The Summer of Lost Letters

by Hannah Reynolds

  Edward Barbanel coughed into his napkin. Helen watched him, placid as a great lake and just as likely to be hiding an exceptionally dangerous current.

  “Lived?” Noah’s dad said, clearly confused. “What do you mean?”

  “You remember. The little girl they took in during the war.”

  I glanced nervously at Noah.

  Edward Barbanel looked at me again, but said nothing.

  “She came over from Germany. Pretty little thing. She used to follow your father around everywhere.” Helen’s gaze switched to me, alarmingly piercing. “Didn’t she mention?”

  “I don’t think so.” I stared down at my plate. Beneath the table, Noah took my hand. I clutched his.

  Helen’s mouth curved in a very small smile. “Oh?”

  “She never talked about—Nantucket.”

  “Never?”

  “No.” I felt very nervous. The beat of my pulse hammered through me. I wove my fingers through Noah’s.

  Edward thunked his beer down and finally spoke. “She doesn’t?”

  I shook my head.

  Helen took a delicate sip of her wine. “How odd.”

  Now everyone was staring at me. I shrugged, but it didn’t break the silence, so I finally managed to say, “I didn’t actually know she’d lived here until recently.”

  “And is that why you’re here?”

  I glanced at Noah. He looked at his dad.

  “Mom.” Noah’s father might not be sure what was going on, but his tone was clear: guests weren’t to be bullied.

  Yet his mother waved him off, her gaze on me. “Let her answer.”

  “I just—I realized she used to come here, and I was curious. So I came here.”

  “How sweet. Isn’t that sweet, Edward?”

  “She never talks about Nantucket?” Edward Barbanel repeated.

  Talks. Present tense. My stomach clenched and I squeezed Noah’s hand tighter, looking at him frantically before turning back to Edward. “I, um—no. I didn’t know about—about anyone here. About the Barbanel family.”

  Edward looked gutted.

  “Honestly, Edward.” Helen’s tone could scratch diamonds. “Did you think she was still carrying a torch?”

  Well, she definitely knew Edward and my grandmother had a history.

  Edward met my gaze. “How is she?”

  Oh no.

  Oh no oh no oh no.

  I didn’t want to do this. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. I didn’t want to tell the boy who had written You are bright and the world blurred, sharp and the world soft that Ruth had died.

  I looked desperately at Noah. He stared back at me.

  I cleared my throat and stared at a few chickpeas left on my plate. “She passed away last year.”

  Silence surrounded me, except for the hum of cicadas and the distant roar of the ocean.

  I snuck a glance up, and saw Edward statue-like. Helen, too, looked horrified. She transferred her gaze to her husband, then back to me. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  Noah’s parents and aunts and uncles looked baffled.

  “I didn’t know,” Helen said.

  “No—of course not . . .” I trailed off, helpless.

  Edward Barbanel slowly pushed his chair back and rose. “You’ll have to excuse me.”

  He walked away, each slow, faltering step taking an age. Helen smiled tightly at the table and went after him, offering her arm when she caught up to him. He didn’t take it.

  Everyone stared at me.

  Noah, thank god, turned to his mom. “Can we be excused?”

  “Sure, honey.” She plucked a bottle of wine from the center of the table and topped off her glass. “I think it’s probably a good idea.”

  Thirteen

  As soon as we were inside, I sagged against a wall. “What just happened?”

  “Come on.” Noah grabbed my hand and pulled me out of my collapsed state, leading me down the hall and toward the stairs.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Upstairs. Too many ears here.”

  Up we went, past hand-sized paintings of the sea, smudges of light set in wide frames. In the upstairs hall—one I hadn’t been in, modern and high-ceilinged—we passed more of Edward Barbanel’s paintings, large ones, unsettling: the moors of Nantucket under the silver moon, the snowy beaches in weak winter light.

