The Summer of Lost Letters

by Hannah Reynolds

  I closed the box and opened the envelope.

  Dear Abigail,

  I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my grandmother having the necklace earlier. I should have; should have told you the first time we talked to my grandfather. I tried, and I chickened out. I should have told you the second time we talked to him and I knew he wasn’t telling you everything. I was trying to protect my family, but I don’t need to protect them by keeping their secrets from you.

  I’m even more sorry I left Nantucket when we were mad at each other. I mean, yes, I had orientation. But I should have called you and worked this out.

  The thing is, you’re not the only proud, scared, stubborn one. I don’t want my words to be tossed in my face or to be rejected. Here’s the other thing, Abigail Schoenberg: I love you. I love you and I want to be together.

  I know you’re nervous about a long-distance relationship. And yeah—maybe our relationship will end in property theft and we’ll marry other people and bury our feelings for the rest of our lives (but we should probably not, because it seems unhealthy and unfair to other people). But maybe we won’t follow in our grandparents’ footsteps. This could work. I want it to work. I think we’re worth it.

  P.S. Please, please don’t be mad at how much money the necklace cost. My mom says to think about it in terms of percentage of income, and the money is being donated to charity, and also we get a tax write-off.

  I was still sitting there, stunned, a few minutes later when the doorbell rang again.

  Oh god. I swiped at my eyes. My whole body felt light and jittery and like it hardly belonged to me.

  “Abby, can you get the door?” Mom called from upstairs.

  It took me a few seconds to regain control of my vocal cords. “Yes!”

  Each step felt like I was moving in slow-motion, pushing through molasses as I stepped into the chilly mudroom, then, ever so slowly, unlocked the front door and pulled it open. I thought my entire body might stop working. I thought my legs might turn to jelly.

  Noah stood there, framed against the fall colors, wearing a crimson sweatshirt. His hair was mussed like he’d driven his hands through it moments ago. We stared at each other.

  I gripped the door’s frame and waited for the world to stop spinning.

  “Hi,” he finally said.

  “Hi.”

  It was September 20, his third week of classes (I’d checked) and seven days after Rosh Hashanah.

  “You’re here,” I said stupidly, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say. “You—you bought the necklace.”

  He nodded.

  A small laugh wobbled out of me. “It was a very expensive necklace.”

  He winced. “I know. Did you read the letter?”

  I nodded.

  “I mean it, Abigail.” His eyes were steady and focused on mine. “You said we shouldn’t make our grandparents’ mistakes. So let’s not.”

  “Okay.”

  “I shouldn’t have kept the necklace a secret; I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have tried to keep you from researching your family’s past. I . . .” He paused, a look of confusion on his face as my words caught up with him. “Wait, okay?”

  I started grinning. “Yes. Okay. I overreacted. I get it, they’re your family.”

  “So—you—we’re—”

  I grinned harder, my chest so warm and full I felt like I’d swallowed the sun. “Yes.”

  He let out a blazing laugh and shook his head and very deliberately held my gaze. “I should have fought for you.”

  “You did. I did. Did you get my letter?”

  He looked confused. “Your letter?”

  A surprised laugh jolted out of me. “You’ll get it soon.”

  “What did it say?”

  I took a step closer and hesitantly raised my hand to tame one of his flyaway curls. “It sort of said what your letter said. Brilliant minds and all that. And I’m sorry I told you I’d rather be miserable than be with you.”

  A smile started spreading over his face. “Yeah, you were pretty cold.”

  “I’m sorry.” I wanted to launch myself into his arms, to hug him so tightly every line of our body fit together, but even now I was being slightly cautious. In his letter, he’d said . . . but I needed to hear it out loud. I needed to hear it two times, three times. “I don’t want to be miserable. I—I have been miserable.”

  “You have?”

  I made a strangled noise. “Of course I have.”

  “Really?”

  “How can you be surprised?”

  “I wasn’t sure! You’re so good at walking away. You sounded so rational.”

  “I wasn’t being rational! I was trying to protect myself. It’s hard to let someone in. It gives them the power to hurt you.”

