That Summer by Jennifer Weiner (free e reader txt) 📗

him down, the same way she’d done with Hal and Danny? Had Brad Burlingham’s death actually been a suicide, or had it maybe been a murder? She had never asked Hal any more questions. She’d never followed up. The incident had flown right out of her mind, in the whirl of handling Beatrice’s return, managing her business, running the house. My little scatterbrain, Hal would say, smiling affectionately when Daisy misplaced her car keys or her phone. He’d rest his hand on her hair. You’d lose your head if it weren’t attached, wouldn’t you?

Daisy’s laptop sat beside the bed. She pulled it out and plugged Brad Burlingham’s name into Google, which obligingly spat out a pageful of headlines. The first was an obituary from the Baltimore Sun. Bradley Telford Burlingham, 51, died at his home Saturday. The second story, from a Baltimore news and gossip blog, was more helpful: Prominent Baltimore Family Mourns Its Son.

On Sunday evening, the body of Brad Burlingham, youngest son of the Baltimore Burlinghams, real-estate magnates and political kingmakers, was found at his apartment, a mile away from his parents’ mansion on Deepdene Drive. Like his brothers, his father, his uncles, his grandfather, and his great-uncles, Burlingham was a graduate of the Emlen Academy in New Hampshire and attended Trinity College. Friends and relatives acknowledged that Burlingham’s life was troubled. He was arrested three times in two different states for driving under the influence, and eventually had his license revoked. He married Marianne Conover in 1996. They had two children and divorced in 2005, and Conover was awarded full custody of the children. A second marriage, to Elspeth Dryer in 2009, lasted only four years. Burlingham held various marketing jobs for institutions including the Baltimore Sun and the University of Maryland Medical Center.

“Brad was the black sheep,” said a longtime observer of Baltimore’s upper crust, a friend of the family who requested anonymity in order to speak freely about the deceased. “Every big, rich family’s got one, and the Burlinghams had Brad. He didn’t have an easy life. I hope wherever he is, he’s found peace.”

Friends describe a man who’d made numerous attempts at getting sober. Prior to his death, Burlingham had been working at Starbucks, a job his AA sponsor recommended, according to Corby Kincaid, a college classmate of Burlingham’s.

“He tried very hard to clean up his act, and be a father to his children,” Kincaid said. “He had demons, though, and I guess in the end they won.”

“Brad was a loyal friend, a devoted son, and a loyal member of the Emlen community,” Dr. G. Baptiste, dean of Emlen, said in an interview. “This is an unfathomable loss for all of us.”

Daisy looked at her phone. It was just past four thirty. Beatrice would be home in fifteen minutes. Hal would be home in an hour. She stood, washed her hands, then picked up her phone and punched in her brother’s name.

“Hello? Di? Is that you?”

“It’s me.” Her voice sounded faint, like it was coming from the bottom of a well. “I need to ask you about something.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“The summer after you graduated from Emlen, you went to the Cape. There was a party there. The last party of the summer. I need you to tell me what happened that night.”

There was a pause, so long it felt endless. Then, finally, Danny began to speak. “You have to understand, this was a long, long time ago,” he said, his voice low and rough. “People’s understanding about consent and—and things like that—has changed in the last thirty years.”

“Danny,” said Daisy. “Can you cut the bullshit? Please? Just tell me what happened!”

Her brother sighed. “Hal had been talking to a girl for most of the time we were there. A townie, or an au pair. Something like that. And yes, there was a party on the beach, and everyone had a lot to drink, and I saw—what I saw—” Danny’s voice was getting higher, more hesitant.

“Just spit it out,” Daisy said. “Just tell me.”

“Hal was having sex with the girl.”

“And was another boy holding her down?”

“I—I can’t—” She could picture her brother, the way his neck would get flushed when he was upset, the way he’d pace, the same way she did. Maybe he’d be walking the tiled floor of his tiny office at the high school, with its walls covered, floor to ceiling, with college brochures meant to inspire the students, or in the gym at the Boys & Girls Club, or in his kitchen, with a visiting baby in his arms. “It was a long time ago, Di. And I was a different person. Things were hard for me. I’m not making excuses…”

“Yes, you are,” Daisy said.

Danny’s voice was mournful. “Every time I think about it, I think I should have done more, that I could have done more. But I was…” His voice trailed off. “I had a crush on Hal. I thought I was in love with him, and I was terrified about what would happen if he found out about me. When he took me into the dunes…” He sighed again, and, against her will, Daisy found herself imagining it—Hal’s hands on Danny’s shoulders, both of them drunk and stumbling, Hal urging Danny on and Danny going willingly, maybe hoping that Hal felt the same way he did, not seeing until it was too late, where Hal was leading him.

“It was a long time ago,” Danny said bleakly.

“But it wasn’t,” said Daisy. “Not for the woman Hal did this to. Diana has to live with what he did to her, every day of her life. And she was fifteen years old, and she was passed-out drunk!” Daisy found that she was shouting. “Jesus. How would you like it if someone did that to Beatrice? Did you ever try to find the woman, and tell her you should have done more? Did you ever feel anything about what you’d done? Does Jesse know?” I’ll tell him, she thought, the idea sizzling