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

“Most of lunch, and the rest of G block,” Doff said, shrugging modestly. “I started with ‘read his Charles Dickens,’ but Charles Dickens is a novelist.”

“What about his Philip K. Dick?”

“Who’s that?” asked Doff.

“He wrote the book that got turned into Blade Runner.”

“Ah.” Doff pulled on her shin guards. “Do you like him?”

“Who, Philip K. Dick?”

“No, dummy. Cade!”

Beatrice considered. Cade looked like the worst kind of boy who ended up at places like Emlen, or Melville: preppy and privileged, entitled and swaggering. Once, at one of her mom’s annual clam bakes on Cape Cod, she’d overheard her uncle Danny telling Uncle Jesse about someone he’d known at Emlen, someone he and his husband had run into at the Provincetown airport: He’s always been one of those born-on-third-base-and-thinks-he-hit-a-triple types. That saying fit most of the boys she’d met there to a T. They thought they’d gotten where they were: at Emlen, on their way to Williams or Princeton or Yale, with nice clothes and straight teeth, because of how hard they’d worked, and not primarily because, as Tricia used to say, they were lifetime members of the Lucky Sperm Club.

Cade was yet another member of that club. But still, there’d been a moment when Cade, with his flushed cheeks, had looked at her, and his cheesy smile had fallen away, and she’d thought that maybe there was something there, something that wasn’t detestable, a boy she could actually like. There was also the social capital an association with Cade like that could guarantee. If she had a popular jock boyfriend, it wouldn’t matter what she wore, or if she said weird, abrupt things, or had absolutely no desire to get into a top-tier college. She would belong at Melville, her position secure. Her mother would approve. Not that she cared, one way or the other, only it might be nice to see something besides the frown that seemed to have established permanent residence on her mother’s face since she’d come home.

“I don’t know if I like him,” Beatrice said to her friend. “Does it matter?”

“Not really,” said Doff. “If he likes you, though. That matters. Gotta go,” she said, and jogged off toward the Lower Field.

14 Daisy

If Diana Starling had only looked mostly like what Daisy had imagined, her apartment in Rittenhouse Square was exactly what Daisy had pictured: bright and airy and modern, on the top floor in an expensive new building, with enormous glass windows facing north and east, to give her views of manicured lawns and flower beds and the fountains of Rittenhouse Square Park, and beyond it, the grid of the city, narrow streets lined with brick row houses, and, finally, the Delaware River.

Diana hugged her at the door. Daisy felt the warmth of the other, taller woman’s arms, and smelled her musky-sweet perfume. “Come on in!” Diana took her arm, smiling. “I’ll give you the tour.” Diana was dressed casually, in dark-rinse jeans and a crisp white button-down shirt, with her hair hanging in shiny waves and her short, oval nails polished pink. A fine gold necklace with a diamond pendant hung at her neck, matching the diamond stud earrings she’d worn the night they’d met. Her magenta suede flats with gold buckles were the most colorful thing in the place, which was done in cream and beige, with the occasional daring foray into peach and pale gold.

Daisy held her breath as she turned the corner, but it turned out she didn’t have to worry. The kitchen was all stainless steel and black granite, with glass-fronted cabinets, and a wine refrigerator. There was a good set of German knives on the counter, a new Cuisinart, and, thank goodness, a stand mixer, which meant Daisy wouldn’t have to haul hers along when they started making breads and pastries.

“It’s beautiful,” said Daisy.

“Well, it’s better than what I’d expected. I’ve been in places where there’s, like, a microwave and a bar sink.” At Daisy’s expression, Diana shrugged. “Mostly men do this kind of work, and they’re either eating out, with the clients, or ordering in. Which…” She held up her hands with a self-deprecating smile. “… not gonna lie, is what I normally do.”

“You don’t need to learn to cook,” Daisy said. She nodded at the window. “I mean, you’re right across the street from Parc, and they make the best roast chicken in the world, and they also have this amazing walnut-cranberry bread. If I lived here, I’d probably eat there all the time.”

“Oh, no!” Diana put her hand on Daisy’s forearm, looking right into her eyes. “I one hundred percent want to do this. I’ve been thinking about what you said. About how cooking’s like a meditation.” She gave a small, wry smile. “Well. I could use some Zen these days. This job is going to be a bear. The firm’s stuck in R and D with this new breast-cancer drug. They’re going round and round with the FDA, and meanwhile, the marketing people don’t have anything to do.”

“Well, as long as you’re sure…” Daisy handed Diana an apron and set her bags on the counter. “I thought we’d start with an easy dinner. Roast chicken, risotto, green vegetable. You can cut it in half, if it’s just for you; you can double or triple it to feed a crowd. It looks impressive, and it’s super flexible.”

“And easy?” asked Diana, who sounded a little nervous as she regarded the uncooked chicken. “Like, foolproof?”

“Easy,” Daisy said. “I promise.” She could tell that Diana would be her favorite kind of client: willing, motivated, eager to learn. She had already tied on her apron and started tapping notes into her phone as Daisy laid out the ingredients: a whole kosher chicken; a bottle of olive oil, a pound of butter, a lemon. Onions, garlic, shallots, shiitake mushrooms, Parmesan cheese, and a container of arborio rice; fresh rosemary and thyme, a bag of carrots, a half-pound of asparagus, and a half-pound of