Big Summer Page 5

  “Do we have time for a snack?” he asked as he used his forefinger to loosen the knot of his tie, an incongruously adult gesture that never failed to amuse me when eight-year-old Ian performed it.

  I consulted my phone. We had fifteen minutes to traverse the two blocks that would get us to East Ninety-First Street in time to collect Izzy at Spence. “If we eat fast.”

  Ian nodded. “That’s fair.”

  “How was your day?”

  Ian sighed. “We had PE, and I got picked last again.”

  “Aw, man.” Ian rolled his eyes at my sad attempt to sound hip, but I could see a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “Seriously, though. I can’t believe schools are still doing it this way. Letting kids pick teams.”

  He looked up at me. “Did you get picked last ever?”

  “Um, did I get picked last always?” I asked lightly. Keep it moving, I told myself. If I got mired in memories of gym class horror, I’d be crying by the first intersection. “What will we be enjoying this afternoon?”

  “Chocolate croissant at Sarabeth’s,” he said promptly. “Are you trying to change the subject?”

  Ian didn’t miss much. “I one hundred percent am.”

  “Were kids mean to you when you were in third grade?”

  “On occasion. But you know what? I survived. And you will, too. And those jerks who were mean to you will probably peak in middle school, whereas you have many, many years to excel.” Ian smiled at that. I wondered when he’d realize that some bullies just stayed that way, that some of the little jerks just grew up to become bigger, rich, successful jerks, and that the scales didn’t always balance in the end.

  We walked into Sarabeth’s. The woman behind the counter smiled when she saw Ian. “The usual?” she asked.

  Ian nodded. “Yes, please.”

  “You’re a regular!” I said. He rolled his eyes, but he was glowing with the pleasure of being recognized, standing a little taller as he looked around to see who might have heard. Everyone likes being seen, I thought, and stowed that observation away for later use in an Instagram post.

  “Who was mean to you?” Ian asked, once we’d found a table. “Was it that girl? The one who came to our house?”

  I pulled an allergen-free, lavender-scented wipe out of my bag. “Hands.”

  Ian wiped his hands and started to eat. “It was, wasn’t it?” His voice sounded dolorous, even with a mouthful of chocolate and pastry. “I’ll bet she got picked first.”

  “That, my friend, is a bet you would win.”

  I wished that Ian and Izzy had never met Drue, that my former best friend had never dragged my employers and their kids into our drama. But, as Drue had pointed out, I hadn’t given her any other option. I’d ignored her emails and the texts she sent after she’d gotten my phone number from our alumni association. I hadn’t opened the direct messages she’d sent on Instagram and Facebook and Twitter, and I’d thrown the letter she’d mailed me into the trash, unopened. When she’d left word with my parents that she was trying to reach me, all I’d said was “Thanks for letting me know.” And even though I was sure that they were both desperate to hear the story about what had gone wrong between us. they hadn’t pushed, or pried, or asked questions.

  Finally, Drue had done an end run and had gone to the Snitzers. Dr. Elise, it emerged, sat on the board of one of the museums where Drue was a member of the Young Friends, and she had been delighted to facilitate the reunion of two old friends. She’d even enlisted Ian and Izzy. “We’ve got a big surprise for you!” Izzy had said one afternoon, making me sit while Ian solemnly wrapped a blindfold around my head. Each kid had taken a hand, and they’d led me into the kitchen. I’d smelled chocolate as they’d helped me take a seat. “Surprise!” they’d shouted. I’d pulled off the blindfold to see a frosted cake on the table, with candles blazing.

  Confused, I’d said, “It’s not my birthday.”

  “That’s not the surprise!” Izzy crowed. She and Ian went into the foyer. A minute later, larger than life and twice as beautiful, in high pale-beige heels and a navy-blue blazer that probably cost more than I would earn all week, was Drue Cavanaugh. My old best friend.

  “Hey, Daphne!” she’d said, as if we’d seen each other fifteen minutes ago at our lockers at the Lathrop School after a day of classes instead of six years ago, on a sidewalk outside of a bar, after a fight.

  I stared at her. “Blow out your candles,” she said quietly. “Make a wish.” As if I’d been hypnotized, I bent and did as she’d told me. I blew out the candles, but I didn’t make a wish. My mind had gone completely, distressingly blank.

  “It’s your friend!” Ian crowed. “Your friend from school! She wanted to surprise you!”

  “Are you surprised?” Izzy had asked, dancing around me in her tulle tutu.

  I could barely breathe, could barely speak. “I am. Yes. Hey, can you two monsters give us a minute?”

  The kids, placated by slices of cake and glasses of milk, had gone to the den for a bonus half-hour of screen time. Drue had helped herself to the slimmest sliver of cake. “Thanks, Josie,” she’d said, dismissing the Snitzers’ cook in the impersonally friendly tone of a woman who’d spent her whole life telling the help what to do. Josie had nodded and bowed her way out the door.

