The Summer of Lost Letters

by Hannah Reynolds

  “You knew your grandmother had the necklace, and you didn’t say anything.”

  He shook his head, putting his foot on the first of the gazebo’s three steps. I moved backward into a pool of light let in from the roof’s cupola. “I thought you were wrong. I thought you were digging into my family’s history, into our possessions. I thought it was my grandmother’s necklace.”

  “But it wasn’t your grandmother’s, it was mine.”

  “I didn’t know!”

  “Well, then, why didn’t we talk about it? Why didn’t you say, ‘Oh yeah, that necklace. I know it,’ instead of letting me flounder blindly?”

  “Because we barely even knew each other.”

  I drew back as though struck. “I see.”

  He moved forward. “Don’t. Don’t withdraw.”

  “Why shouldn’t I? God, Noah! What about later, when we did know each other? We had dinner with your family, and Shabbat—we went sailing together, we talked to the rabbi, we ate hundreds of ice cream cones—you made me think we were friends and you were helping me and you knew where it was the entire time. Were you just trying to throw me off course?

  “No!” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I mean, yes, when we started this, I was trying to keep you from getting too close. And then—I was trying to decide what the right thing to do was. I was trying to protect them.”

  “Well, good,” I said. “You succeeded. You protected your family and kept your secrets, good job. You could have kept my grandmother’s necklace, too, if yours hadn’t insisted on wearing it.”

  “God, Abigail, obviously I would have told you now. After learning the necklace belonged to your grandmother.”

  “Sure,” I said scornfully. I was so hot, so terribly, terribly hot. The only way to protect myself was to ice over, a shell of unyielding cold. “Which is why you said something right away instead of taking a shot of champagne.”

  “I was processing.”

  “How long does it take you to process? Dammit, Noah.” I gripped my skirt, fingers crushing the pale tulle. My voice went high and tight. “You didn’t even tell me after Boston.”

  His face softened and he reached for me. “Abigail—”

  I stumbled back. My face was hot and my heart fast as a hummingbird. “You don’t keep secrets like this.”

  “By Boston—I thought it was a moot point. It didn’t matter. We’d figured out—we thought the necklace belonged to my grandfather. Why add fuel to the fire?”

  “It’s about trust, Noah. And being honest.”

  “It would have upset you.”

  “Then upset me! I’d rather be upset than oblivious! God!” I raked my hands through my hair. “You should have told me. You shouldn’t have pretended to help me when you weren’t.”

  “I was trying to balance—”

  “But you didn’t, Noah. You didn’t balance me and your family. You chose them.” I shook my head. “You know what? You’re right. We barely knew each other. We still barely know each other.” I summoned the ice again, stiffening my spine and lifting my chin. “I want it back.”

  “What?” He almost looked confused.

  “I want the necklace back.”

  “You’re being impulsive—”

  “Don’t tell me what I’m doing or being. It’s my grandma’s, isn’t it? She asked for it back. She told him to send it to her, and he refused.”

  “That was ages ago.”

  “And so was Elgin stealing the Parthenon’s marbles, and so was the Rosetta Stone, and it’s still a terrible excuse.” Maybe those weren’t the strongest examples, given how the British Museum still hadn’t returned the items to Greece or Egypt. “I want it.”

  “It’s been my grandmother’s for fifty years!”

  “And who knows how many years it was in my family for? Either you can talk to your family, or I will.”

  “Abigail—” He grabbed my arm.

  I shook him off. “I mean it, Noah.” I pushed past him, back through the rose garden, barely keeping it together as I reemerged onto the lawn. The guests smiling faces blended in a chaotic, maddening mess, a swirl of too-bright eyes and high-pitched laughter. I stumbled through them, heading toward the front.

  I hadn’t meant to confront Helen Barbanel. I really hadn’t.

  But when then she was in front of me, in her blue gown like an ice queen. The jewels glittered at her neck. The words burst out of me. “Why did you say your husband gave my grandmother the necklace?”

