The Summer of Lost Letters

by Hannah Reynolds

  I blinked. “Um. You could ask me?”

  “All right. What do you want?”

  Oh no. Now I needed to answer. “Dinner was nice.”

  Great, now I was doing Noah’s thing of very unsubtly changing the topic.

  “Are you and Barbanel a thing?”

  “What?” I halted. “No.”

  “You seem like a thing.”

  Everything was awkward and I needed a hole to follow me around so I could disappear into it when convenient. “If you thought so, why did you ask me out?”

  “I thought we could have fun. Why’d you say yes if you’re into Barbanel?”

  “I never said I’m into him.”

  “Did you want to make him jealous?”

  Did I?

  “What’s the deal between the two of you?” I asked. “Did you seduce his cousin or something?”

  He smiled, a smaller, realer one than most of the others I’d seen so far. “Read a little too much Jane Austen?”

  “I’m genuinely impressed you made a Wickham reference.” I paused. “Or Willoughby, I guess.”

  “Don’t be too impressed. I only read them to help me pick up girls.” He flashed a smile, and I couldn’t tell if he meant it or not.

  “I see.”

  “And I didn’t seduce Shira, but yeah, she had a crush on me. Which went nowhere, because she’s a kid.” He squinted upward. “I might have flirted with Barbanel’s girlfriend last summer. But only when it was obvious they were on the outs.”

  Noah’s girlfriend. “This is the one who broke up with him because she was going to college and didn’t want a boyfriend?”

  He smirked. “Is that what he told you?”

  I blinked, confused. “What?”

  “He broke up with her. She said there was some bull about her being free to date whoever she wanted to in college, but really he didn’t want to do long-distance.”

  Huh. Okay. I nodded slowly, taking in this change of information. So Noah hadn’t wanted to do long-distance. And maybe it hadn’t been bull—maybe he really did think people should be single their freshman year of college. Maybe Noah wanted to be single next year.

  “You wanna go down to the beach or something?”

  I returned my attention to Tyler. “Is that a coded invite for making out?”

  He barked a laugh. “Wow.”

  “I know. I’d be embarrassed, but turns out I’m really not.”

  “Cool. Well. Yeah, it was. I’m cool with you being hung up on Noah. Feel free to use me as a distraction.”

  I laughed, then threw back my head and laughed again. “I like you. You’re refreshing.”

  He looked hopeful. “Refreshing enough to hook up with?”

  “Nope. I’m going to head home, but thanks.”

  “Hey, you miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.” He pointed a finger gun at me like he’d walked out of a bad nineties movie. “Good advice for you, too, Schoenberg.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  * * *

  During my Zoom call with my mom the next day, I said: “You don’t think it’s possible O’ma and Edward Barbanel were in contact later in their lives?”

  “She never mentioned anything.”

  “No, I mean . . . Okay, you have to promise not to laugh.”

  She raised her brows. “I promise.”

  “It’s not my fault,” I warned. “Jane had this really weird theory. What. If.” My words slowed down, then tumbled together in my embarrassed attempt to get them out quick as possible. “They hooked up later in life and it resulted in you, their secret love child?”

  Mom burst into uncontrollable laughter.

  “Mom! You promised not to laugh!”

  “You said ‘secret love child’!” she cried. “How could I avoid laughing?”

  “Okay. Fine.” My lips twitched, but I didn’t back down. “Do you think it’s possible?”

  “Sweetie. No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. If it makes you feel better, I’m a carrier for Gaucher because of O’pa.”

  I’d never been so glad for Ashkenazi genetic mutations in my life. I let out a huge sigh of relief. “Phew.”

  She leaned closer to the screen. “Does this mean you like Noah?”

  “Mom!”

  “Okay! Forget I asked.” Her lips wobbled, and then her mouth broke into a smile and more laughter poured out. “I can’t believe you thought I was a millionaire’s secret love child.”

