If they mostly only saw each other as teenagers, it’s not so weird they fell in love.”

  Noah took a moment to respond. “She didn’t like my family very much.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “‘Barbanels always do what’s best for their family’?”

  I was silent a few steps. “But you do, Noah. Not to beat a dead horse, but you’re literally majoring in something you don’t want to because it’s best for you family.”

  A flash of surprise crossed his face. “That’s different.”

  “Is it, though?”

  “It’s—” He made a frustrated noise. “I’m doing it because I want to. Because it’s the right thing to do. Nobody’s forcing me. While if Ruth and my grandfather were in love, the right thing to do—the thing they wanted—would have been staying together.”

  “You’re splitting hairs,” I told him. “Or you’re holding yourself to a higher standard than you’re holding other people. If you think Edward should have been able to choose someone he loved, you should also be allowed to choose something you love.”

  He shook his head, but his expression was troubled.

  We reached the beach, one I hadn’t been to before, with less people, more wilderness. The ocean melded with the sky. Our bare feet curved over smooth shells and rocks embedded in the wet, packed sand, our toes and heels leaving faint impressions. Today you could smell the seaweed strongly, pungent and alive and foreign.

  At the water’s edge, Noah stepped into the surf. He waded forward until the rush of water hit his calves, surging and curling around them before continuing on and breaking in a white froth. His chin floated up and his shoulders relaxed down. I followed, slower, the cold of the bracing water pebbling my skin with goosebumps.

  “When I was a kid,” he said when I drew up beside him, “coming to Nantucket was like escaping to some magic wonderland—like Narnia . . . I feel like I can breathe easier here, by the water, than anywhere else.”

  “Like the ocean will drain away all your concerns?”

  He shook his head, his profile unflinching. “No, like there aren’t any concerns. Like nothing else exists.”

  “Sounds a bit alarming.”

  “It’s not. It’s . . . freeing. Like everything is on hold.”

  I looked out at the water, and I could understand what he meant, the meditative nature of the waves, the ceaseless push and pull of the tide, the world of blue. My tension drained away, same as when I entered a bookstore. I glanced at Noah, and saw his face free of lines or tension. “Why do you feel like it’s your job to take care of your grandparents? Why isn’t that your parents’ job?”

  He hesitated. “I guess it’s all of ours. And I’ve always been close to my grandma. I was the first grandkid—me, then my cousin Shira—and our grandmother spent a lot of time with us. We all lived within the same few blocks, and we’d go over to her place when our parents and our grandfather worked. You know how Nancy said my grandfather’s mom, Eva, wasn’t very demonstrative? Well, neither is my grandma. But she’d do things for us. Shira loves skating, so we’d go to Rockefeller Center, even though Grandma despised touristy things, and she took us to Disney on Ice and on day trips out of the city so Shira could skate on ponds.

  “And she’d take me to the botanical gardens, up in the Bronx, and we’d spend whole afternoons with her teaching me to identify trees by their leaves and bark, and watching videos about how dandelions transformed into white puffs. So yeah. I feel like now it’s my turn to make her happy. And making her happy does make me happy.” He started moving again, feet slapping the hard sand as we walked parallel to the ocean.

  “Is that
why you’re so fixed on whether our grandparents were in or out of love?” In the distance, closer to the dunes than the water, a strange collection of driftwood caught my eye. “Not because you hate the idea of your grandfather giving up on love, but because you’re defensive of your grandmother? And you hate the idea of her marrying someone who didn’t love her?”

  “Neither makes sense,” he said stubbornly. We left the hard, packed sand for the hills and valleys of soft grains. “If you love someone, you stay together.”

  We reached the driftwood. Pieces of wood were laid out in a circular maze, and in the center, a wooden enclosure had been built by boards stuck in the stand, forming a wall five or six feet high. Noah headed between the two charred wooden planks standing sentinel at the maze’s beginning.

  I followed. There were no junctures in the maze, just a winding path leading us close to the center, then away, then closer still. “I think it’s time to talk to your grandfather. I don’t think we’re going to get answers any other way.”

