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

end and windows on the other. As soon as she was inside, she locked the door behind her and sat on her couch, staring at the wall.

She thought about the kind of harm a person could inflict intentionally—through murder or robbery or rape—and about the kind that happened by accident, to people who weren’t the targets at all, but just happened to be proximate, or in the way. Undeserving, innocent people who suffered for the crimes of others. She thought about women and children whose only crime was wandering into the blast zone, or being the son or daughter of the wrong man. The son, or the daughter, or the wife.

The lady or the tiger, she thought. Truth or dare. Your money or your life. No matter what she decided, she suspected that the other Diana’s life, and the life of her daughter, would never be the same.

Part

Three

Little Bird

16 Diana

Michael left flowers in a mason jar on her porch, daisies and lilacs that breathed their fragrance through the room after Diana set them on the kitchen table. She repeated the steps she’d taken the year before, opening the windows, setting down her bags; putting her groceries away in the kitchen, checking for new additions in the rows of water-bloated paperbacks, making sure the starfish was still propped up in the bookcase over her bed.

Michael had made improvements during her absence. She saw that there was a new flower bed on the south-facing side of the cottage, and the shutters had been painted in her absence. There were new shelves in the kitchen pantry, a new, brightly colored rug on the floor, and a new drying rack next to the sink. The ladder to the sleeping loft had been replaced with a tidy staircase, and a miniature, dog-sized step had been built beside the bed. Diana thought about Michael Carmody, sawing and hammering, making these improvements for her, and felt her heart do a lazy flip.

When every shirt and pair of pants had been put away, when all the groceries had been set into the cupboards or the refrigerator, when Willa had been walked on the beach and had curled up in her favorite sunny spot on the deck, when there were no more chores to complete and nothing else with which she could procrastinate, Diana sat on the couch and picked up the cordless phone.

“Carmody Caretaking,” Michael answered.

“It’s me. Diana. Thank you for the flowers. And—and everything else.”

“You’re welcome. How was your summer?”

She smiled at the familiar accent that flattened “summer” into “summah.” “It was fine. Very peaceful.”

“Well, I’ve got a whole lot of cash for you.”

For a moment, she didn’t know what he was talking about. Then she remembered. “The shells?”

“Yeah. They sold out in three weeks. I know you told me five dollars apiece, but Maudie said she thought they’d sell better if she priced them at ten.”

Diana was confused. “Wait. They’d sell better if they cost more?”

“Summer people,” said Michael, as if those two words constituted an entire explanation. “You tell them something’s valuable, and they believe you. I think Maudie made a sign that said they were handmade by a local artist.”

“I’m not an artist!” Diana said, feeling her stomach lurch at the thought that she was misrepresenting herself.

“Sure you are.” Michael’s voice was easy. “She told ’em it was their chance to bring home a little piece of the Cape made by a local artist, and they couldn’t hand over their money fast enough. Hey. I’m glad you’re back. Tell you what. I’ve still got a few more houses to do, but I could pick up some stuff and swing by at six or so? I’ll make us dinner.”

“Okay,” she said, her voice faint. She’d decided, over the last months and weeks, when she pushed her mop or wiped down mirrors and windows, what she would have to do. If there was any chance of whatever it was between them not dying, withering away before it had a chance to bloom, she needed to tell Michael her story. “I’ll see you soon.”

At five forty-five, Michael Carmody’s truck came rumbling up the driveway. Willa planted her hind legs on the couch and her front paws on the windowsill and yipped in welcome, tail wagging. When Michael climbed out of his truck she nosed the screen door open and raced outside to meet him. Diana followed along.

“Hey there, rascal,” he said, flipping Willa a treat. He smiled at Diana, approaching her carefully, seeming to sense that she didn’t want to be hugged or kissed yet; that she needed to get used to being in the same room with him again.

He’d brought a six-pack of beer, two dozen oysters, four ears of corn, and a lusciously ripe tomato from Longnook Meadows Farm. “Want to slice this?” he asked. Diana had goat cheese in the refrigerator and olive oil and balsamic vinegar in the pantry. At the Abbey, the chef whipped the goat cheese until it was an airy foam, swirled it artfully around the edges of the plate, and fanned the tomato slices on top, drizzling balsamic vinegar and sprinkling roasted hazelnuts as a finishing touch. Diana didn’t have hazelnuts, or the tools to whip the cheese, so she crumbled it on top of the tomatoes, and thought it wasn’t half-bad.

They ate outside on the picnic table, which, she noticed, no longer creaked when she sat. Michael shucked the oysters and sipped a single beer. Diana polished off two, gulping them down fast, like they were medicine, and picked at her food until Michael put three oysters on her plate, doused in lemon juice, the way she liked them. “Eat,” he said gently. “You’ve got to eat.”

When the meal was done, and the shells piled up at the corner of the deck, Michael carried their plates inside, and came out of the cottage to sit beside her on the bench, and said, “How