  I spent a moment in fake indignation, but then I joined her.

  Phew.

  * * *

  The next night, two hours into watching Vikings try to take over England, my phone buzzed. A call, not a text. I glanced down, expecting it to be Niko or one of the other girls from home.

  Instead, it was Noah.

  I picked up immediately. “Hello?”

  “Hi.” He sounded tired. “What are you up to?”

  “Nothing really. You?”

  “Not much.”

  He didn’t add anything. I stared at my reflection in the window, my face overlaid on the darkening night. Ellie Mae curled against my side on the bed, her golden fur shimmering in the lamplight as my fingers cleaved a path through her fur. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” An odd note tinged his voice.

  I waited him out.

  Noah sighed into the phone. “My dad and I got into a fight.”

  “What happened?”

  “It doesn’t matter. He fought with Grandpa, it trickled down to me . . . Are you free? Do you want to . . . hang out?”

  “Yes. Of course. Where should we meet?” I looked down at my pajama shorts, considering. I felt like I was on a precipice, daring and scared and about to force myself to jump. “Actually . . . Jane and Mrs. Henderson are out for the evening if you want to come over?”

  I held my breath.

  “Are you sure? Yeah, I’d like to.”

  Exultation rushed through me. “Of course.”

  It took twenty minutes for Noah to arrive, and I spent every last one of them cleaning. Why? Did I think Noah would turn around and leave if the drain stopper and faucet in my bathroom sink weren’t polished? Would he deride me if my pillows weren’t plumped? Why was I so nervous?

  Because I was so, so nervous.

  My phone buzzed. Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your long hair.

  With one last look around my neat-ish room, I tripped down the stairs and opened the front door. Noah stood there, in jeans and a blue T-shirt, and at the sight of him, the tension I’d been carrying drained out of me. I grinned. “My hair’s not that long.”

  He reached over and tugged one of my ringlets. “Long enough.”

  I flushed. “Want to come up?”

  The nerves came back as I led him up the narrow stairs to my tiny room. Why had I invited him over? Why had he called me? Was it because we were the only ones who could understand each other’s complicated, intertwined families? Or because of the more generic, baser, intoxicating reason a boy called a girl?

  Also, was he looking at my butt as we climbed the stairs? I did have a nice butt.

  We reached the third floor, and I swung the door open. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

  Why was I such a huge dork?

  He grinned at me, and nodded at my bed. “This yours?”

  “Yes.”

  He flopped down backward on it. Good lord. Noah Barbanel, on my bed. I sat at the foot, my back against the wall. Our legs were perpendicular, his pulled up with his knees pointed at the ceiling, mine laid straight.

  He picked up Sad Elephant from my pillow and held the stuffed animal high. “You kept it.”

  “I told you. He’s too sad to abandon, and I couldn’t burden a sm
all child with his tragicness.”

  “You should probably send him to therapy.”

  “But he doesn’t have a mouth, see. Just a nose and sad eyes. So he wouldn’t be able to talk about his feelings.” Like, I suspected, Noah wouldn’t. “What happened?”

  “How was your date with Tyler?”

  “No. You’re not avoiding the conversation.”

  He raised a brow, looking cool and unruffled despite lying on his back. His T-shirt ruched up slightly, showing the flat, tanned skin of his lower stomach. “Was he the perfect summer fling?”

  I tore my eyes away from the dark hair against Noah’s abs, which were decidedly affecting my ability to breathe. I tried to match his disinterested tone. “It was nice. We went out to dinner at some new place on the Sound.”

  He scoffed, almost imperceptibly.

  “What?”

  He shook his head.

  I wanted to pull my hair out. Why were boys like this? They couldn’t just make noises and expect me to pull the reasons out of them.

  In fact, I wasn’t going to play this game. If he wanted to tell me what his rude scoff meant, he could do it without prompting.