  “Excuse me?” She turned her cool, impenetrable gaze on me.

  “I know it’s not true. I found an old photo of my grandmother wearing the necklace.”

  Her expression didn’t even flicker. “What do you mean, dear?”

  “A photo from when she was a child. It was Ruth’s necklace. It was always her necklace.”

  Helen tilted her head, a pitying smile on her face. “It belonged to Edward’s mother. Ruth probably borrowed it to try on.”

  “No.” I stood my ground. “This photo is from before she ever came to Golden Doors.” I turned my phone toward her. “See?”

  She took my phone. Blinked. “What is this?”

  “It’s from the Holtzman House in New York City. From when my grandmother arrived there as a kid.”

  Her mouth parted. “How did she get that necklace?”

  “Probably from her family before she came over.” Why would she lie to me? I’d known she didn’t like me, but you couldn’t just lie.

  “No.” Helen shook her head. Her voice was oddly hollow, surprise echoing through her words. “It was from Edward.”

  “Oh.” A terrible inkling slipped up the back of my spine.

  “He gave it to me. It was his mother’s.”

  I stared at her.

  Helen’s lips pressed together, so like her grandson’s. Then she handed my phone back, and her motions became precise and sharp. “Come along. I believe we both need some questions answered.”

  Twenty-Six

  Helen swept across the crowded lawn and I followed in her wake. No one seemed to notice the fury in every line of her body. She paused in front of her husband, who sat in a chair facing two older men. “If you’ll excuse us,” she said to the pair, her bearing regal. “I need a moment with my husband.”

  They practically bowed as they left.

  Helen Barbanel did not sit. Instead, she towered over her husband, righteous fury in a sky-blue gown. Her voice didn’t tremble when she spoke, but I could see the quiver in her fingers as she unclasped the necklace. She held it up. “This young lady says the necklace never belonged to you.”

  Edward Barbanel closed his eyes.

  “Is this true?” his wife pressed. “This necklace doesn’t belong to your family? It came from Ruth Goldman?”

  Still he said nothing.

  “Answer me,” Helen hissed, so low none of the nearby guests could overhear. “Or at least tell me it’s not true.”

  He groaned, deep in his throat.

  She sucked in a deep breath, then turned to me. Pulling my hand from my side, she pressed the necklace into it. “Take it.”

  I stood stock-still.

  She turned back on her husband. “I am not a thief, Edward Barbanel. You’ve embarrassed me.” She strode away, flinging herself back into her guests with a wide smile and a laugh as bright and cold as diamonds.

  Leaving me facing Edward Barbanel. I blinked at the elderly man, then looked down at the sparkling pendants in my grasp. “Do you . . . what . . .” I held it out to him uncertainly.

  He turned his head away. “Go,” he said.

  So I did. I stuffed the necklace in my pocket, and walked right out of the party. With shaking fingers, I summoned a car, then tried to calm myself by taking giant, gulping breaths and staring up at the moon.

  “Abigail.
”

  I turned. Noah stood behind me. His hair was tousled, by his fingers or the wind, his expression bleak. “You’re not leaving?”

  I was so mad at him. I didn’t know if my anger was rational or ridiculous, but it was there, a deep-seated, unyielding fury. A sense of betrayal and humiliation. He’d known what I wanted and treated it as unimportant. Fine. I didn’t need that in my life.

  “Can we talk about this?”

  “No.”

  “Abigail.” He strode closer. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “So leave.” I turned away from him.

  He stepped in front of me. “We can’t end things like this—”

  “Actually, we can. Pretty sure this is what we call a deal breaker.”

  “You think I should have picked you over my grandparents? My family? The company?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you made the right choice for you. But you didn’t make the right choice for us. Lies and distrust are no foundation for a relationship.”

  “Neither is breaking into someone’s house! But people change.”