  He turned back to me with a startled, almost betrayed expression. “You promised me a month.”

  “Well, I think we’re at a pretty obvious block, don’t you? What else can we find out without talking to him? We don’t have to make a big deal out of it. Noah, please.”

  He gazed at me, wrangling with something internal, then turned away and continued walking. The path only allowed for single file, so his voice drifted back as we walked. “My grandparents’ relationship is . . . strained.”

  Oh. “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t want to screw it up.” He blew out a breath. “He’s always doing things like missing anniversary dinners or birthdays for work. Or last year, when Grandma’s best friend died and she wanted to go over for shiva every day, Grandpa didn’t. It was . . . rough. Shira and I went instead. I worry if my grandmother learns about your grandmother, it’ll be the last straw.”

  “But she must know already, right? I can’t imagine anyone has any secrets after so long.”

  “You’d never heard about Nantucket from your grandmother.”

  Fair point.

  We turned inward again, and this time the path didn’t zigzag or pull back—it led straight to the wooden enclosure in the center of the circle. One edge of the wall overlapped with the other, forming a narrow entrance, and we squeezed inside.

  Soft sand filled the enclosure, and in the center, hundreds of pieces of sea glass filled a hollow—green and white and blue. Lucky stones, black with white bands, rimmed the pit, and other things: dried flowers and half-burned candles and seaweed.

  I knelt down, sand pressing into my knees, and scooped my hand through the sea glass. “Who do you think did this?”

  He sat down next to me. “Who knows.”

  “When I was little, my dad and I would search for lucky stones on the beach. We didn’t stop looking until we found one, every time.”

  Noah also sat and trailed a hand through the stones and glass, picking up a teal piece and turning it over between his forefinger and thumb. “You get along with your parents?”

  “Yeah. I mean, as much as anyone.” Maybe more than most people: my parents were my prime example for how to be a good human. They were so staunch, so committed to each other and to me and Dave. Though thinking they were so ideal made the idea of ever disappointing them awful. “What about you?”

  “My mom is good. My dad . . .” He shook his head and sighed. “He’ll be pissed if I singlehandedly ruin the entire family.”

  “Wait, what?” I twisted to focus on him. “Why do you think you could ruin the entire family?”

  “If I bring all of this up . . . Even if my grandma knows Grandpa cheated, she’ll be furious if anyone else finds out. She cares about their image. All of them do.”

  “But something decades old isn’t going to affect the whole family! And you’re not bringing anything up. I’m the one digging.”

  “I haven’t stopped you, have I?”

  I stared at him. “Your dad can’t get mad at you for what I do.”

  He shrugged, a small, unhappy movement.

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Not really. I know what you’re doing. I could keep you from talking to people. From stirring the pot.”

  “You know you’re not responsible for my actions, right?”

  He shoved his hand through his hair. “We don’t need to get into my weird family dynamics. I just wanted you to know why I don’t want you to talk to my grandpa. It could get messy.”

  “And your dad will”—unreasonably—“get mad at you.”

  He shrugged again.

  “What if . . . we talked to your grandfather but made sure your grandmother didn’t hear anything?” When he frowned, I hurried on. “No chance of scandal. A short talk with him about my grandma and if he knew where she was from or if his parents had records or anything. In and out. No one else needs to know.”

  Noah wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and looked up at the pale white disk of the moon in the blue sky. “He still might not tell us anything. He’s not the easiest guy.”

  “Probably because the unbearable heartbreak of his youth turned him into a stone-cold man who existed only to make his millions.”

  He cracked a smile, which had been what I’d been after. “Probably.”

  “Please? We could meet in a coffee shop. The bookstore. Wherever.” I held out the darkest stone I’d found, with two thin white lines. I was nervous and hopeful and barely able to believe Noah might actually introduce me to his grandfather. “I’ll trade you a double-lucky stone for it.”

  He took the stone, his hand closing over mine, and the smile made its way to his eyes. “Deal.”

  Twelve

  Afew days later, the bookstore hosted a book club.