  And he did, after settling Sad Elephant back on the bed, next to my stuffed horse. “Typical. Go to a brand-new restaurant. Probably finished with a walk along the water.”

  So apparently Noah knew Tyler’s game plan. Fine. It wasn’t like dinner and a walk were such an unusual or bad combo. “He said you broke up with your ex, not the other way around.”

  Noah’s head jerked up, and a small smile curved his lips. “You talked about me?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. It was small talk.”

  “Are you going on a second date?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I don’t like to see my friends date jerks.”

  Hm. Friends. Not the answer I’d wanted. “Well, we’re not.”

  “Really? Why?”

  I shrugged. “I decided he wasn’t the right material for my fling.”

  “You’re running out of time. Summer’s half-over.”

  Our eyes caught. It felt very hard to breathe, the air thin, my heart working hard. I was minutely aware of how close my arm was to his legs, how if my hand moved slightly I could touch his calf. Any suggestions? I almost asked, but I wasn’t brave enough. “Tell me what happened with your dad, Noah.”

  He looked away. “My grandparents got in a fight.”

  “Oh no. Why?”

  He winced.

  Guilt surged inside me. “My grandmother?”

  “I don’t think it’s really about her. But. My grandparents’ relationship has already been on thin ice for a while. Everything with Ruth . . . it struck at their weakest part. And they just . . .”

  “Cracked?”

  “Cracked and geysered.” He picked up Horse. “This guy seems a little tired.”

  “He isn’t. He’s stalwart. Why did your dad get mad at you because of a fight between your grandparents?”

  Noah sighed. “My dad thinks I need to be better about my responsibilities. Be a better grandson. Protect the family’s interests. It would ruin the family if my grandparents separated.” He gave me a half smile. “And it would be my fault.”

  “First of all, it couldn’t possibly be your fault, and second—what do you mean ‘ruin the family’?”

  Noah draped an arm over his eyes. “My grandmother’s family brought in money when she married my grandfather. A lot of money.”

  I sat up. “What?”

  “Enough to push Barbanel from a local firm to a national one. Enough to turn it into what it is today. My grandmother’s brothers got stock in return. Not enough to control the company—unless my grandmother votes with them. She never does—she always votes with my grandpa.”

  “Jesus, Noah!”

  He winced. “Yeah.”

  “So—what? If she votes with her brothers, what happens?”

  “The Barbanels lose the controlling share and it goes to the Danzigers, and they could do whatever they want—oust my dad as CEO, give the control to his cousins, anything.”

  Wow. This was like a TV show. “So—it’s about power? And money?”

  “They do make the world go round.”

  “What do you want? Maybe if the Danzigers were in control, you wouldn’t be forced to go into the business. Maybe some second cousins or whatever could take over.”

  “Yeah.” He sounded unconvinced. “But my dad would be miserable. And he’s my dad.”

  “And you don’t want to disappoint him.”

  He nodded.

  “Look.” I hesitated. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t go into business and become the CEO of a vast empire of men in expertly tailored suits. But. Your life goal shouldn’t be making your dad happy. You’re eighteen. You don’t need to map your entire life out.”

  He made a face.

  “I was watching this show where Vikings try to take over England, right? And people kept dying. Small child caught a cold? Dead. Dude looks at someone’s wife the wrong way? Dead. Girl sleeps with the wrong person? Dead. Lots and lots of dead people. It’s giving me an awful lot of life-is-short feels. Do what you want. Talk to your multitude of cousins and let them know running Barbanel is an option. Take just one freaking class on biological diversity.”

  He turned on his side so he could look at me directly. “So if you want something—even though you’re not sure about it—you’ll go after it? If you want something badly enough, you’ll take the risk?”

  I wanted Noah.

  I wanted Noah and I didn’t know how to say so, I didn’t know how to lean forward and press my mouth to his. What was I more afraid of—rejection, or giving into this and then having it come to a halt at the end of summer when we inevitably dissolved?

