The Charlotte Chronicles (Jackson Boys 1)

Every time I see it, my heart squeezes tight. Despite the fixed and glazed stare, Nathan is so beautiful. His dark hair frames his perfect face. In the photo, he’s bracing himself, and the muscles in his arms are highlighted by the harsh glare of the flash. I remember what it is like to be under him when he’s in that position. There’s no doubt someone pushed him over, but he was still next to Greta. I didn’t even realize that they knew each other, that they were friendly.

I toss the phone aside.

“Charlotte? Shall we do maths again?”

It’s Fraulein “call me Sandrine” Kielholz. She has beautiful blonde hair, not the colored stuff you see at home, but true blonde, like spun gold. She’s fairly tall, and her skin is milky white. Sandrine is very curious about the U.S. and would like to come and visit, or so she tells me during each session.

“Sure.” I drag myself away from the window.

“Great.” She pushes a set of problems toward me. “Compare these sets and identify which are the irrational numbers. Why don’t you tell me again what irrational numbers are?”

“A number that cannot be written as a fraction,” I mumble.

“Good. Good.” Clapping her hands, she gestures for me to get started.

As I apply myself, she starts talking about Chicago again. “Maybe you will need a tutor when you go back home. I could come and visit, yes?”

“Sure,” I answer but with little enthusiasm. I’m afraid to place Sandrine and her Nordic beauty anywhere near Nathan. I never felt this way until I came here, but two weeks away from Nathan and Nick has made me nervous and homesick.

And everyone back home other than the Jackson boys seems intent on sending me picture proof of how much they don’t miss me. Irrational numbers? I feel pretty irrational right now.

My phone beeps, and I want to answer it but Sandrine taps her watch. She wants me to finish so I apply myself, but considering I don’t like math and don’t see the point of trying to figure out what square roots are irrational and which are not, I don’t get many right.

Thirty minutes later, she is pressing her lips together and looking concerned as she peruses my answers. “We will review this again, yes.”

Sandrine ends nearly every sentence with yes even when she isn’t asking a question.

“Yes,” I say.

She spends the whole morning trying to show me which square roots and cube roots are irrational, and I spend the entire time pinching myself to prevent screaming about how I think this is all ridiculous. My mother interrupts us around ten and sends Sandrine away.

“Baby, you look tired,” Mom says, smoothing my hair away. She sets a tray of tea, hot chocolate, and pastries next to my math papers. I will say that the pastries are freaking awesome here, and I’ll miss them when I go back home.

“I am. Why am I studying these things?” I whine a bit.

“It’s not so much the numbers themselves, but the processing and analyzing data that will become important.”

“No offense, Mom, but I have no desire to work at Freedom Funds and analyze numbers all day.”

Mom smiles serenely over her tea cup. “No offense taken. I’ve always thought you were more like your father in that regard. You enjoy physical things too much.”

I duck my head to hide the blush that rises at the thought of exactly what kinds of physical things I enjoy. But she’s my mom and can read my thoughts.

“Missing the Jackson boys? Or just one particular Jackson?” she asks softly.

“Both,” I answer. It’s true. I miss them both. Impulsively I ask, “Did you and Dad have many separations?”

Her face softens and her eyes look past me as if she’s picturing the two of them as young lovers. “No, this is the longest that we’ve ever been separated. We met in biology, remember? And we saw each other every other day, and once we started dating, we were quite inseparable.” She sets down her tea and considers me for a moment. “But Noah and Grace were separated for several years. Almost six. They wrote letters to each other. They both say that they treasure those years apart as much as the time they finally were able to be together regularly.”

“Letters?”

“Yes. Noah was deployed with your Dad. Grace and Noah wrote letters and mailed them to each other.” Mom filches a croissant from the pastry plate. “I’m a bit envious. Grace has this lovely collection of hand-written notes from Noah. It’s quite romantic.”

“That’s weird. I can’t imagine Uncle Noah writing letters.”

Mom shrugs. “It’s true.” Leaning over, she smooths a hand around my cheek. “If it’s meant to be, love survives anything, even separations.”

“But you and Dad weren’t separated,” I protest. “You just said so.”

“We had our own tests,” she said. “And we passed because that’s what love is. It’s about overcoming the obstacles in your path—both the ones you erect and the ones people throw your way. But in order to do that, you have to decide whether it is worth your time and effort.”