  Noah pushed open a door and I balked, tugging him to a stop—him over the threshold, me on the other side. “This is your room?”

  “During the summer.” He dropped my hand and moved farther in, and I didn’t miss his touch, because who missed a hand only holding yours for directional input? I swallowed my impulse to say You’re allowed to have girls in your room? because I didn’t want to sound like a sitcom character from the nineties. Instead, I followed, pretending to be ever so calm. “Cool.”

  “Sorry it’s not super clean.” He blushed a bit as he pulled up the bed’s rumbled covers—blue-and-white plaid. He grabbed a heap of clothes off the floor and threw them into his closet.

  “Good solution.” I nodded to the pile of clothing on the closet floor. “Into it.”

  His laugh cut the tension. “You can sit . . .” He turned toward an armchair, which was also covered in clothes. Then he looked at the bed, now made, but still decidedly a bed.

  “Here’s fine.” I lowered myself onto the pale wooden floor. “So your grandma definitely knows about Ruth and Edward.”

  “Seems likely,” he said, sitting down across from me.

  “Seems one hundred percent.”

  He cupped his hands over his mouth and blew into them. “She was throwing you in his face, huh.”

  “Yeah. But why? She can’t still be mad?”

  “I think it’s more how she’s mad at him in general right now, and this is . . . more ammunition.” His head sank. “Which I didn’t want them to have.”

  The door burst open. Noah’s cousin blazed through it, hair flying, eyes narrowed. “What’s going on?”

  Noah groaned. “Shira, go away.”

  She ignored him. “What’s the deal with Ruth Goldman?”

  “She was this girl Grandpa’s family took in—”

  “Yes, I know,” she said impatiently. “The German girl.”

  “What?” Noah exchanged a stunned glance with me. “You know about her?”

  “Of course I know about her.”

  “I barely know about her!”

  She shot him a condescending look. “You’re a boy. Boys don’t pay attention to anything.”

  Man. I’d paired up with the wrong Barbanel. “What do you know?”

  “Not much. She existed. Once I asked Grandpa if she’d come talk to my class on Yom HaShoah, but he said he didn’t know how to get in touch with her.” She turned to me. “What’s the deal?”

  “No deal.” I glanced at Noah, who turned his palms face up. “She lived here. I’m trying to find out more about her past.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “While you just happen to be here on Nantucket, and you just happened to get a catering gig here?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re awful at lying,” Noah murmured to me.

  “Wow,” Shira said. “Devious. And here I thought you were just another summer girl.”

  I raised my brows at Noah. “Just another summer girl?”

  Shira looked at her cousin, too. “But what I want to know is, why is Grandma mad and Grandpa freaked?”

  Apparently her question was less alarming, since Noah answered it. “Grandpa and Abigail’s grandma had an affair.”

  “It wasn’t an affair,” I said. “He wasn’t married to your grandmother yet.”

  “They were engaged.”

  “They were dating.”

  “Seriously?” Shira�
�s head swiveled back and forth. “What, like sixty years ago?”

  “Yeah,” Noah and I said.

  “Yet Grandma’s still salty.” Shira tilted her head. “I’m impressed by her tenacity.”

  “Probably because it surpasses even yours.” Noah met my gaze, his own filled with determination. “If Grandma knows everything, there’s no point trying to keep you hidden. So what the hell. Let’s talk to my grandfather.”

  I stared at him, surprised and a little alarmed by the reckless glint in his eyes. This didn’t seem like him, given how he spent so much time trying to keep his family patched together. “Are you sure now’s the right time?”

  “Why not?” He stood upright, decisive and driven, and strode out of the room.

  Startled, Shira and I looked at each other. Then I ran after Noah, grabbing his arm before he reached the stairs. My heart pounded. “Noah. Maybe we should think this through. Slow down a bit.”

