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

amplified by her hormones, had turned away so he wouldn’t see her crying. In Gladwyne, Hal had made her put anything that Beatrice could possibly get at into a childproofed cabinet or up on a high shelf.

The house was mostly on one story, with three bedrooms. Danny and Jesse shared the largest one. The two others were kept child ready, one with a crib and a changing table and a toddler bed, the other with a set of bunk beds and two twin beds that could be pushed together to accommodate adult couples. Over the years, Danny and Jesse had converted the unfinished attic to a playroom, with a dollhouse and a toddler-sized train. While Danny and Jesse had no children of their own, they provided respite care for foster families, sometimes for an afternoon, sometimes for as long as a few weeks, and they didn’t always know when, or for how long, they’d have a child, or children, to care for.

“Daisy, come meet Tasha,” Danny said. Daisy followed her brother to the kitchen, where Jesse was peeling apples and a girl with brown curls was standing on a stepstool in front of the counter, carefully patting a disc of plastic-wrapped dough with her palms.

“Hi, Tasha,” said Daisy. The girl looked up at her gravely, murmured, “ ’lo,” and went back to her task. Jesse was already filling the kettle at the sink. “Coffee? Tea?”

“Whatever you guys are having.” Danny and Daisy had the same brown hair and hazel eyes, but Daisy had her mother’s heart-shaped face, while Danny favored their father. He was short, with his father’s delicate features, although he’d gotten rounder since his days as the coxswain. He wore steel-rimmed glasses and was almost entirely bald, with the neatly trimmed goatee he’d grown, as if to compensate, more gray than chestnut brown. Jesse was taller, lithe and graceful, with a dancer’s muscled legs and back. His brown skin had golden undertones; his hair was still dark and glossy. He and Danny had met in New York City, where Danny was getting his degree in social work and Jesse was teaching ballet and modern dance in studios around the city, including the Alvin Ailey Theater, where he’d trained, and in whose troupe he’d performed for ten years.

“How long is Tasha here for?” Daisy asked, as Jesse poured scalding water into a marigold-colored ceramic teapot, then shook loose tea leaves inside, and poured more water on top.

“Just until tomorrow night. Her foster parents are at a wedding out of town.”

“I wanted to be the flower girl,” Tasha announced with a woebegone expression, as Jesse found a lacquered tray, with pressed flowers decoupaged around its edges, and set three mugs, mismatched but somehow harmonious, on top. He added a sugar bowl, a pitcher of cream, linen napkins, and a plate of shortbread cookies. Daisy watched enviously, knowing that, given a half hour to fuss and rearrange, she wouldn’t have been able to make the snack look half as good.

“I hope you’ll get to be one, someday. My daughter was a flower girl once.” Daisy cast her mind back over the years, to a time when Beatrice had still been sweet and accommodating. “I remember we read a book, about a mouse who was a flower girl.”

Tasha’s eyes got wide. “Lilly’s Big Day!”

“That’s the one.”

“Let’s get Mr. Pie in the oven, and then we can read it, if you like,” said Jesse.

Tasha giggled. “How do you know it’s Mr. Pie? Maybe it’s Miss Pie!”

“Maybe you’re right.”

They had their tea and cookies in the living room, by the fire, which crackled behind an antique wrought-iron screen that depicted a forest scene, deer and trees and a bear, lurking from the corner. Tasha selected two picture books from the basket full of them next to the fire, and, once each had been read twice, announced that she was going back to the playroom. “I’m building the tallest Lego tower in the world,” she told Daisy.

Once she was gone, Danny asked, “Have you heard from Judy?”

Daisy smiled at the thought of the Judy Rosen birthday drama, which inevitably commenced at least three months before the blessed event. “She texted me a list of birthday menus two days ago, then a different list yesterday, and then, an hour after that, told me to stick with the first list.” Narrowing her eyes, Daisy said, “Which one of you taught her how to text?”

Danny pressed his lips together, while Jesse got busy reloading the tray with their dishes. “Okay, I might have taught her how to text,” Danny said. “But Jesse showed her the emojis.”

“Not the eggplant,” Jesse said. “That one she found all on her own.”

“So, how was your trip? How was the show?” Danny asked.

Daisy told them about the show, and about the new friend she’d made, the other Diana. “Good for you,” Jesse said. “I know how much you miss Hannah.”

“It would be nice to have a friend in town,” said Daisy, who’d long since given up on finding a soulmate among the Main Line mommies. Maybe it was the age difference, or how most of them had put aside careers before they had babies—and certainly her husband’s pickiness didn’t help—but, since Hannah, she hadn’t come close to making a real connection.

“A friend in New York isn’t bad,” Danny said. He smiled as Jesse refilled his mug, but Daisy could see circles under his eyes. His lips were chapped; his beard had new strands of gray. More worrisome was the way his hands trembled as he carried the tray back to the kitchen. She waited, hoping for a moment where she could get Jesse alone, while they chatted about work and Beatrice’s return and the trip Jesse and Danny were hoping to take that summer. Finally, in desperation, Daisy said, “Jesse, can you come wait for the Lyft with me? I need to talk to you about something.” She winked at her brother, hoping he’d think the conversation was about his birthday, and led Jesse