That Summer by Jennifer Weiner (read more books .txt) 📕

He smiled at her, looking grateful.

“Does this mean you’re my boyfriend?” Beatrice asked sweetly, and she almost laughed out loud when she saw the expressions moving across his face—panic, terror, grim resignation, then something that looked like Cade’s idea of nobility and courage. “Or are we only going to do this when no one can see?”

His throat jerked as he swallowed. She gave him a few seconds to say something. Anything. When he didn’t, she said, “Come find me when you figure it out,” and walked off toward her first class, not knowing how to feel.

At lunchtime, she took her food outside and sat on a bench, waiting for him to come find her. She felt like her body had turned into a lighthouse, flashing out his name. She touched her lips, remembering, in spite of herself, the speech her mom had given her, about how powerful sex was, about how it was hard not to give your heart to someone who’d already had access to your body. If this was how a single kiss could make her feel, what would actual intercourse do to her poor heart?

She waited, thinking that Cade had to be feeling some version of what she was experiencing, that he wanted to see her as much as she wanted to see him. All through lunch, and the rest of the day, Beatrice waited for him to approach her again, to hand her a note, to pull her back into the alcove and kiss her again. But he never came.

28 Daisy

Who?” asked the doorman.

“Diana Starling,” Daisy said, and shifted the container of coq au vin from her left arm to her right, feelings its contents shift and slosh.

The doorman—a man Daisy hadn’t seen on any of her previous visits—shook his head. “Nobody here by that name.”

“It’s apartment 1402,” said Daisy. She hadn’t made plans to see Diana, but she’d been in the city to pick up a lamp she’d had rewired, and had impulsively decided to drop off some of the leftover chicken, which was actually better the day after it was cooked.

“Apartment 1402,” she repeated. The man shook his head. “I’ve been there with her.”

Speaking slowly and loudly, as if Daisy didn’t understand English, the man said, “1402 is the model apartment. Nobody lives there. We keep it to show renters.”

Daisy felt herself staring. “She’s a consultant for Quaker Pharmaceuticals. She told me they rent the place. Can you check again? Maybe I’m confused.”

“Look,” said the doorman. He beckoned Daisy around the desk and pointed to his laptop screen. “This is the directory of every single person who lives at 15 Rittenhouse. There are two companies that keep units for long-term stays, but Quaker isn’t one of them.”

Daisy scanned the list of names. No Diana Starling. In fact, no Dianas at all.

“Maybe it’s a different building?” the doorman said. “There’s a lot of apartment buildings around here, and a lot of them have lobbies that look alike.”

Daisy thanked him. She left the building with her chicken still under her arm, feeling baffled. After two laps around the perimeter of Rittenhouse Square Park, dodging joggers and strollers, she landed on a plan.

The Center City office for Quaker Pharmaceuticals was on Market Street, two blocks west of Hal’s office. Not that she had any intention of going there. There’s something wrong with that woman, Hal had told her, the night after the party. Daisy had to admit that Diana’s behavior had been a little strange, her remarks abrupt and her expressions hard to read. She’d also left without saying goodbye. “What?” Daisy had asked. “What’s wrong with her? Tell me what!” Hal hadn’t. “Just listen to me,” he’d said, and Daisy hadn’t answered, but she’d thought, I’ve listened to you without thinking for too long, and she’d barely said another word to Hal since then.

Daisy forced herself to put on her brightest smile as she approached the woman at the front desk.

“Hi there. I’m looking for Diana Starling. She’s a consultant who’s been working here for the past few months.”

Click click click went the woman’s long, silvery nails. “No one here by that name.”

“She’s a consultant. So maybe she’s not in your directory.”

In a bored voice, the woman said, “Every single person who comes in here has to be in our system. Either they’ve been assigned a permanent ID card, or they have to leave identification at the desk so we can issue a temporary pass. If this woman’s consulting here, she’d have a permanent ID. If she visited, she’d still be in our system. And I don’t have any record of anyone by that name.”

Daisy thanked the woman and walked outside before sitting heavily down on a bench in the courtyard. Her head was churning. If Diana wasn’t really a consultant, if she didn’t really live at 15 Rittenhouse or work at Quaker Pharmaceuticals, who was she? Why was she in Philadelphia? And what did she want with Daisy? There’s something wrong with that woman, she thought, and then pushed the memory of Hal’s voice away.

She walked back toward the park, thinking back to the first misdirected email she’d gotten, and checked her phone, grateful, for once, that she never remembered to delete things. Hal preached the gospel of the empty in-box. Meanwhile, Daisy’s in-box was a morass of coupons and spam and notices from Beatrice’s school that she never got rid of. The first DianaS/Diana.S email she’d gotten had arrived four months ago. Coinciding with… what, exactly? Six months ago was before Beatrice had gotten kicked out of Emlen. Before Hal’s classmate’s suicide, before the cocktail party, before he’d started drinking, and before her brother had started acting, and looking, so strained and drawn and sad. But not too far before. Were any of these things connected?

Daisy thought and got nowhere. Finally, because she couldn’t think of what else to do, she pulled out her phone and called Diana.

“Daisy!” Diana’s