  “Why? I’ve been slowing things down—I’ve kept you from talking to my grandparents—and for what? I thought I was protecting the family, keeping any waves from being made—protecting my grandmother, keeping her from getting hurt. But she knows, so what’s the point? And I’m sick of trying to keep anything even-keeled and smoothed over.” He sounded furious. “I’ve been doing it long enough. So let’s get answers.”

  “Right. Only—this seems a little confrontational?”

  “Well, I’m feeling confrontational.” He gave me his full attention, a muscle in his jaw pulsing. “My grandmother has dealt with my grandfather’s shit for decades. He’s been difficult and distant and put the company first every time. Why’d she put up with it? I thought they were in love. I thought it was because you commit to family. But what, he didn’t even love her? He loved someone else he didn’t bother to stay with? He cheated on my grandma for years, and wouldn’t even have stopped if your grandmother didn’t decide to. What the fuck.”

  I stared at him, heart in my throat. He was angry on his grandmother’s behalf. I hadn’t realized how angry beforehand. And now, since he knew she knew, he didn’t have to be quiet. He could yell at his grandfather. Noah believed in promises and commitment, and his grandfather hadn’t followed through on his vows. “Noah, I get it. I do. But let’s wait until everyone’s in a better mood—”

  “I’m sick of waiting, sick of behaving. You want answers. So do I. Let’s get them.”

  It was difficult to stop a boulder rolling down a hill. So we went. We went down the stairs, past the paintings, past the abandoned dining room. The house had eaten the adults.

  Noah pushed open the door of his grandfather’s study, the same study we’d met in, only now Edward Barbanel sat behind the desk. The velvet curtains around the window alcove had been opened, and warm moonlight spilled into the room. The elderly man leaned back in his leather chair, eyes closed, but they opened when we entered.

  “Grandpa.” Noah strode right up to the desk. “Did you date Ruth Goldman?”

  Edward looked right at me, face blank. “She lived with us for a time.”

  “We have the letters.”

  Edward’s brows rose. “Letters?”

  “Letters you wrote her.”

  “Everyone corresponded by letter.”

  “Love letters.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Edward’s voice remained level, unmoved.

  I couldn’t believe it. Hedging, I’d expected, but a flat-out denial?

  Noah’s voice rose. “You did. While you were engaged to Grandma, you wrote Ruth letters. What’s this bull you preach about supporting the family and the people you love when—”

  “I have always supported this family,” Edward cut in, a hard edge coming into his voice.

  “Why didn’t you marry Ruth? Why did you marry Grandma?”

  Edward picked up a paper, peering over it at his grandson. “Enough, Noah.”

  “Would you have kept having an affair with Ruth after you got married if she hadn’t ended things?”

  “I said, enough.” Edward’s voice hardened. “You should take your friend home.”

  Grandfather and grandson stared at each other.

  This was horrible. I wanted to leave—I hated confrontation with authority figures—but what was likelihood of seeing Edward Barbanel again? A second chance might not be on the table. I cleared my throat. “Do you know about her family?”

  Both Barbanels turned my way with identical astounded expressions, like they’d forgotten I existed. Edward recovered first. “She didn’t know much about her family.”

  “Did she mention anything? Where in Germany they were from? What her parents did? If they had any relatives who survived?”

  His face softened. “She never talked about them. I don’t know if she remembered much. But no, I didn’t get the impression she had any relatives left—at least, none she knew about.”

  I swallowed, a crushing weight on my chest. I’d wanted a different answer. How terrible, to not remember your family. I pushed out my last question. “What about the necklace?”

  All previous kindness evaporated, replaced with wintry dislike. “Excuse me?” Edward Barbanel said.

  “She wrote about a necklace. She wanted it back. In your letters”—I couldn’t believe I’d read his private letters—“I don’t think she got it back?”

  His face didn’t move so much as solidify, muscles tightening beneath his composed expression, the change all the more unsettling for its minuteness. “I think we’re done.”

  “Okay,” I whispered, taking a step back. When Noah didn’t move, I pulled at his arm, but he stayed stiff as a statue.

