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

That task completed, she checked the time, refilled her drink, and stood in the corner, watching women in six-hundred-dollar shoes and men in thousand-dollar suits talk about which thirty-thousand-dollar summer camp their kids would be attending for the critical summer before junior year.

When she noticed the punch bowl getting low again, she went back to the kitchen. She saw the piles of plates by the sink, the empty crates in which the glasses had arrived stacked in the corner, and Mireille standing with her back against the oven, with Hal in front of her, just inches away. For a moment, Daisy wasn’t sure what she’d interrupted. A proposition? A kiss? Then she saw Mireille wasn’t just standing, she was cringing; that Hal was too close, his posture menacing.

Daisy hurried closer, in time to see Mireille shake her head. “Non—I mean, no, Mr. Shoemaker, I promise, I didn’t let anyone into your office.”

“Well, then we have a problem,” Hal said, biting off each syllable. “I have—or, I should say that I had, five hundred dollars in cash in my desk drawer, and it seems to have grown legs and wandered off.”

“Hal.” When she touched his back he turned around with such an angry look on his face that Daisy stumbled backward, hitting the counter with the small of her back. Oh, that’s going to leave a mark, she thought. Immediately, Hal’s hands were on her shoulders, and he was the one steadying her, pulling her upright.

“Honey, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, ignoring her throbbing back. “I was in your office. I took the money out of the drawer and brought it upstairs. The kids left their instrument cases in there, and I just thought it’d all be safer somewhere else.”

For what felt like a long time, Hal said nothing. His face was pale; his hands were fisted; he looked like a man who wanted to hit someone, and Daisy smelled something so incongruous that at first she didn’t recognize it. Scotch, she realized. For the first time since she’d met him, Hal had been drinking. She could feel his anger, could almost see it, like something tightly leashed that was a few frayed strands from breaking free and doing terrible things. Then he relaxed, and she could glimpse her husband again, her kind, thoughtful Hal, who swore he’d remembered her as a girl, who’d left a credit card on her pillow the morning after he’d proposed and said I want to be your family.

“Mireille,” he said, his voice formal. “I owe you an apology.”

“Ce n’est rien,” Mireille said faintly.

“No, it’s not nothing.” He reached into his wallet, and pulled out a bill large enough to make Mireille’s eyes widen, and pressed it into her hand. “I’m very sorry.”

“It’s fine,” said Mireille. She gave him a weak smile and went back to the sink, where she was washing wineglasses by hand. When Daisy joined her, holding a dish towel, Mireille bent forward, a sheaf of her hair obscuring her face, and repeated what she’d said to Daisy’s husband. “It’s fine.”

Later, when the party was over, the dishes washed, the punch bowl packed up, and Daisy’s plants and potted palms restored to their previous positions, she said, “What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” Hal asked, as if there could be any doubt about what she meant.

“What happened with Mireille?”

“Oh,” Hal said, without meeting her eyes. “I guess I overreacted.” His hair was tousled, and he was wearing pajamas, the top buttoned and the bottoms ironed. Daisy watched as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, flossing his teeth. Hal always wore pajamas to bed, he always used the bathroom sink closest to the door, and he always flossed before bedtime. A creature of routine was her husband, which made her wonder what he was like before she met him, if his life had been as messy and chaotic then as it was tidy and regulated now.

“Are you drinking?” she asked, very gently.

He froze, the floss halfway to his mouth. “I had a drink,” he said, precisely. “Just one. It’s fine.”

Daisy didn’t answer. She didn’t know what to say. She climbed into bed, and, after a moment, Hal got under the duvet and put his arms around her. She could smell his familiar scent: laundry detergent, Colgate toothpaste, dandruff-fighting shampoo. Her familiar husband; everything the same. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve been under the gun at work, and then, with Bubs dying, and Beatrice getting kicked out of Emlen. It’s all been…” He gave a scoffing laugh. “A lot.”

“It’s been hard,” said Daisy. “I know.”

“I just want Beatrice to get off on the right foot. It matters, you know?” He gave her a look, part imploring, part imperious. “But you’re right. I shouldn’t have raised my voice.”

“You scared her,” said Daisy. You scared me, she thought.

“I know,” said Hal. His voice was tight. “I feel terrible about it. I gave her a tip—”

“I know,” Daisy said. “I saw.”

“But I’ll send her a note tomorrow.”

“I think that’s a good idea.”

He gave her a perfunctory kiss, said, “Sleep tight, birdie.” Then he rolled onto his side and was instantly asleep. Daisy lay awake beside him, knowing she wouldn’t sleep. As the hours ticked by, she thought of the cleaning she’d have to do in the morning; about the silent auction bids to tally and the clipboards to return, about being the only woman in the room without either a college degree or a notable job; trying not to think about what Hannah, or Diana, would have made of the night’s events, if Hannah had been alive or if Diana had been invited, or about a saying she’d heard more and more these days: When someone tells you who they are, believe them.

20 Beatrice

Beatrice was walking toward the school’s front door when she heard a car’s horn beep behind her. She jumped, turned around, and saw Cade Langley behind the wheel of a sporty black sedan.

“Hey,