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

Daisy nodded, remembering.

“I just haven’t had time to shop for anything new.”

“I understand.” Daisy was studying a framed black-and-white portrait hanging on the wallpapered wall of the entryway. A man in an army dress uniform stood stiffly, his arm around the waist of a woman in a white dress.

“Your parents?” Vernon was handsome without his comb-over. The woman had long, dark hair and an easy smile. Instead of a veil, she wore a wreath of flowers in her hair. Daisy remembered what Vernon had said about his wife—that she’d liked people-watching, that she hadn’t liked to gamble, that he didn’t know how she’d felt about cooking. “What was your mom like?”

Hal shrugged. “She and my father had high expectations for me and my brother. I’m grateful now, of course, but when I was younger…”

Daisy studied the picture again. She was thinking of her own father’s delight in his sons’ accomplishments, how he’d brag to everyone about their grades, or David’s skill at baseball, or how Danny had been picked as the coxswain of the senior boys’ eight (“he’s the one who steers the boat,” Jack had explained to his own mother, who’d looked perplexed, perhaps at the notion of steering being an athletic endeavor). Had Vernon and Margie been proud of their sons? Or had they been the kind of parents for whom anything less than perfection was a disappointment?

Hal put his hand on the small of her back and ushered her through the French doors, out into an expansive backyard that held an inground pool, a Weber grill on a flagstone patio, and a single lawn chair.

“When did you move in?” Daisy had asked.

“About a year ago,” he said, as he’d fiddled with the grill’s knobs. “I’d been living in Center City, but most of the partners live in the suburbs. Easier to get to the golf courses.”

“Got it,” Daisy murmured.

“I figured I’d be buying a house here eventually, so when my dad was moving out, it just made sense to take over this one.”

Daisy nodded again. It made sense, and even if part of her wondered why Hal hadn’t wanted his own place, she also thought that if someone had offered her the house she’d grown up in, she’d have taken it in an instant.

Back inside, she was relieved to discover that the kitchen was clean enough to perform surgery. There was no trash piled up in the trash can, no dirty dishes on the counters or in the sink. This, it emerged, was the happy result of Hal having hardly any dishes at all. When she’d opened the freezer she’d seen stacks of frozen Hungry Man dinners, and, in the cabinet closest to the sink, there’d been rows and rows of canned Campbell’s Chunky soup. There were two bowls, three plates, and two juice glasses in one cabinet; the drainer next to the sink held a single pot.

Hal had come into the kitchen just as she’d closed the drawer on his paltry supply of silverware.

“Do you just eat the soup out of the pot?” she’d asked.

“It’s efficient,” he’d said, holding her so that his chest pressed against her back. Daisy appreciated his assurance, the way there wasn’t any awkward fumbling or hesitation. “Also, better for the environment.”

“Oh, so you’re an environmentalist.”

“I’m a thoughtful guy,” he’d said, nuzzling her temples, making her shiver. Then, almost as if he’d been waiting for a sign, he’d turned her around and pulled her against him, so they were thigh to thigh and chest to chest. “I’m just doing things out of order,” he’d said. “Most guys find the right woman, then the right house. I got the house first. And now,” he said, kissing her temple, then her neck, “I need you to make my house a home.”

“Oh my God,” Daisy had groaned. “That’s a terrible line!” But she could already feel the voices of her roommates receding, the warnings they’d given her—what does a guy that old want with someone our age?—subsiding. Hal was mature enough to know what he wanted and confident enough to get it. When he pulled her close, murmuring, “I just want to be a good man. A good husband and father,” she decided that she was lucky that he’d decided he wanted her.

She’d registered for all the kitchen basics that Hal had never acquired, and he’d told her to buy whatever she thought the house needed, from carpets and couches to dishes and glassware, outdoor furniture for the backyard, art for the walls, and everything she wanted for the kitchen. She’d made missteps at first—she still cringed when she thought of the first party she’d held, for a few of the firm’s other lawyers and their spouses. Hal had said, “It’ll just be casual. Just buy stuff to throw on the grill,” but Daisy had prepared for weeks. She’d gotten the butcher to grind a mixture of filet mignon and chuck steak for the burgers, and had blended in mushrooms and blue cheese; she’d ordered hot dogs from Chicago, which came delivered in a cooler of dry ice. She’d made her own barbecue sauce, plus dozens of elaborate canapés, slivers of smoked salmon on cucumbers and a refined version of onion dip, where she spent an hour caramelizing onions. The day of the event, she’d gotten her nails done, and donned a brand-new Lilly Pulitzer sundress and Tory Burch flip-flops in a complementary shade of hot pink.

The party had not been a success. The guests had nibbled at the appetizers, praising the food to the heavens—“You’re so creative!” “You have to give me the recipe for this!”—but the only thing they’d eaten with any enthusiasm were the hot dogs. Her smoked salmon was ignored; her fancy dip, barely sampled; and the burgers had come back untouched. “Because not everyone likes blue cheese!” Hal said. He wasn’t yelling, but his voice was clipped in a way that suggested he wanted to yell. “I told you, Daisy. I