Hesitantly—as though walking with caution would make my actions any better—I moved to the bookcases, scanning the spines. Nonfiction all: books on business and history and accounting. Fun. Farther down, I noticed flatter spines with handwriting. Binders. Iknelt on the ground, tilting my head to see the labels more clearly.1990–1994. 1994–1996. 1997.
Albums. Dozens of them.
And these were the most recent ones. A dozen more sat on the shelf below, and my eyes jumped to them, almost faster than my mind. I was afraid to hope, afraid to think they would go back so far—
1947–51.
My breath caught so quickly it felt like my heart had been hooked on a rib. The letters had begun in 1952. 1951 might have been the year O’ma visited Nantucket. Almost reverently, I pulled the album into my lap and opened the green cover.
Not an album—a scrapbook. Small, square sepia-toned photos filled most pages, with the occasional colorful postcard or paper pressed between the plastic. Strangers smiled up at me, women with bouffant hairstyles, men with cigars—
O’ma.
The photo captured her in a moment of laughter. Her perfectly curled hair blew in the wind, and her dark lips were parted. She must have been around my age, skin unlined and eyes wide. I barely recognized her. Wide-legged jeans buttoned high around her ribcage, and a short-waisted, high-collared jacket finished the outfit.
She looked so young.
And soalive. In her last years, she’d been small and frail. Who was this vibrant girl who’d been so in love, who’d come to this island and left it and never spoken of it again? I’d known my grandmother; I’d known Ruth Cohen, who’d baked pies and spun stories and complained about air-conditioning, but I didn’t know this bold, bright young Goldman girl, who didn’t have a husband and a daughter and a granddaughter and a condo in Florida. Whowasshe?
“What are you doing?”
I screamed.
Just a little scream, shrill and quickly silenced. I twisted so quickly I toppled off-balance and sprawled on my back. The ceiling spun as I tried to catch my breath.
A boy my age stood in the doorway, limned by light. He stepped inside and closed the door.
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Hi.” Scrambling to kneel—why was I such a hot mess?—I shoved the album back onto the shelf and jumped to my feet.
A thunderous frown crossed his face. “Who are you?”
He was alarmingly good-looking, in the kind of way that meant I never would have spoken to him normally, with bronzed skin and dark eyes and cheekbones sharp enough to slice hearts in half. He wore navy slacks and a white sweater. In one hand, he held a single flower with petals both yellow and purple.
“I’m—I’m, um...” Crimson embarrassment crept up my cheeks. I didn’t dare name the catering company for fear of getting them in trouble. “I’m a cleaner. I’m cleaning.”
“And all I wanted was some peace and quiet,” he murmured, looking skyward before pinning me with his gaze again. “You’re cleaning.”
I winced. “Yes?”
“The study.”
In for a penny. “Yes.”
“In the middle of a party.” His voice was low, almost melodic, as he coolly unraveled my story. “Without any cleaning supplies.”
Right. Hm. “It’s a—new. Kind. Of cleaning.”
He lifted his brows in a mute response.
“I’m studying the room to see what I need in order to clean it.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
I know, right?I almost said. Instead, I sagged against the desk and spread my hands apologetically.
“Are you a thief?”
“No! God, no, I don’tstealthings.”
