The Summer of Lost Letters

by Hannah Reynolds

  How much worse would it be to break up with someone you were crazy about? If your feelings for them eclipsed the whole world? Letting other people affect your feelings was dangerous. They could spin you around and around, and sometimes when you started spinning, you ended up places you shouldn’t have gone.

  Noah was going to college next year, not to mention our grandparents’ complicated history. He didn’t just have strings attached; he was wrapped up tighter than a kitten’s ball of yarn. I wasn’t a fool. I wasn’t going to fall for him, because it wouldn’t work, and I’d end up smashed to smithereens on the rocky bottom of a bad metaphor.

  “This has to end,” Jane said, staring longingly at Pranav’s butt.

  “Agreed,” I said fiercely. “What about Mason? Text him back. Go on a date.”

  She made a face. “Our texting’s so bland.”

  “Maybe he’s better in person.”

  “Then why didn’t he talk to me at the concert?”

  “He might be shy! Give him a second chance. Suggest ice cream. Then at least if all else fails, you get to eat ice cream.” Much easier to take risks on someone else’s behalf.

  Pranav drifted over. “What are you guys whispering about?”

  “Abby’s love life,” Jane lied smoothly.

  Traitor. “We are not!”

  “Oh?” Pranav said. “What about it?’

  “She’s going on a date with Tyler Nelson on Monday.”

  I scowled at my roommate as the rest of the group wandered over just in time to hear Jane’s remark. Evan cocked his head. “I thought you were into Barbanel.”

  “Do we have to talk about this?” I said plaintively.

  “It’s easier to go after guys you’re not as into,” Jane said. “Rejection doesn’t hurt as much.”

  Maybe she had a point. Going out with Tyler seemed easy, while the idea of owning up to how much I liked Noah made me want to throw up. Only I wished Jane wouldn’t use my story to illustrate her emotions, thank you very much. “Can we please talk about something else?”

  “Did you know,” Lexi said, leaning into Stella, “a whale’s limbic systems—the part of the brain used to process emotions—is more advanced than a human’s? So whales can feel more deeply than humans. Imagine if your best friends were being murdered and you were even sadder than humanly comprehendible. That’s how whales probably felt when Nantucket whalers were hunting then.”

  We all stared at her.

  “Jesus, Lexi,” Evan said. “Couldn’t you have shared a less depressing fun fact?”

  Stella kissed her. “I would be sad as a whale if you were murdered.”

  Great. Now I had anxiety about the emotions of whales.

  When the group dispersed again, Jane and I picked up our conversation. “Is that why you aren’t going after Mason?” I murmured. “Because you’re self-aware and realize you’re using him? Or are you pushing away a viable candidate and staying hooked on someone you know you can’t have?”

  “Viable candidate?”

  “Shut up. Come on, he’d be a healthy distraction!”

  “Let’s talk about Noah instead. I had a great thought about the two of you.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Pretty sure I sleuthed out the real reason the Barbanels don’t want you poking around. What if”—she paused dramatically—“Edward Barbanel is actually your mom’s father?”

  “What? Oh my god, Jane, I can’t.”

  “Stay with me. Maybe your grandma had an affair with Barbanel and got pregnant but pretended it wasn’t him. But the Barbanels know. And now they’re worried your mom has found out and she’s going to try to claim half the fortune, as is her right. Also, you and Noah are cousins.”

  “Jaaaane!” My voice rose in an unhappy whine. “Why would you say that!”

  “It’s a good story though, isn’t it?” She sounded pleased as punch.

  “No.”

  “You’re wondering now.”

  “Jane!” I dropped my head into my hands. “Gross.”

  “It’s only gross if you guys hook up. Which you keep saying isn’t on the agenda.”

  “It’s not.” Except I wanted to more than basically anything. “God, Jane!”

  She waggled her brows at me. “You’re lusting over your own cousin.”

  “He’s not my cousin!”

  Oh my god. What if he was my cousin?

  No. Impossible. My mom was born years after the letters stopped. Both O’ma and Edward Barbanel were married to their respective partners by then.

  “Okay, sure,” Jane said, when I presented this infallible logic to her. “But they could have had a chance encounter, or an ongoing illicit affair.”

  “I hate you. They didn’t.”

  They didn’t, right?

  * * *

  “Why are you staring at me like that?”

  “Like what?” I looked away from Noah quickly, focusing on my Triple Chocolate Mountain. We’d grabbed ice cream at the Juice Bar and taken it down to the wharves. It was seven thirty at night and still too hot, though a gentle breeze skirted over the water. We perched on the edge of the docks, our legs dangling. The sun was still high; the days were painfully long this time of year, the sun refusing to set until past eight o’clock.

  “Like I’m an alien.”

  “No reason. You’re not. We’re not. Nothing.”

  I was not bringing this up. One: the theory was utterly insane. Two: Wouldn’t admitting it bothered me be tantamount to admitting my interest in Noah? Otherwise, I should be thrilled to have a cousin. Yay, cousins!

