He shot me an impatient look.
Why so interested?Jane had said when I asked about the Barbanel house, and Evan—wealthy, summer-people Evan, who ran in these circles—had said,Noah? “You’re a Barbanel.”
He nodded. “Be a little weird if someone outside the party ducked in here, wouldn’t it.”
A strange sensation swept through me—déjà vu, though of course we’d never seen each other before. “You’re Edward Barbanel’s grandson.”
“So?”
I laughed, a little frantically. “It’s just funny, is all. You. And me. Here.”
He looked at me like I was insane. “What?”
I gestured. “The painting captures the light on the water.”
“Is italwaysthis difficult to talk with you?”
The doorknob rattled, and we both jumped. Noah glared at the door like he could will the outsider away. Instead, a girl’s voice made its way in. “Noah! I know you’re there. Your dad wants you, like, yesterday.”
Noah sighed and opened the door. A girl a year or two younger than me squeezed in. “Uncle Bertie wouldn’t say—” She stopped, and her tone shifted. “Oh.”
Noah groaned. “Tell them I’ll be there soon.”
She ignored him and studied me. Against her, I definitely came up lacking. She wore a black dress with colorful flowers embroidered along the hem, and had curls the glossy brown of tempered chocolate. My own hair frizzed à la Anne Hathaway in the first half ofThe Princess Diaries, and even after I’d learned the First Hair Commandment (finger comb instead of brushing your hair post shower), my curls still dissolved as the day went on. She narrowed her eyes. “Who are you?”
“Abby. Hi.”
She regarded me critically. “Are you... on the catering team?”
“Um.” I tried to push my glasses up and poked my nose bridge. Right. I’d worn my contacts today. “Sort of.”
“Okay.” She turned an expressive gaze on Noah—you’re making out with the help?“I’ll tell Uncle Harry you’ll be there in five. You owe me.”
After she left, I spread my hands. “Seems like you really have to go.”
“You’re going to tell me more about this. Tomorrow.” He pulled out his cell. “What’s your number?”
I typed it into his phone. “I’m working tomorrow, though.”
“I’ll meet you after. Where and when?”
“Five. I’m at the Prose Garden.”
He frowned. “You work at a bookstore as well as catering?”
“Oh. Um.” I swallowed. “The catering is more of a—one-off thing.”
He let out an exasperated breath. “You had better have a damn good excuse for being here, Abigail Schoenberg.”
“I do. I swear I do.”
Did intense curiosity count as an excuse?
I was so very, very screwed.
Four
March 30, 1958