  “But you didn’t change enough, clearly. You didn’t trust me, or you would have told me.”

  “You are so goddamn proud.”

  I shrugged.

  “What will it take to get over this?”

  I quenched my molten anger in ice, turning it hard as tempered steel. “We’re not going to get over this. Look, we had a good run. But we’re done.”

  He stared at me. “You’re breaking up with me because of this?”

  I shrugged again and wrapped my arms around my stomach. If my shell cracked, I would dissolve into a puddle, which I couldn’t handle right now. I couldn’t put myself back together if I let myself break. Instead, I started to uproot my emotions, pulling back each tendril I’d wrapped tightly around Noah. “We should have known this wouldn’t work. We’re too different.”

  He frowned furiously. “You’re scared, Abigail Schoenberg. Scared to really put yourself out there.”

  “And you’re confused. You think this is all about you? It’s not.” I pulled the necklace out and gestured with it wildly. “Maybe the happy ending to this summer isn’t a cute little love story but a family heirloom reclaimed.”

  We both flinched, gazes locked. Neither of us had used the word love before.

  He stepped closer. “You think you’d be happier without me?”

  And because I knew how to aim words like arrows, I said, “Yes. I do.”

  “You’re wrong.” His jaw worked. “You’re wrong and you’re too proud to admit it.”

  “Well, it doesn’t really matter, does it?” I said, making my tone cold enough to freeze the ocean. “It’s not your call to make.”

  “You’ll make yourself miserable, Abigail.” He was cold now, too, chilly as the longest night.

  “That’s my choice.”

  He cursed low and hard. “We’re not going to be able to see each other again and work this out, you know. My flight’s at ten a.m. tomorrow.”

  I shrugged. “Fine.”

  “It’s not fine. None of this is fine.” He stared at me. “You’re fine?”

  If I spoke, I would break, so I only nodded.

  He closed off, iced over. “Fine.” He nodded at the necklace. “I hope you’re happy.”

  I wanted to hit him with it.

  “Goodbye, Abigail.” He turned on his heel and walked back into the house.

  I wanted to scream after him. I wanted to hurl the necklace at his head. I wanted to fall into a puddle on the ground and cry and wait until he came back. Because already, I wanted him to come back.

  Instead I gathered myself together and looked at my phone. Two more minutes until my car got here. I looked at the moon and tried to breathe.

  * * *

  At home, I curled up in my bed and hugged Sad Elephant to my chest.

  Moments of the summer flashed through my mind. Standing in the garden at Golden Doors for the first time, looking at butterflies, the sad look on Noah’s face when he’d said, Thus, the monarchs. Walking through the driftwood maze; handing him a lucky stone. Quien no sabe de mar, no sabe de mal. Meandering through the Arboretum in Boston; leaning against the bridge’s railing over the Charles. The whisper of velvet curtains. The glowing ocean.

  Usually, I wasn’t moved to tears by real-life events. I remained stoic and suppressed (thanks, New England reserve!). Then, when I was deep in the safety of a book and came across an emotional scene, I would cry deep, wrenching tears, out of proportion with the text. The tears would dissolve the calcified lump of emotion I’d been carrying around, leaving me hollow and shaky. Then I’d continue reading, and the book would fill me back up, restoring my levels like an aquifer pouring into low rivers. They were aquifers of emotions, books. They were miracles.

  Now I tried to pick up my novel, but I couldn’t make the words move. I couldn’t replace my mind with the words on the page. Instead, my e-reader fell to my side, and tears leaked onto the pillow in a great, damp spread. No words could regulate my emotions, could tell me when to cry and when to hope. Instead, nothing stopped the tears, and they came jagged and constant all through the long night, and even my books couldn’t comfort me.

  * * *

  I didn’t want to tell my parents what had happened.

  Telling them would be embarrassing—Noah and I had barely been together, and now we were over. Worse, it would make the breakup feel real. And worst, they’d be sympathetic, and sympathy might make me crack open.

