{"product_id":"the-summer-of-lost-letters-isbn-9780593349748","title":"The Summer of Lost Letters","description":"\u003cb\u003ePerfect for fans of Morgan Matson and Ruta Sepetys, this sweet, summery romance set in Nantucket follows seventeen-year-old Abby Schoenberg as she uncovers a secret about her grandmother's life during WWII.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSeventeen-year-old Abby Schoenberg isn't exactly looking forward to the summer before her senior year. She's just broken up with her first boyfriend and her friends are all off in different, exciting directions for the next three months. Abby needs a plan—an adventure of her own. Enter: the letters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey show up one rainy day along with the rest of Abby's recently deceased grandmother's possessions. And these aren't any old letters; they're \u003ci\u003elove\u003c\/i\u003e letters. Love letters from a mystery man named Edward. Love letters from a mansion on Nantucket. Abby doesn't know much about her grandmother's past. She knows she was born in Germany and moved to the US when she was five, fleeing the Holocaust. But the details are either hazy or nonexistent, and these letters depict a life that is a bit different than the quiet one Abby knows about.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo Abby heads to Nantucket for the summer to learn more about her grandmother and the secrets she kept. But when she meets Edward's handsome grandson, who wants to stop her from investigating, things get complicated. As Abby and Noah grow closer, the mysteries in their families deepen, and they discover that they both have to accept the burdens of their pasts if they want the kinds of futures they've always imagined.\u003cb\u003eA 2022 Sydney Taylor Honor Book\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Summer of Lost Letters\u003c\/i\u003e by Hannah Reynolds is an absolute gem. It’s a story full of love, family, and secrets, told with humor and wisdom. I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough. Spend a perfect Nantucket summer with \u003ci\u003eThe Summer of Lost Letters\u003c\/i\u003e.” \u003cb\u003e—Nancy Thayer, best-selling author of \u003ci\u003eFamily Reunion\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A charming and romantic story of family secrets and buried history, \u003ci\u003eThe Summer of Lost Letters\u003c\/i\u003e wonderfully captures the sun-soaked salt-air days of New England summers and the crackling anticipation of first love. This is the perfect summer read!” \u003cb\u003e—Cameron Lund, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Best Laid Plans\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Summer of Lost Letters\u003c\/i\u003e has it all—family secrets, mystery, and romance! Hannah Reynolds hit home with this heartwarming story about researching your roots and finding love.” \u003cb\u003e—Simone Elkeles, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003ePerfect Chemistry\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An idyllic summer beach read that beckons readers to follow Abby and Noah as they explore their families' tangled histories. So romantic and charming!” \u003cb\u003e—Jenn Bennett, author of \u003ci\u003eChasing Lucky\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“This is a confection that will leave readers eager for a summer in Nantucket and their own perfect romance.” \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The dialogue bubbles with wit (think \u003ci\u003eGilmore Girls),\u003c\/i\u003e the Nantucket setting gives a gorgeous backdrop, and the book leans into improbable serendipity with irresistible glee. A breezy read to toss into the beach bag for a long summer day.” \u003cb\u003e—BCCB\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Filled with history, romance, and adventure, Reynolds’ young-adult debut smoothly blends historical elements with romantic summer escapades.” \u003cb\u003e—Booklist\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A blend of romance, history, and a coming-of-age narrative. A fun summer read.” \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"This book is part detective story, part summer romance. An enjoyable read.\" \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Connection\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eHannah Reynolds grew up outside of Boston, where she spent most of her childhood and teenage years recommending books to friends, working at a bookstore, and making chocolate desserts. She received her BA in creative writing and archaeology from Ithaca College, which meant she never needed to stop telling romantic stories or playing in the dirt. After living in San Francisco, New York, and Paris, she came back to Massachusetts and now lives in Cambridge.\u003cp\u003eThe doorbell rang in the middle of a storm.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe rain pounded against the eaves, nearly drowning the chimes out. Sheets of water streamed across the living room’s French doors, distorting the yard and forest into shifting blurs of green and brown. March in New England might officially be springtime, but in reality it was chilly and wet and dark.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI sat curled on the sofa, reading \u003ci\u003eRebecca\u003c\/i\u003e by Daphne du Maurier.The combination of gothic novel and weather had me on edge, despite the room’s bright lights and my steaming mug of peppermint tea. Mom and Dad wouldn’t be home for hours; they’d gone to a town hall meeting, which basically counted as a date night in their world. My brother, Dave, was sleeping over at his best friend’s house. Mom had worried about leaving me home alone, but I’d shooed her and Dad away; my parents deserved a night out. Besides, I liked having the house to myself.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMost of the time.