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “What about you? Do you take risks?”

  “It depends.” He studied me. “It’s easier when there’s some indication the risk will pay off.”

  I wasn’t sure I was ready to give that indication. I stared into my lap. “Talking to your grandpa about my grandmother, even if it made him mad, might pay off.”

  “That’s the risk you want to take?” He sat up, sounding almost angry. “Fine. Let’s do it.”

  “What?” I looked back, startled. “But you don’t want to.”

  “But you do. And we should take risks, Abigail Schoenberg.”

  “So—we can talk to him?” I wanted, so badly, to have another chance to ask Edward Barbanel about O’ma and her family and her necklace. But Noah’s energy right now was already making me rethink this. “You made it sound like he’d flip out.”

  “Then he flips. Didn’t you just tell me I’m not responsible for his emotions? Come over for Shabbat.”

  “Shabbat? Are you serious? Besides, I thought your parents went to services.”

  “Not this week. A lot of the family is here, so everyone’s staying home.”

  I hesitated. “Wouldn’t it be better for me to come over when less people are around? Or have the conversation in a—neutral territory?”

  “If we’re having it, I don’t think it matters where.”

  “Hm.” I was still skeptical, but who was I to look a gift horse in the mouth? “All right, then. Friday it is.”

  “Good.” He stretched, then grinned at me. “This Viking show. Think you can catch me up enough to watch your next episode?”

  “Yeah.” I smiled down at him. “I bet I can.” Then I added, trying to sound casual. “Hey—I’m glad you called. And came over.”

  He didn’t move or stay anything, but his stillness seemed not cold but watchful, like he needed more context.

  I swallowed. “Because you can, anytime, you know.”

  “Okay,” he said, which wasn’t thanks or yes this has
been a meaningful experience, but then he met my gaze and gave me a small, tremulous smile.

  I smiled back and straightened. “Okay. So the Viking’s name is Uthred, son of Uthred . . .”

  Eighteen

  Sometimes, late at night when I was reading in bed, I couldn’t stand not knowing what would happen next in my book. I’d skip ahead a hundred pages and skim. I didn’t want spoilers, per se, but I wanted to know the feel of the book so I could align with it: make sure I was rooting for the right love interest, find out if the plot skipped forward ten years, learn if the best friend lived or died. Then, after I’d come too close to a real spoiler—or stumbled across one—I’d close the book and go to sleep.

  This caused confusion later on in my reading. I’d come across déjà vu–inducing passages and wonder—had the author written the same sentence earlier in the book, like a villanelle poem? Or had I dreamed these lines myself somehow?

  No: I’d read them moments before bedtime, and only half remembered them later on. A practical answer. But it gave me the oddest feeling, like I’d been brushed by unnerving magic.

  Golden Doors made me feel the same way.

  How many times did you have to visit somewhere before it became commonplace? Before your neck stopped craning your head back so you could take in the sprawling mansion, with its gray paneling and dark windows? How long until something felt like an old shoe, until you didn’t even notice the grandeur? Until you felt like you belonged?

  A child opened the door when I rang it on Friday night—one of the ten-year-old triplets. She stared at me, speechless, then ran away.

  Cool.

  It’d been busy the last time, but dinner had still felt intimate. Now the size of the gathering had exploded. People spilled out the French doors and onto the lawn, where multiple tables had been set up. I made my way toward one with Noah and a cluster of other teens: some Barbanel cousins I’d met last week, some strangers with dark curly hair. Shabbat candles and challah sat in the centers of the tables. Everything was painfully familiar.

  I almost felt like I belonged here, because I did belong to these traditions, which meant I almost belonged to these people—but I didn’t belong to Golden Doors, and in any case, belonging wasn’t my actual goal. My goal was to talk to Edward Barbanel. To see if he would share my grandmother’s letters; to see if he knew about any records concerning her. To ask him about the necklace without making him shut down.