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

She thought about her niece, and her sister’s resignation, that this was just the way of the world, that Sunny had no right to expect anything different. She asked herself whether the world could change if she just sat by and did nothing. Just as the sun was rising, she slipped out of bed, careful not to wake her husband or the dog. She propped the note that she’d written the day before against the sugar bowl on the kitchen table, and padded outside, into the predawn dark. Her new car, a Prius, barely made a sound when it started. She turned it on, checking to make sure that the bag she’d packed the day before, while Michael was at work, was on the seat beside her, and went gliding silently through the darkness. She’d be halfway down Route 6 before Michael realized she was gone, on her way to New Hampshire, and the Emlen Academy.

19 Daisy

It had been Hal’s idea to host the Melville Upper School spring cocktail party, an undertaking he’d proposed right after they’d gotten Beatrice enrolled. “How can we get involved?” he’d asked, turning his most charming smile on Lynne Parratt, who ran the school’s development office, and when she’d said that they were still looking for a venue for their spring cocktail party, he said, without even glancing Daisy’s way, “We’d be happy to host.” He’d put his hand on Daisy’s shoulder and said, “My wife is a wonderful cook.”

As soon as they’d gotten in the car, Daisy said, “You could have asked me first, you know.”

“It’s important for Beatrice that we get to know the school’s community. And,” he’d said, before Daisy could voice additional objections, “it’ll give you a chance to show off. Maybe drum up some new business.”

It’ll give me a chance to work for three days straight without getting paid anything, Daisy thought, as her husband planted a kiss on her lips. She’d have to clean the house, from top to bottom, dealing with the clutter that seemed to multiply itself exponentially whenever her back was turned, and see if Mireille, the cheerful, competent Frenchwoman she hired when she needed extra hands, would be available. She’d have to rent barware and cocktail chairs and serving pieces; she’d have to order flowers and deal with entertainment, not to mention managing the logistics of the auction itself. Worst of all, she’d have to find something to wear. If there’d been a single benefit to having a kid out of state in boarding school, it was that she got a hiatus from having to squeeze herself into shapewear and make small talk at a school function. Now here she was, less than nine months later, dragging herself to Saks, where being over a size eight meant the salesladies would make you feel very, very small.

She gave herself two hours to find a dress and, when her time was up, emerged with a short-sleeved navy-blue jersey dress, knee length, A-line, with cap sleeves. It also had a square neckline, the single feature that would make the new dress distinguishable from the half-dozen other navy-blue and black dresses she already had in her closet, purchased for events just like this one. With the dress draped over the Range Rover’s back seat, she drove to New Jersey for the liquor, then returned home to spend over an hour on the phone with the exceedingly chirpy Lynne, who had very specific instructions for how the items were to be described or displayed, and even what kinds of clipboards and pens the Melville community preferred. “And let’s make sure we’ve got some nut-free and vegetarian appetizers. Preferably vegan,” she’d said. Daisy had ended the call and had stood in her kitchen, feeling somewhere between infuriated and bemused. She remembered something that Hannah had told her once: people treat you the way you let them. Hannah never let herself be treated poorly. She insisted on respect, from her four-year-old students, from waiters, from her husband and daughter, from, once, a jogger who’d spat on the street too close to her feet. “I’m sorry, am I wearing my Cloak of Invisibility?” she’d demanded, and when the guy tried to run past her, Hannah had shouted, “Yo!” so loudly that everyone on the street had turned, and the jogger had been forced to stop and endure Hannah’s tirade. Daisy could picture her friend, with two fingers stuck in the air and her other hand on her hip, standing like the Statue of Liberty until her kids settled down, and in Daisy’s kitchen, bent over a bubbling cauldron of marinara sauce, asking, “Do you think the steam’s good for my pores?” Oh, how Daisy missed her.

On the appointed Saturday in April, Daisy spent the morning getting her hair blown out and her nails manicured. Mireille arrived at three in the afternoon, the florist came at four, and the musicians, a quartet of students who comprised Melville’s jazz ensemble, arrived at five o’clock.

At six, Daisy slid the stuffed figs and the pastry-wrapped goat cheese purses into the oven, crammed her feet into a pair of navy-blue high heels, and put a giant straw hat with a navy-blue ribbon on her head. The theme of the party was the Kentucky Derby, even though the Derby itself wasn’t until May. At least it had made the menu easy: mint julep punch and bourbon slushies, fried chicken sliders served on biscuits, with hot honey, tea sandwiches with Benedictine spread, bite-sized hot browns, the signature sandwich of Louisville, and miniature Derby pies for dessert.

Mireille fed the jazz kids early and got them set up in the corner, close to a powder room where spit valves could be emptied as needed. “Put on your lipstick,” she told Daisy, who was already wearing lipstick. She went upstairs to put on more and to roust Beatrice from her bedroom, just as the first car pulled into the driveway and one of the valets