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

the food, the garlic and tomatoes, the sweetness of the fish, the richness of the duck, was making her feel dizzy. As she stared, her stomach made an embarrassingly loud noise. She grimaced, but Reese just smiled.

“That’s an endorsement if I’ve ever heard one.” He deftly portioned out half of the fish and rice as Carly set two smaller plates on the table. He put the fish on one, reaching for Diana’s plate. “May I?” She handed it over, and watched as he repeated the maneuver with the duck.

“Go on,” he said, setting the plate in front of her. “Let me know what you think.”

Diana loosened a sliver of halibut with her fork and slipped it into her mouth. She closed her eyes, tasting the sweetness of the fish; the tart, juicy tomatoes; oil and butter and garlic and thyme.

“Good?” asked Reese. His eyes were dark brown behind his glasses, and there was a deep dimple in his left cheek.

She chewed and swallowed. “So good.” He was still watching her, clearly expecting more. “I don’t even like fish, usually. But this—it’s so sweet! The tomatoes…”

“They’re from a farm in Truro. They turn into jam when you reduce them. They’re my favorite,” he said, voice lowered, like he was telling her a secret, or like he didn’t want to hurt the figs’ or the bok choy’s feelings. “We source as many of our ingredients locally as we can. Our milk and eggs, our butter, our honey—everything we can get from around here, we do.” He had a few bites of fish, a sip of water, and patted his whiskers with his napkin.

“You know what they say about the people on the Cape?”

She could tell that wasn’t a question she was meant to answer, so she shook her head, ate her duck, and waited.

“You’ve got your native Cape Codders. People who were born here. People whose families have been here for generations. They’re the only ones allowed to call themselves locals.” He ate another bite of fish. “Then you’ve got your summer people. No explanation needed there. And then, last but not least, you’ve got what they call washashores. The misfits and the weirdos. Some of them are kids who ran away from home. Or got kicked out of their houses.” She thought she caught his eyes move toward Ryan at his podium. “Some”—he gestured at himself—“are grown-ups who walked away from their jobs. The folks who wash up here and decide to stay.” He smiled, flashing his gold fillings again.

“Are you from New York?” she asked, because she could hear New York in his voice.

Reese nodded. “I had a big, important job at a big, important bank in New York City. I came here one summer, on a two-week vacation. Brought a briefcase full of work with me, too. But I woke up every morning hearing the wind and the water. All day long, I’d just walk around and watch things. The sunset over the marshes. The wind in the grass. And at the end of the two weeks, I just couldn’t bring myself to leave.” There was regret in his voice, sadness on his face. Diana wondered if he’d had a wife, or a partner, with him on that vacation; if that person had gone back to New York and he’d stayed behind.

“So here I am. And I feel lucky. This is a special place.” Diana wasn’t sure if he was talking about the restaurant, or Provincetown, or the Outer Cape, or Cape Cod in general, but found herself nodding all the same.

“Excuse me.” Ryan had come gliding over to the table. As Diana watched, he bent down to murmur something to Reese about an invoice from their olive oil purveyor. Diana picked up her knife and cut a bite of the duck breast, filling her mouth with its melting richness, with the seedy, pulpy sweetness of the figs and the slashing acid of the vinegar, and sighed, letting her eyes slip shut. When she opened them, Reese was looking at her with approval.

“So?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “The job’s yours, if you want it.”

“I want it,” said Diana, and found that she was smiling.

“Good. Be here tomorrow at three,” he said. “Get yourself some black pants and a white shirt.” He winked, and said, “Your bow tie is on me.”

8 Diana

It didn’t take long for Diana’s days to find a rhythm. Every morning, for as long as the weather allowed, she would put on a swimsuit and descend the six steep flights of stairs to the beach. She’d leave a towel hanging on the railing, and walk south for half an hour. Then she’d get in the water and swim back. Back on the deck, she would take a shower, trying to enjoy the hot water beating down on her scalp and her shoulders, watching the steam rise into the cool morning air, with a part of her always alert for the sound of an approaching car or footsteps. The neighboring cottages were all empty. She could go for days without seeing another car on her road. Just as Dr. Levy had predicted, the Cape had cleared out for the off-season.

She’d read, or run errands; straightening up the cottage, doing her laundry, or restocking her pantry and fridge. At three thirty, she’d put on one of three white shirts and a pair of black pants, put her bow tie in her pocket, and make the fifteen-minute drive into Provincetown.

At four thirty, Reese would gather the staff to go over the day’s specials. “Push the cabernet; we over-ordered,” he’d tell them as they sat around the refectory table in the back room, or “Chef wants to know how it goes with the pumpkin ravioli. If it’s a hit, we’ll keep it on the menu.” Chef was a towering, silent man named Carl. Each night he’d prepare an order of each of the night’s specials, a large enough portion so that