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

the river from New Hope, Pennsylvania, and he worked as a school counselor in Trenton.

Bradley Telford Burlingham, the one who’d held her wrists and laughed, lived in Baltimore. He’d matriculated at Trinity College, but Diana couldn’t find any evidence of his having graduated. He’d gotten married in his late twenties, in Baltimore, his hometown, and he and his wife had started a family. There’d been a daughter, Lila, and a son, Austin. He’d popped up at the class’s tenth reunion, and again in 2003, having lost most of his hair and gained at least thirty pounds, in a picture with five Emlen men on a fishing boat, each of them holding a giant fish by its jaws. Hal Shoemaker was one of the other men, which meant he and Brad had stayed friends. How touching, Diana thought. Google had filled in some of the blanks, and LinkedIn had helped, too. Brad had held almost a dozen different jobs, mostly in marketing, in all kinds of different businesses. His current address was a not-especially-impressive-looking two-bedroom apartment in a neighborhood called Roland Park.

She would start with him, Diana decided, and work her way up to Hal. She would pay Brad a visit, look him in the eye, let him see what he’d done; let him live with that knowledge, and the knowledge of the world his daughter would eventually inherit, the world he’d made for her, and the rest of the girls and women.

The next morning, at six o’clock, she was driving down the street where Brad Burlingham lived. She found a parking spot with a view of the modest-looking development with two-story buildings clad in white stucco. At nine o’clock, a middle-aged man emerged from a second-story front door and locked it behind him. He made his way down two flights of steps, his breath steaming in a cloud in front of him. Brad’s red hair was mostly gone, his round, doll-like face had gotten broader, but it was still him. There was the snub nose; there was the smirk.

Diana swallowed hard, feeling breathless, almost hearing her heart thump. The guy climbed behind the wheel of an undistinguished Honda, rolling down the window and lighting a cigarette before pulling out of his spot. Keeping a prudent distance, Diana trailed him as he drove down Roland Avenue. Less than a mile from home, he turned, without signaling, onto Deepdene Road, and then into the Starbucks parking lot. Coffee run, Diana figured, but changed her mind after he got out of the car holding a crumpled mass of green fabric in his hands.

She drove once around the block, slowly, then pulled into the parking lot of the Enoch Pratt Library across the street from the coffee shop. It was a crisp, clear February morning, the skies a cloudless blue, the temperature in the low forties. The trees were still bare, stretching their branches like claws into the sky. Dingy, patchy snow lined the lawns and the sides of the roads. Diana waited for an hour, watching as the morning rush swelled and dispersed. Then she put on some lipstick, slung her purse over her shoulder, and walked across the street.

Brad was wearing his apron, standing with his shoulders slumped, behind the glass case of baked goods. He looked to be a solid twenty-five years older than the young people busily frothing milk or heating up croissants. The years had not been kind to him. His eyes were sunken, ringed with dark circles; his nose and cheeks were a constellation of burst capillaries.

“Help you?” he asked, when Diana approached the counter.

“I’d like a venti latte, please.”

“Whole milk okay?”

“Sure.”

“Can I get a name?”

“Katrina.”

She watched to see if he’d flinch, or twitch, or run screaming at the name, but all he did was speak to the barista, reach for a black marker, and misspell the name—Catrina—on the cup. He looked as if a resigned sigh had assumed human form, his every move telegraphing weariness and distaste. She wondered what the story was. Surely this wasn’t the glorious future an Emlen education was meant to assure, and, even if his marketing jobs hadn’t been especially impressive, they’d been several cuts above serving coffee. Had he fallen so far that his family couldn’t help; had he run through all their money; had he exhausted every favor he could have called in, every classmate he could have tapped for help?

She sipped her drink, watching Brad noodling behind the counter, ignoring his coworkers, using the absolute minimal amount of energy to take orders and make change. When her latte was gone, she tossed the cup, left the shop, crossed the street, and spent the next seven hours with only a single bathroom break watching Brad’s car.

At four o’clock, he emerged from the back door, with his apron balled up in his hands. He got behind the wheel of his car and started driving along Roland Avenue, in the opposite direction of his parents’ house. After another mile or so, he pulled into the lot of a restaurant. HAPPY HOUR 4–7. DOLLAR BEERS, TWO-DOLLAR WELL DRINKS, DOLLAR WINGS.

Diana watched him through the restaurant’s windows as he said something to the hostess, and parked himself on a barstool. The bartender seemed to know him: there was a beer on a coaster waiting almost before he’d settled onto the stool. For the next two hours, Diana sat in the parking lot as Brad drank, head down, shoulders hunched, working his way through at least six beers, ignoring the basket of nuts at his elbow, and the other patrons and the help. When his glass was empty he’d jerk his chin toward it, and another beer would appear. At seven o’clock he put a bill down on the counter, dismounted his barstool, and, weaving slightly, made his way to his car.

Is he going to drive like that? Diana wondered. It seemed that he was. He got behind the wheel and pulled out onto the street, crossing the yellow line as he did it.