  But better to tell them than risk a question about how Noah was doing. I did it at the end of our next Zoom call, attempting to keep my voice light and detached. “One other thing—Noah and I broke up.”

  Mom straightened on the couch, shock on her face. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. What happened?”

  I shrugged. No way I could keep from crying if I got into it. “It doesn’t matter. He’s going to college in the fall, anyway. It wouldn’t have made sense.”

  “Oh, sweetie, I wish I could hug you.” Mom’s face and voice were a canvas of tragedy. Beside her, Dad rubbed her shoulder, looking distressed.

  “It’s okay,” I said quickly. “My friends are being great. And we really only dated for a few weeks.”

  “But you really liked him.”

  I shrugged again, wrapping my arms around my chest. “Yeah. But I’m fine.”

  “You don’t have to be fine, Abigail.” Mom looked worried.

  “I guess. I will be, though.”

  “I know you will. You’re so strong, honey.”

  “Yeah. Okay. I just figured I should tell you. I’m going to go to bed now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I couldn’t take any more of her sympathy or I’d start bawling. “Yeah. I’ll see you soon.”

  “We love you, honey,” Dad said, his quiet, measured voice the straw that made the camel weep.

  “Love you, too,” I managed to get out, and hung up right before the tears came once more.

  * * *

  I wasn’t actually sure I’d be fine.

  I hadn’t wondered if I’d been in love with Noah until now, because falling in love was terrifying and immense and best left to adults, not seventeen-year-olds with overactive imaginations. But when I broke down while walking on the beach, when snot ran down my face as I howled like a wounded wolf, I didn’t have to wonder. When I waited for Jane’s breath to fall into the rhythmic cadence of sleep so I could sob with Sad Elephant in my arms, I didn’t wonder. “I loved him,” I whispered, ragged and broken. “I love him.”

  And because I wasn’t unaware of my melodramatic nature, I told myself other things, too: “You’re being stupid and pathetic. Get a grip. You’re seventeen, this is so normal as to be unnoteworthy.”

  “But I loved him.”

  “’Tis b
etter to have loved and lost. This is a good life experience. A growth opportunity.”

  “But he was supposed to love me back. He wasn’t supposed to let me walk away.”

  “You literally told him to. You were mean. Why would he stay with you?”

  Honestly, I felt a bit like Gollum.

  Stella took me out for ice cream. “You have to be as nice to yourself as you’d be to a friend,” she told me, serious as I’d ever seen her. “That’s what my therapist says.”

  “I guess.”

  “Not ‘I guess.’ I mean it. Moping doesn’t make you stupid. You got hurt. You’re allowed to feel feelings.”

  “What if I don’t want to?”

  “Ah.” She crunched on her cone. “There you’re out of luck.”

  I had my last shift at the Prose Garden the next day. Liz baked me a miniature cake, and Maggie gave me earrings of dangling stacked books. “Come back next summer,” Maggie invited. “We’ll let you choose one of the book-club books.”

  I launched myself at her, and after a surprised moment, she hugged me back. “Thank you,” I told her, then hugged Liz, too. “You guys have been amazing.”

  I expected that to be the most memorable part of the day, but an hour later, Edward Barbanel showed up in the bookstore’s doorway, dressed in jeans, a sweater, and a windbreaker, as though it wasn’t eighty degrees outside. Seeing him outside his home jarred me; he looked much frailer than when seated behind his massive desk or at the head of the table, surrounded by the home and family he’d built over decades.

  Great. What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t exactly be rude to a ninety-year-old man when I wasn’t fueled by rage. “Hello, Mr. Barbanel.”

  “Abigail.” He smiled at me, the expression unexpected on his weathered face. “Do you have a moment to talk?”

  Did I have a moment to talk with my ex-boyfriend’s grandfather who’d stolen my grandmother’s necklace? “I’m working right now . . .”

  “It’ll only take a minute. Where can we sit?”