  Boo, kissing cousins.

  Gross gross gross, moving on. I turned my phone around. “I got an email this morning from the rabbi’s friend.”

  I watched him as he leaned over the screen, one of his curls flopping over his forehead. I didn’t itch to push his hair back. Of course I didn’t.

  Dear Abigail,

  Happy to help! It’s definitely possible your grandmother was part of the American Kindertransport program, though many families made private arrangements to have children sent to the states instead of going through any organized effort. I’d recommend checking with museums/archives that might have records from the organizations involved in American Kindertransport (I’ve linked to a few below).

  Do you know if she traveled through other countries on the way to the States? While England and Germany never officially released the names of the children involved in Kindertransport, there are several databases you could search. The late 1930s also saw a wave of German children coming through France, so the Mémorial de la Shoah might have helpful records.

  I saw how incomplete your great-grandparents’ Luxembourg deportation records were in the link you sent—the governments usually kept better records. Perhaps your great grandparents didn’t have accurate papers on them if they were trying to escape through Luxembourg (or perhaps they were using fake ones). Still, might be worth contacting similar organizations in Luxembourg to see if they have more complete details about these deportations.

  He looked up. “Wow. Are you going to follow through?”

  “Please, I already have. I emailed the American nonprofits at the bottom of the email, but they don’t have records you can search online, you actually have to go there in person and look through physically.”

  “Jesus.” He licked a bead of ice cream off his cone. “Can you imagine doing this kind of research pre-internet?”

  “Right?” I tried very hard not to think about his tongue. “They’re not far—there’s two in New York—but it’s not super easy, either. I thought I’d email the French and Luxembourg organizations, too.” I gave him my brightest smile. “You mentioned you studied French . . .”

  He rolled his eyes. “All right, here goes.”

  We finished our ice cream while co
mposing emails to international organizations. “What’s the plan,” Noah asked, “if they don’t have anything helpful?”

  “I’m not sure.” I focused on the rippling blue-green sea. “I still wonder if your family has any records from my grandmother’s arrival. I wish I could read her letters. Maybe she said something useful there.”

  “So what you’re saying is you want to dig around in my family’s papers some more.”

  “No. Yes.” I let out a half laugh, kicking at the air above the water. “Yes, but I want permission. I want another try at talking to your grandparents. Unless you think it would go terribly?”

  “Well, yeah,” he said. “I’m for sneaking around in the study when they’re elsewhere.”

  “Your family would have me catapulted off the island. And there have been sharks.”

  “We’ll just need an alibi for why we’re there.”

  “An alibi,” I repeated. “For why we’re . . . alone in your grandfather’s study.”

  “You’re smart. I’m sure you’ll be able to come up with something.”

  I wrinkled my nose at him, feeling flushed. Was he suggesting what I thought he was? Had he noticed how much I’d been watching him? “I doubt I could come up with a single thing.”

  He laughed. “Sure.”

  Our gazes locked, and I could feel the heat traveling from my cheeks down my neck and spreading all through my chest. We stared at each other. I wanted to throw myself off the dock into the water. I wanted to kiss him.

  Instead, I babbled into the silence. “So who was the girl your family thought you’d marry?”

  A wide grin broke over his face. He looked delighted. “What?”

  Shoot. Wrong question to ask. The dark waters below seemed more and more appealing. “Never mind.”

  “My ex. Erika. We broke up last year when she left for college.”

  Right. Very reasonable. “How come?”

  He shrugged. “It didn’t make sense for her to have a boyfriend in high school. She would have missed out on the whole college experience.”

  Would I have dumped a boyfriend in high school because I was going to college? Not one like Noah Barbanel. “How’d you take it?”

  He glanced up at me, then smiled suddenly. “It was the right move.”

  “How long did you date for?”

  “Two years. How long did you and what’s-his-name?”

  I bit back a smile. “Six months.”

  My phone buzzed, a reminder to head to the Prose Garden. I blew out a breath. “I should get going. I need to be at work in ten.”

  “I’ll walk you.”

  We strolled casually, chatting about inconsequential things, though all I could think of was the look on Noah’s face when we talked about alibis. I wanted to take his hand in mine, but even though they swung between us, even though we’d held hands before, it felt like an impossible step.

  We dawdled as we approached the rose arbor leading to the Prose Garden’s door. Noah looked at the arbor, then the sky, then me. “Are you really going on a date with Tyler?” he asked abruptly.

  I blinked. “Where did you hear that? Did Tyler tell you?”

  Noah shook his head.

  “Then . . .” I ran through other options. “Evan?”

  “Are you?”

  “You’re so bad at answering questions. And you’re very obvious about avoiding them. So Evan did tell you?” He shrugged, which I took as a yes. Oy. “So what if I am?”

  Noah’s expression grew more and more austere. “I wouldn’t have thought he was your type.”

  “Well, I guess my type is the kind of guy who asks me out,” I retorted. “Is it so crazy for me to go on a date?”

  “He’s only interested in hookups.”

