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

been feeling in advance of preparing dinner disappeared. She plodded to the freezer, emptying the shelves one after another, removing pie crusts, the containers of chili and lentil soup and chicken and dumplings that she’d made and frozen, the pints of ice cream and the bags of frozen peas and corn and cranberries and the chicken fingers she’d kept as a kind of break-glass-in-case-of-emergency dinner for her daughter. Wedged into a corner of the top shelf, she found a plastic Ziploc bag containing six tiny gray frost-stiffened mouse corpses. She considered them a minute, her breath condensing on the icy plastic. How had Beatrice turned into a girl who played with dead mice and despised her mother? What had Daisy done to cause this, and how would the world treat Beatrice when she was an adult?

Slowly, Daisy put the mice back and surveyed Beatrice’s leavings: the uncapped jar of peanut butter, the unwrapped loaf of bread, the open jar of honey, the sticky knife and the crumbs all over the counter. She refilled the freezer, cleaned up the mess, and finally got started on dinner. Cooking always soothed her, and she thought that it would help. She seasoned the pork roast that she’d thawed before her trip. She peeled russet potatoes, sliced them thin, and fanned them out around a buttered baking dish, layering in pats of cold butter and sprigs of thyme, sprinkling Parmesan cheese on top. The pork and potatoes were both in the oven, the table was set, and she was whisking vinaigrette when Hal came home.

“Birdie!” Hal usually sounded cheerful at the end of the workday, although Daisy was never sure whether it was because she’d turned their home into such a cozy and welcoming respite, or if it was just that the law firm was so awful. “How was your trip?”

“It was fine.” She thought her tone and slumped shoulders would give him a hint that something was wrong, but Hal just set his briefcase down and started flipping through the mail.

“How was the funeral?”

Hal’s lips pressed tightly together. “Sad,” he said. His tone did not invite additional questions. Hal opened his arms to deliver a perfunctory hug, but she pushed herself against him, resting her head on his chest, feeling his shirt under her cheek. He was down to his last three white ones. She reminded herself to stop by the dry cleaner’s in the morning.

Hal gave her arms a quick squeeze, and took a sniff. “Dinner smells great.”

“Hal, do you think…” She waited until he was looking at her, then she said, all in a rush, “Do you think Bea needs a psychologist?”

“What now?” Hal asked It was the right question, but he asked it in that clipped, I-don’t-really-want-to-hear-about-it tone.

Daisy shook her head, imagining what would happen if she told Hal about the mice in the freezer. “Just the usual awfulness.”

He looked down at her, and, when he spoke, his voice was indulgent. “She’s a teenager. You know what I say—kids get a pass on stuff they do before they turn twenty-one.” Which was, Daisy thought, a version of his boys will be boys speech. He stepped away from her, loosening his tie, turning to the refrigerator and pulling out a can of seltzer.

“That’s what Diana said.”

“Who?”

Daisy opened the freezer, handed him a chilled mug, and went back to the counter and the salad dressing. Sometimes, she thought he saw her as just another fixture in the kitchen, another useful appliance, like the toaster oven that reheated his pizza or the blender that whipped up his smoothies. “Diana. The woman I met in New York last night. The one with my email address?”

“Oh, right, right. How was she?”

“She was nice,” said Daisy. She didn’t want to talk too much; didn’t want to jinx what she hoped might blossom into a real friendship.

“Good for you.” Hal hung his suit jacket on the back of his chair at the kitchen table and picked up the Wall Street Journal. Daisy pulled a block of tofu from the refrigerator and set it beneath a can of beans to drain, in case tonight was one of the nights Beatrice decided that she was a vegetarian and got offended if no one remembered. She whisked soy sauce and rice wine vinegar and maple syrup together, to make a sauce for the tofu, and had just added sesame oil to her cast-iron pan when her phone buzzed. It was an email from Diana. “INCOMING,” read the subject line. Daisy clicked it open and read, “Guess who’s coming to Philadelphia!!! I’ve got a contract with Quaker Pharmaceuticals. Moving to Philly for the next three months! Any chance you can give me cooking lessons?” She’d added a smiling emoji, and one for a loaf of bread.

Daisy felt her cheeks stretch in a smile. Instead of writing back, she hit the CALL NUMBER button. A moment later, Diana’s voice was in her ear.

“Can you believe it? What a crazy coincidence!”

“I’m so glad,” Daisy said. And it was true. She might have a difficult daughter, but now, at least, she had a potential ally. “Where are you staying?”

“Um… hang on. Rittenhouse Square? Does that mean anything to you? The company’s got an apartment there.”

“Yes. It’s a great neighborhood. Lots of good restaurants.”

“Which brings me to my next question. I wanted to ask…” Diana sounded almost shy. “After we met, I got to thinking. And it’s kind of ridiculous that I’m almost fifty years old and I can’t even make grilled cheese. I don’t know how busy you are…”

“I’ll make time,” Daisy promised. “When do you get here?”

“Next week.”

“So soon?”

“Yeah, they keep me moving. No rest for the wicked. I’m like a shark. I’ve got to swim or die.”

“Well, just tell me when you want me.”

“I’ll text you as soon as I’m settled.”

Daisy felt light as a balloon as she moved through the kitchen. The potatoes came out perfectly, crisped and golden on top, soft and buttery-tender in the middle. When Beatrice came down the