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

or starfish or bits of paisley print, and then samplers, squares of plain white linen embroidered with birds and flowers and, in one case, the word BULLSHIT in elaborate cursive. “I lived near the beach for a while, and I picked up seashells when I walked, and I was looking for something to do with them.”

“Have you ever seen John Derian’s stuff?” Beatrice asked.

Diana had smiled. “I’ve actually met him a few times.”

Beatrice immediately abandoned any pretensions of being cool. “No way. Really?”

“Really.” Diana looked delighted by Beatrice’s pleasure. “Maybe someday, you guys will come visit me, and I’ll take you to his shop.” Diana had turned to Beatrice’s mother. “Do you know his work?”

Beatrice’s mother looked thoughtful. “He’s got a shop in Provincetown. I’ve been there a few times.” She was probably delighted that Beatrice was being “pleasant,” as she’d probably put it, to one of her friends. “Have you ever been there?”

Beatrice thought she saw Diana stiffen. “To Provincetown? Not recently.” Then Diana turned back to Beatrice, saying, “I would love to see your taxidermy,” and Beatrice had led her upstairs. Before she’d left, her mother had invited her to the dinner party, and as soon as Diana had gotten in the car her mom had started planning the meal.

Cooking was her mother’s business, and her mom hosted a number of parties every year as a way of attracting new business and showing off her skills. There was Thanksgiving, where everyone from both sides of the family came. Her mom roasted ducks and ordered a smoked goose from some place in North Dakota. In December, there was a Christmas cookie exchange. Her mother would bake for weeks, and invite everyone from the neighborhood over, and send them all home with a specially printed tin that had her name and the address of her website on a sticker on the front. There were the parties on the long weekends that bracketed summer: the Memorial Day barbecue, and the Labor Day Goodbye to the Cape clambake—and then the May Day dinner, which celebrated Grandma Judy’s birthday, and her dad’s.

Beatrice had already decided what she’d wear on Saturday night—a black tulle dress with crinolines, fitted at the bodice, flared at the hips, that she’d found at Goodwill for eight dollars. She would wear sparkly gold heels with it, and her black hat. Her mom was making one of her favorites, the coq au vin that took hours to prepare, and the dish her mom only served to her very favorite people.

Saturday, the day of the party, started off gray and cool. Her mother began cooking at lunchtime, reducing the wine and chicken stock, frying the lardons, then the onions and carrots, browning the chicken and putting everything into a big, deep pan. She added tomato paste, flambéed the brandy, and let the dish simmer. The smell reminded Beatrice of being a little girl, the first time she’d sat at the table, surveying the guests from her booster seat and feeling like a queen.

Beatrice set the table (“and I only had to ask her once,” she heard her mom marvel to her dad), using her favorite blue-and-yellow patterned tablecloth, pale gold napkins, and her mother’s good china, which had a red-and-gold pattern and gold leaf around the rim. On the counter in the kitchen was the red leaf salad with toasted hazelnuts, which would be dressed with a sesame vinaigrette at the last minute and served with warmed baguettes and unsalted butter. There would be warm spiced nuts and Beatrice’s very favorite treat, olives, wrapped in a cheesy dough and deep-fried. As irritating as Beatrice found her mom, as much as she pitied her, she could still recognize her culinary skills, and acknowledge that the fried breaded olives were the most delicious thing in the world.

It had started to rain when Diana arrived. Her pale-gray trench coat was spattered with raindrops, and the wind had tumbled her hair. “Beatrice!” she said, smiling and touching Beatrice’s crinoline-puffed skirt. “What a fabulous outfit. Is it okay if I give you a hug?”

Beatrice decided that it was, and Diana enfolded her in her warmth and her perfume. Under her chic, belted coat, she was wearing wide-legged black pants, black leather boots, and a black cashmere wrap that looked like a cross between a cape and a blanket.

“I know,” Diana said, like she was reading Beatrice’s mind. “It’s basically a Snuggie.”

Beatrice didn’t know what a Snuggie was, but she loved the sweater. “It’s so soft,” she said, touching Diana’s sleeve.

“It’s cashmere,” said Diana. “I found it at this shop in—oh, Lord, Atlanta, I think. It was on clearance, probably because not many women want to walk around wearing blankets. I bought it in every color they had. Pink, pale gray, this kind of plum color, and black.” She gave Beatrice an assessing look. “You know, the pink never really suited me. But I bet you’d look fabulous in it.”

Beatrice’s heart felt strangely swoopy. “Really?”

“Really. I’ll box it up and put it in the mail the minute I’m home.”

Beatrice’s mom came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. Next to Diana, in her green flowered apron and black leggings and bare feet, with her hair in a scrunchy, her mom looked ridiculous, and very young. The two women hugged each other warmly, and Diana kissed her mom’s cheek before turning to Beatrice. “You know, your mother is saving my life.”

“Oh, that’s an exaggeration,” said her mom, looking pleased nonetheless.

“It’s true!” said Diana. “Thanks to your mom, I’m going to eat well for the rest of my life.” Her mother was beaming when Beatrice’s father came down the stairs.

“Hello, ladies!” The women didn’t exactly spring apart, but Diana stepped back and her mom looked down. Her dad wore a button-down shirt and khakis, instead of the jeans he’d normally have on for a Saturday night at home. If her mom was a wren, and Diana was an eagle, what was her father, swooping in to