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe chime sounded again while I stayed frozen on the couch, book clutched in both hands, heart racing. No one had ever accused me of being sensible (“You have a \u003ci\u003etad\u003c\/i\u003e of an overactive imagination,” Dad often said, holding his thumb and forefinger a hair’s breadth apart)—­but honestly, who wouldn’t at least \u003ci\u003econsider\u003c\/i\u003e whether a doorbell during a storm heralded a serial killer?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBest not be a sitting duck for my prospective murderer. I padded through the house toward the front door, positioning my back against the wall as I craned my neck to peer out a window.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA USPS truck lingered in the driveway, headlights cutting through the rain, and a figure dashed toward the cab and leaped inside. The truck backed away and sped into the dark.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eOh. Cool.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnxiety draining out of me, I opened the inner door to the mudroom, a small, chilly space filled with umbrellas and boots. My toes curled as they hit the cold stone floor. I quickly unlocked the outer door, and wet wind lashed at me. The trees in the front yard bowed back and forth under the gust. A rain-­splattered box sat on the stoop. I grabbed it and retreated inside, locking both doors and carrying the box to the living room.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eDr. Karen Cohen, 85 Oak Road, South Hadley, Massachusetts,\u003c\/i\u003e the address read. Mom. The sender: \u003ci\u003eCedarwood House.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMade sense. O’ma’s nursing home had told us they’d be sending over a box of her stuff recently found when cleaning out her closet. I could wait for Mom to come home before opening it. Which a less nosy, more respectful daughter would do.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOr.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eGot the box of O’ma’s stuff! \u003c\/i\u003eI texted. \u003ci\u003eWill let you know if it contains secret riches.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI slit the packing tape with a key from the kitchen odds-­and-­endsdrawer. The box flapped open to reveal a cursory note from the nursing home and a brown-­paper-­wrapped package. Now I hesi­tated. This had been O’ma’s, this twine-­tied bundle, something she’d packed away so long ago it had been forgotten. Carefully, I tugged the brittle bow loose, then unfolded the brown paper. At the core lay the treasure: a pile of envelopes, all addressed to Ruth Goldman. O’ma’s maiden name.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBright curiosity cut through me. A hundred things could be inside. We knew so little about O’ma’s life, especially from before she met O’pa. Ruth Goldman instead of Ruth Cohen. Who had she been?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI knelt on the living room floor and spread the envelopes in an arc, marveling at the thick parchment and the way the ink bled into the fine weave of the paper. Fifty envelopes at a guess, with a Lower East Side address.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe envelopes didn’t have return addresses.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI picked up the first envelope and slid the letter out. Neat, slanted writing filled the page. \u003ci\u003eMy darling Ruth,\u003c\/i\u003e it began. \u003ci\u003eI still can’t believe you’re gone. I keep looking out the window expecting the car to pull up and you to emerge and say this has all been a mistake. Please come home soon.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eO’pa\u003c\/i\u003e, I thought, though it didn’t sound anything like how my gruff, funny German grandfather had sounded. My eyes slid to the date in the righthand corner: \u003ci\u003eJune 1st, 1952\u003c\/i\u003e. O’ma would have been eighteen. A year older than me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI flipped to the back of the letter for the signature. \u003ci\u003eLove, E.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eO’pa’s name was Max.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI scanned the next letter.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eMy dear Ruth,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eIt has been too long since I last saw you. Yesterday I walked through the garden and saw a cardinal on the trellisand thought of the kisses we used to steal. I can’t even look up at the widow’s walk without remembering the way you used to pace there . . .\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWow. The most romantic letter I’d ever received had been a text from Matt last year saying \u003ci\u003eHomecoming: Yes\/no?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNo wonder we didn’t last.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI sent Mom a picture of the letters along with a flurry of texts:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMe:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eTurns out the box has LOVE LETTERS in it\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eFrom some guy named E\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eDo you think O’ma had a grand love affair  before she met O’pa???\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMom must have felt her phone buzz, because she texted back immediately.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMom:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhat do u mean love letters?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMe:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eLike there’s some real purple prose here\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eThey’re addressed to MY DARLING RUTH\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e“It has been too long since I last saw you”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e!!!