  “We hold several book clubs,” Maggie had told me early on. Today, she wore a puff-sleeved pink floral blouse and a pink skirt with buttons down the front, both amazing thrift store finds. “Mother-daughter, young adult, sci-fi/fantasy, mystery, classics, nonfiction. They’re usually an hour, though sometimes the patrons stay longer, and we provide snacks and facilitate the conversation.”

  Despite never technically attending a book club, I felt like an expert. Exhibit A: School. Freshman year, we’d spent three months discussing Great Expectations. Pip was the worst, and Miss Havisham an icon. Ruined wedding dress, lace and cobwebs indistinguishable? Yes, please. I wrote my final English paper on “Abandoned Wives: Why the Women in the Attic Matter” in the form of a dinner party play between Mrs. Rochester, Ms. Havisham, and the unnamed narrator of The Yellow Wallpaper. Very Imaginative!! my teacher Ms. Lottie wrote. But while this is charmingly written, it lacks grounding in facts.

  Thanks, Ms. Lottie!

  Exhibit B: Mom had a “book club” who read articles, usually titled something like “Emotional Labor in the Workplace” or “Statistical Analysis of Advocating,” studies on power dynamics and salaries (everything sucked). Mom delivered the TL;DR version over dinner, thus contributing to my ability to be the girl always referencing Atlantic articles.

  Exhibit C: Dad and I bought each other books for birthdays and Hanukkah, usually ones we both wanted to read (and sometimes read before gifting, oops). We’d gone through all of Scott Westerfeld’s novels, and last year we’d traded The Golem and the Jinni and The Song of Achilles.

  Exhibit D: My friends and I shared endless romance novels, plucked from the library sale rack for fifty cents each. We’d devoured Judith McNaught and Susan Elizabeth Phillips and old-school Harlequin Presents. Another paper I’d written, this time for Social Studies: “How Romance Novels Empowered Women to Embrace Their Sexuality: 1940–1960.” (Mr. Brown had given me an A, though it might have been in order to avoid talking to me about the actual text.)

  However. I’d never been to a real book club, with cheese plates and formal questions
. Today, the readers would discuss And Then There Were None. I’d never read Agatha Christie before, and for some bizarre reason, I’d spent years thinking she was a fictional character, like an adult Nancy Drew. This was false, and I was an idiot. Good to know.

  On the coffee tables in the back of the store, Liz arranged scones, cookies, and mille-feuilles on tiered stands. Flour covered her black T-shirt, and dusted the handkerchief tying back her purple hair. Next, she brought out a charcuterie plate with tiny wooden implements for each cheese. A honeycomb, the kind I’d only seen on a Cheerios box, lay atop a jar of local honey. We set out porcelain teacups, teal and pink flowers circling the rim and saucers. I hadn’t known you could lust after teacups, but I lusted after these. I wanted a whole set of these teacups. I wanted a house whose decorating scheme could support these teacups.

  Anyway.

  The book club attendees arrived promptly, almost all women, ranging from their twenties to nineties. I eavesdropped happily, organizing a new table display at the same time. Maggie facilitated the conversation, bright and bubbly and good at keeping things flowing, while Liz offered sharp insights and brought the discussion back on track when it wandered too far.

  By the time the book club finished up, I’d finished my display and was surveying it with pleasure when I caught one of the attendees looking at me. She was white-haired and probably in her eighties, with a light blue jacket. “Can I help you find something?”

  “What’s your name, dear?”

  “Oh, um, I’m Abby.”

  “And do you live here? Or are you visiting for the summer?”

  “For the summer.” I steadied my glasses on my nose, trying to get a hold of the situation. The woman’s intensity had knocked me off-balance.

  “You look so familiar. I thought maybe I knew your mother.”

  “I don’t think my mom’s ever been to Nantucket.”

  She studied me a little longer, then walked around the World War II table, her fingers trailing over the covers, a frown marring her perfect forehead. Every so often she’d pause, a diviner before her scrying pool. I stood there nervously, unsure of what she wanted. Did she need a rec? “Are you looking for anything in particular?”