  “True.” He swallowed and stepped forward. “I want to let you in, Abigail Schoenberg. I love you.”

  I pulled in a breath. He was so vulnerable, standing there, all his walls down, the layers peeled back, soul bared and helpless. Noah Barbanel was proud and determined and protective to a fault, and he didn’t like to show weakness—and he’d done so anyway. He’d decided to do this, to come after me, to say we were worth it. To fight for us. To choose us.

  I chose us, too.

  I chose to be with Noah Barbanel, who I was in love with, who made me happy. I chose delight and butterflies and incandescent joy, and I could have this, this good, wonderful thing. I could fling myself off the cliff with utter abandon. I wanted Noah Barbanel. I wanted us and so did he. “I love you, too, Noah Barbanel.”

  His head jerked up, his eyes wide. “You don’t have to say that.”

  “I know. But I do. Love you. And,” I said, my own smile breaking as his broke over his face, “you make me want to be better, too. And I will be. I won’t run away. Or—I’ll come back, if I run. I think I’m always going to want to come back to you.”

  His grin widened even more, and he stepped up onto the stoop with me, sharing the space toe to toe. He wrapped one of his arms around my waist. “Now what?”

  “Now . . . Now you’re in my home.”

  “True. You can send me away if you want. But it is Friday. And I don’t have to be back in Cambridge at all this weekend.”

  “No?” I tilted my face up.

  He tilted his face down. “No.”

  And then we were kissing, so easily, like we’d been born to kiss each other. Heat uncurled deep in my belly and I pushed onto my tiptoes so I could press closer against him.

  When we separated to breathe, I realized we were standing there on the doorstep, in full view of anyone passing by. “Do you want to come in?”

  “Sure. Is anyone else home?”

  “My mom.”

  “Do I get to meet her?”

  “If you’re lucky.” I led him inside, and he looked about curiously. I took him to the living room, where the necklace lay gleaming up at us. “It seems like cheating.” I said. “To be willing to give the necklace up, and to get it back.”

  “You could give it to a museum. Or sell it again.”

  “I could.” I smiled up at him. “But I guess I’ll keep it.”

  The corners of his mouth curved ever so slightly. “You guess?”

  “It does have some sentimental value. For my family.”

  “For your mom, maybe.”

  “Exactly. Actually—one second.”

  “What?”

  “Stay right here.” I kissed him quickly, then planted my hands on his chest and studied his eyes. I’d never told a boy I’d loved him before today, and it felt good. Right. “I love you,” I said again, firmly.

  He kissed me again, this time slow and thorough, so thorough I almost forgot what I’d meant to do. When he finally let me go, he said, “I love you, too.”

  “Good,�
� I said, grinning. Grabbing the necklace box, I snapped it shut, blew Noah a last kiss, and ran upstairs to my mom’s office. With my free hand, I swung around the doorframe. “Hi.”

  She looked up. “Hi, sweetie. What’s up?”

  “Got you a present.”

  “And it’s not even my birthday.” She looked wary, which, understandable. Had I ever gotten her a present spontaneously? Probably not. Maybe something I should start doing. Also, now did not count as starting.

  I handed her the box, beaming. “Open it.”

  Still wary, she drew up the lid. For a moment, she stared inside the case with an expression of bewilderment, before transferring her gaze to me. “How . . . ?”

  “It’s from Noah.”

  “Noah—” Comprehension dawned, and she looked queasy. “He bought it? It sold for six figures.”

  “Don’t think about the money right now,” I said quickly. “It’s here. It’s ours. It’s yours, from O’ma.”

  “I’m still thinking about the money.”

  “His mom said to think of it as a tax-deductible charitable donation.”

  Mom snorted. “Well, then.”

  “Also they’re super rich and so it’s not such a big deal for them.”

  “I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse.”

  “It’s really just like Noah donated to refugees and happened to get a necklace at the same time—”

  Mom held up her hand. “It’s okay. You don’t have to convince me.” She tried to hand it back.

