Chapter Two

Alone, I took in my first real view of Nantucket.

I laughed in surprise. I couldn’t help myself; the wharf with its shops and crowds took me aback. I’d expected the weathered charm of the Cape, but instead everything looked new and well-kept. A red-brick pedestrian street led away from the dock, lined with wooden signs pointing toward galleries and shops.

“Hi, honey.”

I turned, and there was Dad.

Emotion surged over me, so strong and powerful I almost cracked. Love and relief and resentment and happiness and anger and a deep desire to throw myself into his arms and say Hi, Daddy and cry.

Instead I lifted my chin. “Hey, Dad.”

My father, Mr. Anthony Edelman, was a quiet, almost bashful man, the kind who thought long and hard before saying anything, then said it carefully (and then never stopped talking, if he discovered he had a willing audience). He was the smartest person I knew, and his moral compass always pointed true north.

I worried about him all the time.

“Where’s your luggage?” he said, alarmed, as though I’d perhaps forgotten to pack.

“They should be bringing them out—there.” We headed to the luggage racks a ferry employee pushed out. My beat-up, twenty-year-old suitcases stood out sharply in the middle of rows of designer brands. We dragged them over to a car Dad had parked in the Stop and Shop lot.

“It’s like winning the lottery, getting a spot here,” he said proudly, easing my bags into the trunk.

“You need more exciting lotteries. Where did the car come from?” Bringing a car onto the island cost a ridiculous amount of money, so I knew Dad got around by bike and bus.

“I borrowed it from the Barbanels for the day.”

Of course he had.

I drank in the town as we drove. The buildings were taller and closer together than I’d expected. I’d imagined they’d all be rose-covered cottages with window boxes, like in the pics Dad had sent during his past three summers here. The town was large, too, multiple blocks packed with shops and restaurants. We drove down cobblestone roads, past trees incandescently green in the June sun.

When we left downtown behind, the gray-shingled cottages I’d expected flourished. Roses climbed up trellises and over doorways. I saw whale decals on walls, and pineapples, and old-timey lanterns on porches. Pink and blue hydrangea bushes grew everywhere, alongside rose hips, their bright red fruits gleaming under the sun.

“It’s pretty here.”

“Isn’t it?” Dad sounded grateful to have a conversational gambit to latch onto. “Wait until you see Surfside. And the bluff walk out in ’Sconset, we’ll have to do that.”

“Cool.”

“How did your trip go?” he asked, a cautious note in his voice. “The ferry was okay?”

I shrugged, pushing aside thoughts of Chair Boy. “It was fine.”

“And how are Aunt Lou and Uncle Jerry?”

“They’re good.”

“Excited about their trip?”

“I guess.”

He cleared his throat, his nervous tic. “I’m sorry I had to come over earlier than you.”

“It’s fine. I wanted to stay anyway, for all the graduation parties.” Dad had stayed home through my high school graduation on June eighth before peacing out for Nantucket. I’d stayed for another week at my best friend Grace’s house so I could attend my friends’ parties.

When had it become so hard to talk to him? We used to talk about everything. We’d never stopped talking.

But that had been before he started preferring Nantucket to me.

I knew I wasn’t being fair. Dad loved me, and we FaceTimed and texted when he was gone during the summers. But it wasn’t the same. Sometimes, to be perfectly honest, it felt like he’d given up. Like he’d been presented with a choice, job or daughter, and he’d decided…Eh, job.

And I kind of got it. Teens were a lot of work. And, as my aunt liked to tell me, every year I looked more and more like my mother. Maybe Dad didn’t want the reminder. Maybe it hurt to look at me. If so—couldn’t blame him for trying to find something else to look at.

But I would blame Ethan Barbanel for being the something else.

The first time I’d heard of Ethan had been my father’s first summer here. I’d been fourteen years old and desperately missing my dad.

Have you heard of Mitski?Dad had texted one day. She is a singer with a folky/rock type of music I think you would enjoy.

