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

and ushered Hal to the living room while her mother went to the bathroom to freshen up, and probably take a Valium.

“Sorry about that,” Daisy said. “She still gets upset by… well. Pretty much everything.”

“It’s okay. You two must have been through a lot.” He looked around the apartment, then at her.

“Danny’s little sister. Look at you, all grown up.”

“Well, it’s been a while,” she said. She’d been just six years old when Danny, a high-school senior, brought his friends home, and she had only the vaguest memories of a loud collection of large, clumsy male bodies descending on her mother’s kitchen like an invading horde.

Hal said, “I think I remember seeing you, sitting on the staircase. You had a blue-and-white nightgown with flowers, right?”

She nodded, remembering the flannel Lanz of Vienna, with a ruffled yoke and lace trim at the sleeves, a birthday gift from her parents. She’d loved that nightgown.

Judy came back to the living room, giving Hal a watery smile.

“And, of course, I remember Thanksgiving dinner, Mrs. Rosen. Your sweet potatoes were the best I’ve ever had.”

“Thank you,” Judy had said. Dad and I probably made those sweet potatoes, Daisy thought but did not say. Even as a girl, she’d helped out in the kitchen. She’d had a stepstool, and she’d stood next to her father as he’d help her measure and sift and pour, show her how to crack eggs, and separate them, and fold stiff egg whites into a batter—“gently, be gentle, you don’t want to break up the foam!”

Hal got to his feet, looking eager to be on their way. Daisy realized, with a sinking heart, that his spot on the sofa gave him a clear view of the kitchen and the fly strip dangling from the ceiling, with a few dead flies ornamenting its curls. He held out his hand. “Shall we?”

Hal had made a reservation at the ramen place Daisy had recommended, and the hostess led them to a table in the corner. They sat down, and both began talking at once.

“So tell me about—”

“So is it weird—”

They’d laughed, and he’d gestured at her, saying, “Please.”

“I was going to ask you to tell me about being a lawyer.”

“Oh, you don’t really want to hear about that,” he said. “I’d rather hear about you.”

So they’d talked. She told him charming stories about taking over the family cooking, emphasizing how much she enjoyed it, not telling him that, for years, her mom had been too exhausted and sad to put dinner on the table. Hal told her stories about his summers on Cape Cod, tales she suspected had been significantly bowdlerized, especially since she’d heard some of the unexpurgated details from Danny. He drank water with his meal, but he ordered an expensive bottle of plum sake and kept her cup full, and his eyes on her face, perfectly attentive and solicitous even when the buxom waitress dipped her knees and bent over to set down their dishes or clear them away. Daisy had enjoyed herself… or, looking back, maybe she’d just enjoyed the idea of the night, a handsome older man treating her with such thoughtfulness and care. She basked in his attention, going a glass of sake past her usual first-date two-drink limit, and then letting him order her Irish coffee with the mochi they got for dessert. When they walked outside at the end of the meal. Daisy’s body felt warm and loose, her gestures expansive and her voice perhaps a touch too loud.

“That was fun,” she’d said, when she’d gotten into the passenger’s seat. She fumbled with her seat belt, realizing she was more drunk than she’d thought. Then she held perfectly still as Hal reached over, took the buckle from her hand, and slid it into place with a final-sounding click. She rested her head against the back of her seat, and she must have dozed off. When she opened her eyes, they were back in the parking lot in front of the apartment. Daisy yawned enormously, then, embarrassed, put her hand over her mouth, hoping she hadn’t snored, or drooled, or otherwise managed to embarrass herself.

“Sorry,” she said. “This is a pretty late night for me.”

“I understand.” Hal slid his hand over hers, and squeezed. “You’re a peach,” he said.

A peach, she thought. It made sense at the moment, when her thoughts were all fuzzy. And she liked the idea of being round and juicy, sweet and delicately furred. Well, maybe not that, she thought, and giggled.

“I’d like to see you again,” he said, and Daisy, who was used to guys who waited two or three days or even a week before deigning to call again, flushed with surprised pleasure.

“Okay.”

“But I should tell you,” Hal continued. He squeezed her fingers again. “I’m not interested in playing games. I want something serious. If you aren’t ready for that, I understand. I know you’ve got another year of college, and maybe you’re not ready to settle down. I just want you to tell me now, so we don’t waste each other’s time.”

And there it was, Daisy thought dreamily. The difference between being in your twenties and your thirties; the difference between Hal Shoemaker and all the boys she’d been wasting her time with. Here was a man, an actual, in-the-flesh man, stable and employed and interested in her. It seemed almost too good to be true, and even though she hadn’t planned on getting married that young, hadn’t imagined she’d meet a likely candidate for years, it seemed that the world had set one in her lap, and who was she to turn away such a gift? Daisy could hear her mother’s voice: Don’t let this one get away. She gave Hal a slightly woozy smile. “I’d like that.”

“Good.” He walked her to the door and insisted on taking the elevator back upstairs. In front of her mother’s door, he cupped the back of her neck and pressed his lips briefly against hers.

“Oh, come on,” she whispered. “I bet you