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMom:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eMaybe u shouldn’t read them?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMe:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003ehahahaha\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMom:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eWait for me!!!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMe:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003esorry nope\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eI’ll text you the best parts\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMom:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eWho r they from\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSeriously, Mom had both terrible reading comprehension and terrible punctuation. Why did I need to go to school if adults didn’t know how to write?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMe:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eI don’t know, some guy named E. Gotta read more,  have fun adulting\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOutside, rain slashed away. Inside, I sank into the letters. E’s writing made it clear O’ma had moved to New York City and loved it, though he seemed skeptical anyone could enjoy the city. Different bits jumped out at me:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhat we do is none of my mother’s business.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eA bakery, Ruth? Are you sure?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe wrote about painting the ocean: \u003ci\u003eI’m happy to report my Monet-­esque attempts have become more palatable, though I doubt I’ll accurately capture the light on the sea if I paint every day for the rest of my life. Yet never fear; I shall rise to the occasion. The attic no doubt looks forward to being crammed with my poor attempts.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMostly, though, he wrote about missing her. He wrote about missing her in the gardens, on the beach, in the gazebo. He seemed wracked with a hundred memories of her. He wrote \u003ci\u003eNantucket is not Nantucket without you.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNantucket.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe name conjured up a speck of an island off Cape Cod. The Cape: a hooked arm of national seashore and small towns southeast of Boston. But while the Cape and the islands were standard vacation spots for Massachusetts families, O’ma had spent most of her life in New York. When had she ever been to \u003ci\u003eNantucket\u003c\/i\u003e?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eImpatient, I skipped to the last letter (I was the kind of person who sometimes read the last page of a book first; never let it be said I handled curiosity well). It was short and dated almost six years after the first—­May 3, 1958:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eI’m not mailing the necklace. If you want it, come back to Golden Doors and talk to me.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e—­E\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eAnd dammit, Ruth, don’t you dare say this is about anything other than your damn pride.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSurprise swayed through me. What had happened? When had these romantic letters switched to anger?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eServed me right for reading out of order. Hoping for more context, I opened the penultimate letter. \u003ci\u003eCan’t we talk about this in person? The operator won’t even put me through anymore. You’re far too proud, and you don’t need to be.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMan, an operator. What an age.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe one before:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eRuth,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eYou’re being ridiculous. I’m catching the next ferry to the  mainland.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eDon’t do anything stupid before I get there. I love you.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eEdward\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA shiver skirted across the back of my neck. Lowering the letter, I stared out the French doors. The rain had lessened, no longer obscuring the woods encroaching on the backyard. Tall oaks and pines shot into the sky, their trunks soaked black. Winter had been harsh this year, and even now, mid-­March, I had trouble imagining I’d ever feel warm again. I had trouble imagining O’ma as an eighteen-­year-­old, too. \u003ci\u003eYou’re far too proud,\u003c\/i\u003e the letter-­writer had said. Had O’ma been proud? Elegant, yes. Smart, curious, a little sad, a little difficult. But proud?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThough what did I know? I hadn’t even known O’ma had been on Nantucket. I definitely didn’t know who this Edward was, or what necklace O’ma wanted back, or why she’d left him in the first place.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eCome back to Golden Doors,\u003c\/i\u003e Edward had said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI opened my laptop and began to type.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"G.P. Putnam's Sons Books for Young Readers","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305498693861,"sku":"NP9780593349748","price":13.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593349748.jpg?v=1767741733","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-summer-of-lost-letters-isbn-9780593349748","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}