Only as Ethan’s last name. “Dad, why would I know anything about accounting?”
“Fair point.” He pulled my bags out of the trunk. “In any case, yes, they’re well-off.”
No kidding. People who owned a house like this probably stuffed their mattresses with shredded Birkin bags and bathed in Jo Malone. I tugged on my skirt self-consciously, suddenly wishing I’d worn an outfit a little less attention-grabbing.
We stepped up to the door, and I noticed the mezuzah angled on the frame. It was a discreet wooden thing, not like the shiny silver one with a glittering blue lettershinhanging on my own family’s entranceway. Dad had mentioned in passing that the Barbanels were Jewish, and I wondered now if this would stress me out or make me feel at ease: if they’d feel like family, or if I’d feel like I was failing them. Dad and I weren’t very observant. We might have been, in another life, but then Mom had died.
Dad rang the doorbell.
I tightened my grip on my bags as the chime echoed through the house, shame and embarrassment washing over me. I feltlike an unwanted toy, getting stashed out of sight. Wouldn’t this family think it bizarre, me being tucked away with them? Their wealth made me feel even worse, like a poor relation being pawned off. My own father didn’t want me.
I tried to bat the thought away. Of course Dad wanted me, he just didn’t have room for me at his place. I was being melodramatic.
A woman opened the door, around Dad’s age, dressed in a faded sweatshirt and jeans. Her face brightened. “Tony! We were just talking about you. Come in.” She smiled at me as we stepped over the threshold. “You must be Jordan.”
If I must, I almost muttered, but restrained myself and gave her a tight smile. “Hi.”
Dad cleared his throat. “Stephanie, this is my daughter, Jordan. Jordan, this is Stephanie Barbanel. Ethan’s mother.”
Of course. “Thanks for letting me stay, Mrs. Barbanel.”
“Just Stephanie,” she said quickly. “There’s too many of us for anyone to go by the family name. Let me get my husband, he’ll want to say hi.” She walked down a hall, and a moment later I heard a barely stifled “Danny, they’re here!”
Dad and I waited silently in the foyer. I examined a painting of the sea, and a vase filled with roses, and the endless space dedicated solely to greeting visitors and taking off shoes. Down the hall, a giant mirror hung on the wall in a gilded frame. I’d wanted a similar one, but when I’d looked up prices, I’d choked down my desire and bought a twenty-buck Target mirror instead.
Stephanie returned with a man about her age (Danny, I presumed) and an elderly woman. “This is my husband, Dan, and mymother, Helen Barbanel,” she told me, as Dan heartily greeted my dad like they were about to go fly fishing or whatever middle-aged men did to bond.
Helen Barbanel looked at me like she was calculating my worth and finding me lacking. “Do you always dress like that?”
I plucked at my tartan skirt and raised my chin defiantly. “Like what?”
“Like a Madame Alexander doll drenched in black.”
Okay. Unexpected burn from the old lady. “Pretty much.”
“Hm.”
To my left, I could hear Dad saying, sotto voce, “Thank yousomuch for letting her stay, you have no idea how much I appreciate it.” Which made my stomach sink even further. Great. Verbal evidence of how much of a burden I was.
A girl, a few years younger than me and a few decades more innocent, came down the stairs. She had dreamy eyes and wore her long, curly hair pulled back. Her headband matched her purple gingham dress.
Ethan’s mom gestured her forward. “Miriam, show Jordan her room, please.”
“Just Miri,” she told me with a shy smile. “This way.”
“Once you put your things away, I’ll show you the town,” Dad called after me.
Miri helped me lug my suitcases upstairs to an impeccably decorated room—Cape chic, Aunt Lou would call it. Airy, lots of white and blues and pale wood. A cotton rug on the hardwood floor; a low ceiling above the twin bed and slanted ceilings to the side, with windows looking out across the front lawn. Severalminiature seaside landscapes hung on the white wall, and the packed bookcase had a model ship on top.
“Come on, I’ll show you the bathroom,” Miri said, and I followed her down the hall. “You’ll share this with me, Shira, Noah, Ethan, and David. We’re the oldest group of cousins. Well, and Oliver’s my age, but he’s in another hall.”
Ethan. Of course. “How many cousins are here?”
“Right now, practically all of us—we’re a dozen—but it’s kind of sporadic throughout the summer.”
A dozen cousins, their parents, and the occasional random guest. “How manybathroomsare there?”
She laughed. “Ten. Wild, right?”