  “As you’ve mentioned before, thanks,” I said through gritted teeth. “Maybe I’m also only interested in hookups.”

  “I’m trying to protect you.”

  “You don’t need to protect me! It’s not your job. You don’t need to protect me, or your family, or anyone except yourself, okay?”

  He didn’t respond.

  Screw it. “Do you not want me to go out with him?”

  His face closed. “You should do what you want.”

  God, he was cold as ice. And I knew it was a bad idea, the two of us, I did. But I wanted Noah to be into me. I wanted him to say it. And if Noah asked—if Noah wanted—

  Except . . .

  “What do you want, Abigail?” Noah asked. “Do you want Tyler?”

  What if we were cousins?

  I stared at him, my mouth slightly parted, unable to speak.

  He shook his head. “I’ll see you later.”

  It’s not my fault! I wanted to yell after him as he walked away. I’m into you, just not into incest!

  Great.

  Seventeen

  July 26

  From: The Jewish Children’s History Foundation

  To: Abigail Schoenberg

  Dear Abigail,

  We are sorry to report we do not have any records of a Ruth Goldman in our database. You are welcome to come look at our archives in person . . .

  From: The Kanevsky Organization

  To: Abigail Schoenberg

  Dear Abigail,

  Thank you for your inquiry. Unfortunately, we were unable to find anyone by your grandmother’s name . . .

  From: The New York Center for Holocaust Victims

  To: Abigail Schoenberg

  Dear Ms. Schoenberg,

  We do not have any records of a Ruth Goldman in our databases. Good luck with your search.

  I met Tyler the next night at a restaurant on the water.

  He stood near the hostess station, all sunshine and summer, his corn-silk-yellow hair artfully arranged, a sky-blue shirt boosting the color of his eyes. His face was pink with sun, and he straightened when I walked into the cool air-conditioning. I gave him my best winsome smile. “Hi.”

  His gaze roamed over my pink dress and blown-out hair. “You look great.”

  “Thank you. So do you.” My real takeaway from this summer was going to be learning to accept compliments. How did all these boys know compliments were the way to my heart? Was it simply because they’d dated enough to know this was standard practice?

  “I put our names down, but if there’s no room, there’s a million other places we can go . . .”

  The hostess looked up. “There’s two of you, yes? We can seat you now.”

  “Really? Awesome.” He beamed at me. “Great luck.”

  He put his hand on the small of my back and guided me toward our table, which was as new as getting complimented. The hostess left after handing us menus, and Tyler leaned forward. “This place is getting huge attention. My friend’s mom is a food critic and she told us about it, and it’s going to blow up as soon as her review goes live. We’re lucky to get in while we can.”

  “Wow,” I said, since some response seemed necessary. “Cool. I don’t know anything about restaurants, I just look things up on Yelp.”

  He settled back in his seat. “People on Yelp are all haters, you can’t trust them. You need somebody objective to know what’s good.”

  The server came over with two glasses of water. Tyler looked up at him. “How long have you guys been open?”

  “Three weeks,” the server said.

  “And how’s it going?” Tyler looked around. “It’s real busy in here.”

  “This is our busiest night so far,” the server said, finally unbending enough to smile.

  When he left, Tyler caught me smiling at him. “What?”

  “You’re a talker.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “No! I like it. You’re friendly.”

  He grinned back at me. “I like people. I
like knowing everyone’s stories.”

  “Yeah? How come?”

  “You never know who you’re going to meet . . .”

  We traded stories through dinner, of all the curious characters we’d met in our lives, pausing only to savor the food—a quinoa bowl with black lentils and avocado for me, and lemon-pepper salmon for him. I liked Tyler. He was friendly, and he was funny. Sure, Noah thought he was bad news, and maybe he was if he only wanted hookups and the people he dated wanted more. But if everything was on the table . . . then he might be the perfect guy for a summer fling.

  If I wanted a summer fling.

  If I didn’t feel like, simply by being here, I was betraying someone.

  Which was literally the stupidest thought in the world. So I buried it deep and tried to have a good time, which wasn’t so hard, not with the way Tyler gave me all his attention and the way his knee touched mine under the table and the way his blue gaze pulled me in.

  We split the check and headed outside, walking toward the docks. The setting sun slowly bleached the sky, spreading a line of orange at the horizon. The air was heavy, soup-like, and we moved languorously.

  “How do you know Noah?” Tyler asked. His gregarious personality slipped slightly, a sharp, acute intelligence shining through. “Family friends?”

  A touch of wariness wound through me at his carefully casual tone. “Our grandparents knew each other.”

  “Do yours also come to Nantucket?”

  “Not really.” I nodded at the sunset. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

  “Not as pretty as you.”

  A laugh burst out of me, and I clapped a hand to my mouth. “Sorry.”

  Brief startlement crossed his face, but then he smiled wryly. “Too cheesy?”

  “Hey, good for you if it works.”

  “It usually does.” He grinned, then cocked his head, studying me as though I was an unusual specimen picked up on the beach. “I can’t tell what you want.”