We moved trays of food from the catering trucks to tables andfridges. Trays of sharp Manchego and soft Port Salut; tiers of strawberries and pineapple and cantaloupe; watermelon and feta with sprigs of mint; asparagus and snap pea salad; bowls of olives and of hummus and of baba ghanoush; Brie baked in dough with fig jam.
I caught glimpses of the house, since the party would extend from lawn to living room. Glass light fixtures hung from the high ceilings, and sand-colored curtains framed French doors. The armchairs and sofas were upholstered in cool blues and off-whites to match the low tables. A painting of the beach hung above one fireplace; a gilded mirror above another. Potted plants and fresh cut flowers filled corners. A row of books spanned both mantelpieces.
“There’s the current CEO.” Lexi nodded at a middle-aged couple standing in the center of the yard, talking to Ms. Wilson. “Harry Barbanel and his wife.”
Harry, son of Edward, and Helen Danziger, the wealthy woman he’d married the same year he told my grandmother he loved her. Harry had lots of hair (Dad would be jealous) and dressed in Nantucket reds (known as salmon to the rest of the world). His wife wore a shiny jacket and constant smile. They looked like they belonged in a magazine.
They couldn’t have been more different from the adults in my parents’ circle, who had an argumentative, unpredictable, hippie vibe. Often, I’d wind up in a debate, and whenever I felt about to win, they’dpivotand say, “Have you considered being a rabbi? You’d make a good rabbi, you’re good at arguing. You should come to shul more,” and suddenly I’d be politely rejecting letting them plan my career trajectory (“Butwhydon’t you want to be a rabbi?”). Then we wouldn’t be talking about me at all, but the new young rabbi at temple who had given such a good sermon on elder orphans, but Joan’s neighbor didn’t like her because she was too progressive, and also did anyoneknow if the rabbi had a partner? Susan’s daughter might be a lesbian and probably they should get married.
I knew how to deal with my parents’ friends. I doubted the same methods would work on the Barbanels.
At seven, guests started arriving in droves. People in white linen pants and monochrome outfits stood in loose circles, stemless wine glasses dangling from their fingers. I circled the crowd with a tray of champagne flutes, unease curling in my stomach. Had O’ma really spent any time here? Had she laughed and tilted her head like these women? Had she stood on this lawn in an hourglass dress, her hair in curls like a character out ofThe Marvelous Mrs. Maisel?The letters had made it sound like she’d spent plenty of time here, but I couldn’t imagine it. Maybe she hadn’t visited during these parties, or maybe she’d been staff, like me.
O’ma’s life had always seemed like a story: dangerous and glamorous, and here was one more unexpected chapter, pages that I hadn’t realized had been stuck together. Had she looked as happy as everyone here did? Hard to picture. All her life, she’d seemed a little sad.
Every so often, one of the other caterers would point out a board director or a CEO. Even a senator made an appearance. “Is it always like this?” I asked Lexi when we both dropped off our trays of empty glasses at the same time. “All these famous people.”
“Everyone comes to Nantucket in the summer.”
Everyone in the one percent, maybe.
By 9:45, the party was in full swing. We’d been told to use the bathroom off the kitchen, but the wait was interminable, so I went searching for another. I wandered deeper into the house, taking in the perfectly placed mirrors on the hallway walls, the tiny tables with fresh flowers. I found another bathroom, filled with thick, lushtowels, and seashells, and prints from old newspapers. Good lord, this bathroom was better decorated than my whole room.
On my way back, I peeked down an empty hall and caught sight of framed photos and paintings. I paused.
A quick look couldn’t hurt, could it?
I walked down the hall, all my senses on alert, aware I wasn’t supposed to be here. In this part of the house, the sounds from the party were softened, muted, like they belonged to another world. What was I even looking for? A photo of O’ma? A framed letter? Ha.
A door to my right swung open.
I jumped back, but the man exiting didn’t see me as he strode in the opposite direction. The slowly closing door displayed an office with a giant painting of the ocean. A Monet-esque painting, if you would.
I stuck my foot out to stop the closing door.
And froze. Still as the girl inJurassic Parktrying to avoid detection by dinosaurs; still as Medusa’s victims after they’d been caught in her sights. Because I didn’tdothis. I didn’t break into places. I didn’t break rules.
But the painting—
A chime of laughter sounded nearby, and I dove inside and shut the door. I leaned against it, heart in overdrive and hands sweaty. I could get in so much trouble. I needed to leave. But what if I opened the door and someone saw me? And arrested me for trespassing? And threw me in jail (did Nantucket have a jail? Nantuckethadto have a jail. Who was housed in Nantucket’s jail? Tax evaders? Joyriding teens?). And what if they posted bail but no one paid and my parents were too far away—
I took a deep, calming breath, counting to ten. Okay. Breathing. Important to remember.
I walked over to the framed oil work hanging on the wall behind a massive desk.
I doubt I’ll accurately capture the light on the sea if I paint every day for the rest of my life...
But this painting had. The artist had used greens and yellows to suggest light penetrating the waters’ depths, so the ocean glowed from within. I was used to paintings where the ocean looked foreboding or refreshing; not many made me long to wade into the water.
In the bottom right corner, white script stood out against the blue. Even in scribbled cursive, the two initials were clear—anEand aB.
My hand rose as if to trace the letters, but years of museum-going stopped me short. Instead, I leaned close, holding my breath as though it might move the waves. I didn’t need any more proof. It had been Barbanel. Edward Barbanel had written my grandmother love letters.
I drew back and took in the room. It had all the hallmarks of a well-used study: papers and pens littered the desk; packed bookcases lined the walls. A luxurious carpet covered most of the dark wooden floor, but what I could see gleamed. Beneath the painting, a fireplace was set in the wall, and to the right, a window alcove with heavy velvet curtains looked like the perfect place to curl up and read.
I’d already trespassed—was it kosher to look around a little more, or should I duck out?
Okay, it probably wasn’tone hundredpercent kosher, but surely it was more like marshmallows than bacon.