  Fine. Heat laced up through my body. I couldn’t handle any more confrontation today. Turning on my heel, I headed out the door and down the hallway, my vision tunneling. I brushed past Shira where she waited, and out the door and down the front steps of Golden Doors.

  “Abigail, wait.”

  I kept going. Research I liked, but actual fights made me want to make like a turtle and never reemerge.

  “Abigail.” Noah caught my arm and pulled me to a halt in the middle of the sandy drive. The warm July night pulsed around us, moon bright, cicadas loud, hyacinths overwhelming. “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know. Away.” I shoved my hair behind my ears. “I’m sorry.”

  “What are you apologizing for?”

  “Reading his letters. Making everything messy. I don’t want your family to be mad at each other, or at you, Noah, swear to god. I just wanted to know about my grandmother’s past.”

  “I know. Abby, calm down, I know.” He took both my hands. “You were right, I should have waited. Blunt offenses never work in my family. But I was mad, so I went. I did this, not you. You didn’t make anything happen.”

  “I hate fighting.”

  He smiled wryly. “You fight with me.”

  “You’re a safe person to fight with.” I drew in a deep breath. “He didn’t want to talk about the necklace.”

  “He didn’t want to talk about anything.”

  “Now what?” My hope crumbled. For the past few weeks, I’d been so convinced I could simply talk to Edward Barbanel and find out everything. I hadn’t expected to be shut down. More fool me.

  “We figure something else out. Hey. It’s okay. This is a stumbling block, not the end.”

  I let out a strangled laugh. “Why are you being nice? You didn’t want me looking into this.”

  He hesitated, staring down at our hands, then looking up at me with renewed resolution. “Abigail, you should know—”

  “Noah.”

  We both jerked around, dropping our hands instinctively. Noah’s father stood on the porch. He smiled stiffly, but his gaze was cold. “A word, please.”

  Noah closed his eyes briefly, then nodded at me. His expression had locked down, as stoic as
his father’s and as his grandfather’s had been. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

  “Okay.” I glanced at Noah’s dad. “Um, nice to meet you, Mr. Barbanel.”

  Harry Barbanel’s smile made it clear it was not nice at all. I’d never had a parent dislike me before, and I could have done without the experience. “Good night, Abigail.”

  “Good night. Bye, Noah.”

  And with a last look at the Barbanels as they were swallowed by Golden Doors, I fled down the driveway, feeling like I’d abandoned Noah to the wolves.

  Fourteen

  March 14, 1954

  People have been asking me about my mother lately, in the unconcerned way strangers have. “What does your mother do? Where are your parents from?” I’m torn how to respond each time. Do I give them the scant details I remember, pretending they’d stretched on as they might have, had the actual timeline not occurred? (I almost never consider telling people the truth. The people who guess the truth know better than to ask.)

  Often, I want to describe your mother, though I’m not an idiot; I know she wasn’t mine. But at least I can remember her.

  Sometimes I’m still so angry at her, though. Shouldn’t she have done more? No more than two children to a room, the law said, and we had dozens of rooms in the New York house and at Golden Doors. Shouldn’t she have taken in a dozen children?

  Did you know we still haven’t spoken? I thought she’d soften to us.

  Sometimes I miss her so much it physically hurts.

  Are you okay?

  The reply came almost immediately:

  I’m fine

  A punch of humiliation sent my stomach swerving low. Well, then. So much for thinking he might want to talk. Fine.

  Except.

  I thought of how often I wanted someone to push when I’d said I’m fine, how rarely I meant the platitude. How when Mom and I fought, I’d go upstairs and tell her not to follow and wait, crying, until she did, always wishing she’d come faster. Noah wasn’t me, of course. Still. Was anyone ever really fine?

  Screw it. Why dash your pride against an impenetrable wall of someone else’s pride once when you could do it twice?