  I stepped backward. “No, it’s for you.”

  “Oh, honey, no. I’m sure Noah bought it back for you.”

  “I want you to have it.” Emotion surged through me, stronger than reason. “It should be yours.”

  “I don’t even wear jewelry—”

  “It’s from O’ma,” I said. “She would have given it to you. She would have wanted you to have it.”

  Mom blinked rapidly, then nodded. “All right.”

  I went over and kissed her cheek. “I love you.”

  She looked surprised. “I love you, too.” She looked back at the necklace. “You know . . . I can’t stop feeling like we stole this from Helen Barbanel.”

  “What?” Startlement filled me. I hadn’t felt anything of the sort.

  She nodded. “It was hers for so many years. It meant something to her. It doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  “It was O’ma’s.”

  “It was,” Mom agreed. “And it shouldn’t have been taken from her. But . . . I just feel like we shouldn’t take it from Helen. I mean, really, honey, we can do whatever you want, but I would give it back to her.”

  I stared at Mom. Give back the necklace? Helen could have bought it back instead of Noah if she’d wanted it. Noah giving it to me had felt right. Me giving it to Mom had felt right.

  But maybe giving it to Helen felt right to Mom. And I wouldn’t gainsay her, even if I didn’t understand. “Okay.”

  She pulled me into a hug, then leaned back, a smile forming. “Noah sent this to you? What do you think about that?”

  “I think we’re both working on being less dramatic about things. Though, admittedly, this was pretty dramatic.” I grinned and twisted back and forth in a little dance. “As was showing up on the doorstep.”

  “What?” She started laughing. “He’s here?”

  “Come down and meet him,” I said, taking Mom’s hand and pulling her out of her chair. “I think you’ll really like him.”

  “So you like him again? You’re happy? You look happy.”

  I smiled, embarrassed and thrilled all at once. “I’m happy.”

  “Good.” She hooked her arm through mine, and arm in arm, we walked out of her office and went toward Noah.

  Author’s Note

  My maternal grandmother arrived in the States from Paris when she was seventeen years old, right after World War II. She went to live with relatives in New York, while her eleven-year-old sister was sent to St. Louis. My O’ma loved talking about New York City, but avoided stories about the war; but since she was a teenager during those years, teenage me was obsessed with learning more.

  I drew on that curiosity for this book. Like Abby, I love history, and I’m interested in how each generation is independent and yet interconnected, and how certain issues appear time and time again, even if they wear different faces: like immigration and refugee rights, something top of my mind while I wrote this book in 2019. These are topics that will always be in our lives, and I can only hope we’ll learn to handle them with more kindness and empathy.

  In this book, I wanted to capture the magic of my childhood summers. I grew up going to the Cape every year, a land of endless seashore, rambling roses, and sandy dunes. I was later enchanted by Nantucket, an isolated island both like and unlike the towns I knew. While writing this book, I was helped by several amazing visits, talks, and books, including The Other Islanders: People Who Pulled Nantucket’s Oars by Frances Ruley Karttunen; Away Off Shore: Nantucket Island and Its People, 1602– 1890 by Nathaniel Philbrick; and a whole lot of Elin Hilderbrand and Nancy Thayer.

  I also delved into the fascinating history of Sephardic Jews in America. The first group arrived in New Amsterdam (New York) from Brazil in the 1650s, fleeing the Portuguese Inquisition. By 1763, a synagogue had been built in Newport, Rhode Island—now the oldest surviving synagogue in the US. Several Jewish Newport merchants had dealings with the town of New Bedford, MA, which was connected to Nantucket through the booming whaling trade. My invented family, the Barbanels, is based on the idea of Sephardic Jews landing in New Bedford, and then expanding to Nantucket—a bit of alternate history I truly enjoyed creating!

  Acknowledgments

  This book sold in March of 2020, a time when the whole world was shutting down, and working on it has brought a golden lining to this year. It’s been nice to have something to do between staring at my screens and staring at my ceiling. (Kidding! This book also meant staring at a screen). Jokes aside, this book has been a lifesaver, and I am deeply, deeply grateful to all the people who made it real. I am especially grateful to you, my readers. Thank you for taking a chance on me. I hope this story made you smile.