I’d blinked at this text several times before responding. Yes Dad I’ve heard of Mitski. How did YOU hear of her??

I have a new research assistant, Dad had said. He played one of her songs for me.

A new research assistant with good taste in music? I’d been warily prepared for this to be a good thing—Dad could certainly use someone to organize his notes—but the more I learned about Ethan Barbanel, the less he seemed like a research assistant and more like my father’s replacement child. In the last three years, my father’s preference of Ethan over me had become more and more clear, as proven by the amount Ethan showed up in texts. A few excerpts:

I know you’re not sure about which summer reading book to choose—I showed Ethan the list from your teacher and he recommends Wise Blood or Native Son

Here is a link for an app Ethan says is great for managing time

Wasn’t able to get many good pictures from the Arborids meteor shower, but here’s one Ethan took

Every time Ethan Barbanel’s name came up, hot jealousy flared in me, painful and tight, making heat prick behind my eyes. Sometimes I wondered where Ethan had even come from. I mean, I knew, technically. He belonged to a wealthy family on Nantucket, and he’d been introduced to Dad through a friend of his family’s. But for so long, it had just been me and Dad. Two peas in a pod, living our best life, going to local maker festivals and the library and watching Star Trek marathons.

And then four summers ago, Dad had gone to Nantucket to research his book on maritime cartography and arranged for me to stay with Aunt Lou. Which had been fun, at first. Aunt Lou and Uncle Jerry were great, and their house in Medford—filled with three older cousins and located on a Boston subway line—allotted me far more freedom than my home thirty minutes deeper into the suburbs. But I’d rather have Dad.

This summer, Aunt Lou and Uncle Jerry were visiting my cousin Lauren, who was spending the year on an organic farm in Costa Rica. Since I’d be eighteen in September, I’d argued I should be allowed to stay home alone, but my case fell on uninterested ears. So now, my final summer before college, I’d been shunted off to Nantucket. Now I had Dad, but in a place that belonged to him and Ethan Barbanel, not to Dad and me.

I’d just have to reclaim my place in Dad’s life, even if it was hard. Hopefully, this summer I could be Dad’s assistant. I could help him with his research, spend time with him, and show him both that he didn’t need Ethan and that I was totally competent and not messy at all.

As we drove up the road, the homes and grounds became more expansive and set further back from the road. Beyond them, the sea wrapped around us in an endless line, more ocean than I was used to seeing. At this hour, the line between sea and sky was distinct; the water was a deep rippling navy, the sky a yellowish parchment along the horizon before transitioning into translucent blue. A few long flat clouds lay low.

I’d refused to google the Barbanels or their house, Golden Doors, for the past few years. First out of resentment, and then sheer perversity; Dad might go into raptures about Ethan Barbanel, but I refused to give him a single extra neuron in my brain. Still, I thought I’d be prepared for Ethan Barbanel’s house. I knew his family had money; his house had a name, for goodness’ sake. And who but a family with a big house would be willing to take in a historian’s daughter when she was foisted on him for the summer?

But I had not been prepared for this.

My jaw dropped as we pulled up to a giant mansion, with wings and a cul-de-sac lined with crushed shells and about one million windows. This was a bad idea. This was a horrible, stomach-eating, soul-shriveling idea. “I mean it, Dad,” I said, a continuation of an argument we’d been having since it’d been decided I would come to Nantucket for the summer. “I can sleep on your floor.”

“You’ll be fine,” Dad said calmly, parking to the side of the house next to several other exceedingly shiny cars. “You’ll like it here.”

Ha. I climbed out of the car, craning my head to take in the dormer windows and widow’s walk encircling the third story. “You didn’t tell me Ethan’s family was rich rich.”

Dad sounded wry. “They are the Barbanels.”

“Huh?”

“Of Barbanel accounting?” Now he looked confused. “You have heard of Barbanel?”

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 letter shin hanging 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 felt like 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 my mother, 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 you so much 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. Several miniature 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 many bathrooms are there?”

She laughed. “Ten. Wild, right?”

