“It’s—” He made a frustrated noise. “I’m doing it because Iwantto. Because it’s therightthing to do. Nobody’s forcing me. While if Ruth and my grandfather were in love, the right thing to do—the thing they wanted—would have been staying together.”
“You’re splitting hairs,” I told him. “Or you’re holding yourself to a higher standard than you’re holding other people. If you think Edward should have been able to choose someone he loved,youshould also be allowed to choose something you love.”
He shook his head, but his expression was troubled.
We reached the beach, one I hadn’t been to before, with less people, more wilderness. The ocean melded with the sky. Our bare feet curved over smooth shells and rocks embedded in the wet, packed sand, our toes and heels leaving faint impressions. Today you could smell the seaweed strongly, pungent and alive and foreign.
At the water’s edge, Noah stepped into the surf. He waded forward until the rush of water hit his calves, surging and curling around them before continuing on and breaking in a white froth. His chin floated up and his shoulders relaxed down. I followed, slower, the cold of the bracing water pebbling my skin with goosebumps.
“When I was a kid,” he said when I drew up beside him, “coming to Nantucket was like escaping to some magic wonderland—likeNarnia... I feel like I can breathe easier here, by the water, than anywhere else.”
“Like the ocean will drain away all your concerns?”
He shook his head, his profile unflinching. “No, like there aren’t any concerns. Like nothing else exists.”
“Sounds a bit alarming.”
“It’s not. It’s... freeing. Like everything is on hold.”
I looked out at the water, and I could understand what he meant, the meditative nature of the waves, the ceaseless push and pull of the tide, the world of blue. My tension drained away, same as when I entered a bookstore. I glanced at Noah, and saw his face free of lines or tension. “Why do you feel like it’s your job to take care of your grandparents? Why isn’t that your parents’ job?”
He hesitated. “I guess it’s all of ours. And I’ve always been close to my grandma. I was the first grandkid—me, then my cousin Shira—and our grandmother spent a lot of time with us. We all lived within the same few blocks, and we’d go over to her place when our parents and our grandfather worked. You know how Nancy said my grandfather’s mom, Eva, wasn’t very demonstrative? Well, neither is my grandma. But she’d do things for us. Shira loves skating, so we’d go to Rockefeller Center, even though Grandma despised touristy things, and she took us to Disney on Ice and on day trips out of the city so Shira could skate on ponds.
“And she’d take me to the botanical gardens, up in the Bronx, and we’d spend whole afternoons with her teaching me to identify trees by their leaves and bark, and watching videos about how dandelions transformed into white puffs. So yeah. I feel like now it’s my turn to makeherhappy. And making her happydoesmake me happy.” He started moving again, feet slapping the hard sand as we walked parallel to the ocean.
“Is that why you’re so fixed on whether our grandparents were in or out of love?” In the distance, closer to the dunes than the water, a strange collection of driftwood caught my eye. “Not because you hate the idea of your grandfather giving up on love, but because you’re defensive of your grandmother? And you hate the idea of her marrying someone who didn’t love her?”
“Neither makes sense,” he said stubbornly. We left the hard, packed sand for the hills and valleys of soft grains. “If you love someone, you stay together.”
We reached the driftwood. Pieces of wood were laid out in a circular maze, and in the center, a wooden enclosure had been built by boards stuck in the stand, forming a wall five or six feet high. Noah headed between the two charred wooden planks standing sentinel at the maze’s beginning.
I followed. There were no junctures in the maze, just a winding path leading us close to the center, then away, then closer still. “I think it’s time to talk to your grandfather. I don’t think we’re going to get answers any other way.”
He turned back to me with a startled, almost betrayed expression. “You promised me a month.”
“Well, I think we’re at a pretty obvious block, don’t you? What else can we find out without talking to him? We don’t have to make a big deal out of it. Noah, please.”
He gazed at me, wrangling with something internal, then turned away and continued walking. The path only allowed for single file, so his voice drifted back as we walked. “My grandparents’ relationship is... strained.”
Oh.“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want to screw it up.” He blew out a breath. “He’s always doing things like missing anniversary dinners or birthdays for work.Or last year, when Grandma’s best friend died and she wanted to go over for shiva every day, Grandpa didn’t. It was... rough. Shira and I went instead. I worry if my grandmother learns aboutyourgrandmother, it’ll be the last straw.”
“But she must know already, right? I can’t imagine anyone has any secrets after so long.”
“You’d never heard about Nantucket from your grandmother.”
Fair point.
We turned inward again, and this time the path didn’t zigzag or pull back—it led straight to the wooden enclosure in the center of the circle. One edge of the wall overlapped with the other, forming a narrow entrance, and we squeezed inside.
Soft sand filled the enclosure, and in the center, hundreds of pieces of sea glass filled a hollow—green and white and blue. Lucky stones, black with white bands, rimmed the pit, and other things: dried flowers and half-burned candles and seaweed.
I knelt down, sand pressing into my knees, and scooped my hand through the sea glass. “Who do you think did this?”
He sat down next to me. “Who knows.”
“When I was little, my dad and I would search for lucky stones on the beach. We didn’t stop looking until we found one, every time.”
