“He knows we both like the band. He was being nice.”
“I don’t think people smile so hard when they’re being ‘nice.’ We should go.”
Her eyes narrowed. Dangerously. Enough to make me suspicious. “What are you thinking?”
“Just... wondering if we should invite the group.”
“No. Definitely not. You’re not inviting Pranav and then flirting with Mason to make him jealous.”
“What, who, me? God, Abby. So suspicious.”
“Mason seems really nice, you should give him a chance.”
“You literally don’t know anything about him.”
“Um. True. But he likes the same music as you! Clearly the mark of a brilliant mind.”
“You’re trying too hard.”
“It’s one of my many failings.”
“Okay.” She heaved a huge sigh, as though doing me a favor. “We’ll go.”
When the bakery got too busy, I headed out. The sky had splintered, letting out a loose, slow drizzle. I still had a few hours left before my shift at the Prose Garden, so I headed to Nantucket’s town hall.
Twice in the letters, E had mentioned a woman named Nancy:I ran into Nancy on Main Street todayandwhen you and Nancy snuck into Tom’s house.So I got a hold of several phone books from throughout the years and started calling.
In general, I hated calling people, though it was, according to my mother, a Necessary Life Skill (Mom called our senators and representatives on a rolling basis to tell them how to do their job better. I’d only escaped having to do this myself because I couldn’t vote yet, but I was fairly certain Mom planned to present me with a packet of phone numbers and scripts on my eighteenth birthday, like a political fairy tale).
So it was good practice, calling up Nancy after Nancy and asking if they’d known a woman named Ruth Goldman in the 1950s. I called them before work, during my work break, and after work, sitting on the sofa in Mrs. Henderson’s living room with Ellie Mae curled beside me. Outside, the skies had opened completely and a downpour drenched the world. I hung up the phone and dialed again.Each subsequent call became easier, especially since they all went the same way, with each Nancy politely letting me down.
Until one didn’t.
“I did know Ruth,” Nancy Howard told me. “When we were children.”
I sat up straighter on the couch, my hand stilling on Ellie Mae’s head. She swiveled her snout toward me, confused that the pets had stopped. “Really?”
“For years. You say you’re her granddaughter?”
“Yeah. I’m trying to find out more about her life on Nantucket...”
When we hung up, I was practically shaking. My first real success. Well, other than the whole Barbanel situation.
And speaking of...
Noah had told me to keep him informed about what I planned to do next in my search for O’ma’s history, but how much had he meant it? Did he want me texting him? But. What did I care what Noah Barbanel thought of me? “Get yourself together, Abigail,” I muttered, and shot off a message.
Found a woman who used to know my grandma—going to see her tomorrow if you’re interested
I’m in, when?
I told her I’d see her at 4 if that works?
Yeah sounds good
Can we take your car? She’s in Madaket
Using me for free rides, Schoenberg?