Wild indeed.

Back downstairs, Dad made small talk with Ethan’s parents. Or maybe not small talk: they might be new to me, but he’d known them for years at this point. Still, Dad’s smile looked strained, so I expected he’d be happy to get out of here ASAP.

Dad had always been shy. I’d always thought he should date, but he never had. “I’m too busy,” he’d said once, when I’d asked him why he never went out. “Maybe someday.”

Fine, but someday wouldn’t arrive if he never put himself out there. Dating at Dad’s age wasn’t like it’d been in his youth: he wasn’t going to have a meet-cute in the grocery store and he didn’t hang out at bars. I’d tried to hint about dating apps, but his brow had done this thing where it drew up in a triangle in the very center, lines of worry radiating outward. I don’t need to date! he’d said, and when I’d argued he needed company, he’d countered, I have you.

Which, yes, he did for now. But I was going to college in a few months, and then what would he do?

“There you are.” Dad looked relieved as I walked over. “Ready for the grand tour of Nantucket?”

I was ready not to be in Golden Doors, wary of running into Ethan Barbanel at any second. “Sure.”

We parked on the outskirts of town before Dad led me on a very enthusiastic walking tour. Nantucket exceeded my expectations: relentlessly quaint, with flowers bursting into bloom on every corner. I loved not just the endless roses and hydrangeas, but also the window boxes with flowers I couldn’t begin to name—bursts of yellows and elegant whites and madcap, multicolor arrangements set against vibrant greenery.

Dad pointed out the library—called the Atheneum—and the Whaling Museum, and the restaurants he thought I’d like. On picturesque streets, he obligingly took pictures of me whenever I asked. Which wasn’t often, because I’d forgotten how bad Dad was at taking photos. “You have to take ten in a row,” I said, examining the single photo he’d taken of me pretending to sniff a flower. “My eyes are half closed here.”

“I like it,” he protested. “You’re laughing!”

Dad showed me a street lined with old-school mansions, pointing to a house painted white with tall, fluted columns. “This belonged to a whaling captain. It was built in 1846.” He gestured to three brick buildings across the street. “Those belong to his brothers-in-law. See how the captain’s house is much higher? On purpose! The captain wanted to literally be on higher ground than them!”

Thank god for people like Dad who appreciated history.

By six we’d worked up an appetite, and Dad led me to a restaurant’s patio. “They have great burgers here,” he said as we sat. “And the fries are really good.”

I picked up the menu, fiddled with it briefly, then put it down. “Dad, staying at the Barbanels’ house is going to be so uncomfortable.”

He sighed. “Jordan—”

“It’s weird. It’s so awkward staying in some stranger’s house.”

“They’re not strangers,” he said promptly.

“They’re strangers to me.”

“You’ll feel better once you meet Ethan,” Dad said, as though I didn’t hate Ethan Barbanel from my very tiptoes to the crown of my head. Dad checked his phone. “He should be here soon.”

My water glass clattered against the tabletop as I set it down, hard. “He’s joining us?”

Dad nodded. “I wanted you two to meet.”

My jaw dropped open, but then I shut it, swallowing my anger and frustration and all the negative feelings that spurred through me. Dad wasn’t trying to piss me off by inviting Ethan to our first dinner together. It didn’t make sense to freak out about how much time Dad lavished on Ethan instead of spending it with me. That wouldn’t be, as Aunt Lou put it, productive.

Sometimes I didn’t want to be productive.

Today, though, sure. Today we were getting along. “Neat,” I said, unable to keep from sounding 75 percent withering. I picked up my menu and held it in front of my face.

Huh. Some of these options did sound really good.

“There he is!” Dad waved. I didn’t turn because I was spiteful and petty like that, instead waiting until Dad’s prodigy had reached the table, until he was pulling out a chair and Dad was standing next to him, saying, “Ethan, I want you to meet my daughter, Jordan—”

And then I looked up and almost spat out my sip of water. Because Chair Boy stood at my father’s right hand.