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

The car in the opposite lane honked. Brad jerked the car back and drove down Roland Avenue, crossing over the yellow line at least half a dozen times during the five-minute ride back home.

She watched him go plodding back up to his apartment. Then she drove back to the bar. By the time she walked through the door, Brad’s seat had been taken by a young woman deep in conversation with her date. It took Diana a few minutes, and a prominently displayed twenty-dollar bill, to attract the young female bartender’s attention. When she said, “Help you?” Diana pointed to Brad’s seat.

“The guy who was sitting there a little while ago. The bald one. Do you know his name?”

The bartender was dressed in a white button-down shirt and suspenders. She gave Diana a shrug. “I know he’s told me. Brad? Bart? Some name like that.”

“Is he a good customer?” The bar was crowded by then, hot and noisy, and Diana had to shout to be heard.

The young woman smirked. “He stays for hours, and that”—she pointed at his seat—“is prime happy-hour real estate. Sits there pounding dollar beers like it’s his job. Puts down a ten-dollar bill to cover a seven-dollar-and-twenty-cent tab. Or sometimes it’s a twenty, and he’ll ask for eleven bucks back.” She rolled her eyes, pale blue beneath stubby black lashes. “A real prince.”

“Does he ever come in here with anyone else?”

The woman crossed her arms against her chest and stared at Diana with narrowed eyes. “Why? You his wife or something?”

Diana shook her head.

The bartender considered, then gave a shrug. “I’ve never seen him here with a girl. Or a guy. He doesn’t really talk to anyone. He just drinks.”

Diana slid the money across the bar in thanks and went to the hotel room she’d rented, paying cash at the front desk, giving the name Julie Christie.

She watched Brad for three weekdays in a row, and every day was the same. At nine or so he’d come shuffling out of the house and drive to work. After work he’d go to the bar. After the bar he’d drive home, and park in the driveway before going inside, head hanging and hands dangling at his sides. By the end of the third night, Diana’s rage and loathing had been joined by a pinprick of pity. She stubbed it out fiercely, imagining she was grinding a lit cigarette butt out with her heel. She told herself that she had to act soon, before that ember came back and started a conflagration.

On Saturday, things were different. Nine o’clock came and went without Brad’s emergence. At noon, a late-model sedan purred up to his building. The back doors opened, eventually disgorging two kids—either teens or tweens, Diana couldn’t tell because of their winter coats and hats. They each wore a backpack, and each carried an overnight bag. Lila and Austin, I presume, Diana thought, but she rolled down her window in time to hear a woman call from the driver’s seat: “Eli, Claudia, be good for your dad!”

Eli and Claudia both said, “We will, Mom!” They walked up the stairs, neither one looking especially enthusiastic as they climbed, and disappeared through the front door. The next morning at eleven, Diana was back in place to watch the children, in the same winter coats, leave the building and climb back into their mother’s car. She figured the woman to be Brad’s second ex-wife; the children, his second ex-family. And she knew she couldn’t wait any longer. The restaurant needed her. So did her husband. It was time to go home.

Diana smoothed her hair. She bent down to make sure her sneakers’ laces were tied. She’d worn jeans, a dark-blue hooded sweatshirt; unremarkable, anonymous clothes that would let her fade into a crowd and move fast if she had to. She freshened her lipstick, working hard to keep her hand steady, and returned it to her makeup case, which she placed in her purse, right next to the ladies’ Colt revolver she’d purchased the week before. She locked her car, walked up the stairs, and stood on the windswept portico, knocking on Brad Burlingham’s door.

“Hold on!” she heard him call. A minute later, he was standing in front of her, in a T-shirt, sweatpants, and bare feet. “Yes?”

“Brad Burlingham?”

“Yes?” His forehead furrowed as he squinted at her. “Have we met?” His eyes widened as he leaned backward into the warmth of his apartment. “Are you serving me?”

For a minute, she couldn’t make sense of the words. “What?”

“If you’re a process server, you have to say so.”

She shook her head. “I just want to talk to you.”

“Who are you?” he asked, peering at her.

“You don’t remember?” She looked at him, waiting for the click; waiting for something to show in his posture or on his face. When nothing did, she said, “Cape Cod. 1987. Corn Hill Beach.” Those words, finally, registered. She saw the smallest flare of panic in his eyes, and pushed past him into his apartment, waiting there, until, shoulders slumped, Brad turned to face her and pulled the door shut behind him.

In the living room, she saw the detritus of the children’s visit: video-game controllers on the floor, a bowl of potato chips on a coffee table, next to a copy of the AA Big Book.

“Come on in,” said Brad, with an ironic, courtly gesture. “Make yourself at home.” Diana waited a minute, then took a seat, perched on the edge of an armchair that was one of a matched set, upholstered in a fawn-colored velvet. She wondered if he’d gotten them in the divorce, carted them out of the marital house and brought them here, to this sad-single-dad apartment.

“I recognize you now,” he said. “From Starbucks. You came in a few days ago, right?” Before she could answer, he said, “It’s a rehab job.” He sat down heavily on the couch, which was brown leather, enormous, and out of proportion to the daintier armchairs. “Probably wondering what an Emlen