  The first step in turning my smattering of thoughts into a novel was talking it through from its very inception with my agent, Tamar Rydzinski. Thank you for always being my sounding board: for listening to all my nervous worries and endless questions. Thanks for editorial insight that is nothing short of brilliant and for always being a staunch champion of my work; I feel so incredibly lucky to work with you. Thank you, also, to my wonderful film agent, Mary Pender, for believing in this book and for championing it in Hollywood.

  A huge thanks to my editor, Jess Harriton, whose kindness, notes, and vision shaped this book into what it is today. Your warmth and excitement over this story has meant the world to me. Thanks as well to the entire team at Razorbill: I am so thrilled this book found a home with people who have cared about it so much. Thanks to Gretchen Durning, who kept me on the ball; to my publisher, Casey McIntyre, for answering all manner of questions; to Jayne Ziemba and Vanessa DeJesus and Susie Albert, for your hard work and enthusiasm. Thank you to Marinda Valenti, Abigail Powers, Maddy Newquist, and Briana Wagner for catching my millions and millions of mistakes, because it turns out that while I can write I can’t always spell. Thanks to interior designer Rebecca Aidlin and cover designer Maggie Edkins for creating such a beautiful cover and manuscript—I couldn’t be happier with it!

  My friends are my rocks. Thanks to friends-my-friends; to Annie Stone, who introduced me to Tamar and who told me you can’t actually study business at Harvard undergrad (whoops!). To Diana and Mary, who’ve listened to me freak out about literally everything under the sun. To Carlyn and Sonja for much needed Bachelor/ette and nail painting sessions. To Kayti, Nadia, Zan, Bridget, Madeleine, S
ara, Danielle, Meredith; everyone’s support and excitement made this year, especially as we took it virtual. Here’s to you and here’s to happy lamps and just, like, insane amounts of snark and emojis and all caps and book recs.

  Thanks to Rachael, Madeline, Heather, Mary, Allie, and Sam, for keeping my spirits up this year with our necessary virtual chats—even though we’re scattered across the country I still feel so close to all of you. Thanks to Emma, Laura, and Ann, for unconditional love and making me laugh as hard today as we did at sixteen. Thanks to Reiko—can’t wait to be lying in a park or strolling through a bookstore someday soon.

  Also, without doubt, I wouldn’t have come as far as I have without all my writer friends. They’ve kept me sane (or perhaps shared in my insanity). Thanks to Diana Urban, who in the beforetime had endless tea-times with me where we hashed out our books, and afterwards suffered in the cold outside a Tatte. Thanks to Akshaya Raman, for always reminding me to stand up for myself. Thanks to Julie Dao, for much-needed jaunts to the country. Thanks to Janella Angeles, for hot goss in Davis. Thanks to Jo Farrow for emails and enthusiasm and excitement. Thanks to Emily Cataneo: I wish we were doing yoga or drinking fancy cocktails right now.

  And as with every book I’ve written, thank you to Monica Jimenez, who has heard every idea and every problem with this novel (and my life) in real time, and who has sat across a hundred different tables with me as we wrote. One day we’ll be able to sit in one of the cafés of Camberville again without freezing our hands and feet off.

  Lastly, thanks to my parents, for endless love and support. I swear these characters aren’t based on you (except, of course, when they are; I can’t help that you guys have really good one-liners). Sorry there aren’t any dragons, Dad. Mom—she gave the necklace back! Love you both loads.

  About the Author

  Hannah Reynolds grew up outside of Boston, where she spent most of her childhood and teenage years recommending books to friends, working at a bookstore, and making chocolate desserts. She received her BA in Creative Writing and Archaeology from Ithaca College, which meant she never needed to stop telling romantic stories or playing in the dirt. After living in San Francisco, New York, and Paris, she came back to Massachusetts and now lives in Cambridge.