  And then it had been just the two of us.

  I imagined that I could feel the air changing, some kind of shift in the atmosphere signaling the gravity of this moment. Name five things you can see. The refrigerator. My hand on the table. My black shirt. The stainless-steel refrigerator. Drue’s highlighted hair. I could still smell the cake that Josie had made, the good scents of chocolate and butter and vanilla, and I could hear Izzy and Ian squabbling about what to watch, but all of that felt very far away. I imagined that we were in a bubble, my old friend and me, floating, alone together, apart from the world. Just the two of us.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  Drue removed her jacket. Underneath, she wore a long-sleeved ivory silk blouse, with mother-of-pearl buttons at the cuffs and a bow at the collar, and a pair of beautifully cut, high-waisted, wide-legged navy-blue pants. Her earrings were pearls, each one set in a circle of tiny, brilliant diamonds, and her hair was pulled into a loose bun at the nape of her neck. Work look, she’d probably tag it, if she’d posted it on what she called Fashion Fridays on her Instagram page. I did my best to avoid Drue’s online presence, the same way I’d tried to avoid her IRL, but it wasn’t easy. Especially not after the New York Times had included her in a round-up of rising businesswomen who were using social media effectively. With her breezy yet down-to-earth tone and balanced blend of philanthropy, Boss Girl–style tips and fashion, Drue Cavanaugh of the Cavanaugh Corporation has become a must-read for the rising generation of young women who want to have it all, and look good while they’re getting it, the piece had read, quoting an advertising executive’s praise of Drue for putting a fresh, young, relatable female face on the staid old family brand.

  Drue pulled out one of the chairs at the kitchen table and sat down. “I need to talk to you.”

  Instead of sitting, I looked across the table at her as I said, “I don’t think we have anything to say to each other.”

  “Please, Daphne,” she said. “I know you’re still mad, but can you just give me a minute? Please?”

  I stared at her for what felt like a long time. Her features were still perfect, hair still shiny; she was still chic and gorgeous and flawless. I could feel the old, familiar longing, and could remember how easily she’d pulled me into her orbit with the unspoken promise that, if I got close to her, if I did what she wanted me to do, I’d end up elevated by proximity; looking like her, being like her, having that beauty and the power and confidence it conferred.

  “Please,” she said again, her voice cracking. Or maybe not so much confidence. I sat down and pushed my empty plate away. I wouldn’t have been able to eat, even if I’d wanted to. Whatever appetite I’d had had
fled.

  “Five minutes,” I said curtly. “I have things to do.”

  Drue crossed her legs and toyed with her fork. “Could I have some water?”

  Here we go, I thought, and went to get a glass. I could have used a drink myself, but I couldn’t permit myself even a sip of water with Drue, any more than Persephone should have allowed herself a single pomegranate seed down in hell. Water would turn into coffee, which would turn into a glass of wine, which would turn into a bottle, and then I’d invite her back to my place. She’d keep my glass full, and I’d be spilling whatever secrets I had to spill, agreeing to anything she wanted. I could feel her allure, as insistent as the tide, the way the water tugged you when you stood at the edge of the ocean with your feet in the sand.

  I set the glass in front of her so hard that some of the water splashed out. “Why are you here?”

  Drue sighed. In the late-afternoon sunlight, she was even more beautiful than she’d been in high school, like a pearl polished to its highest gloss, but she kept fidgeting, smoothing her hands against her thighs, tapping the floor with one toe. She’s nervous, I thought. Then I thought, Good.

  “Well?”

  Instead of answering, Drue extended her arm, angling her hand so that there was no way I could miss the enormous diamond ring on her finger.

  “I’m getting married,” she said. “To Stuart Lowe.”

  I stared at her mutely. I knew, of course. I didn’t follow Drue, but I did live in the world, where there were newspapers and gossip blogs and People magazine, and all of those had made Drue’s impending nuptials impossible to avoid. I knew Drue was engaged, and I knew her intended had been last season’s star on All the Single Ladies, a dating show where, over twelve weeks, one eligible bachelor worked his way through a pool of eighteen women, taking them on dates in different locales (most of which had been chosen because of their willingness to pay promotional fees to the network), finally narrowing his choices down to two lucky ladies, and proposing to one during the finale. Eight months ago, Stuart Lowe had put a ring on the finger of his “winner,” a blond, breathy, baby-voiced nanny from Minnesota named Corina Bailey. Two months after that he’d dumped her, telling the world that he was still in love with his college girlfriend: Drue Lathrop Cavanaugh.

  So I knew. But what did Drue want from me? Did she expect me to start celebrating with her? Shriek with happiness, jump for joy, act like this was the best news I’d ever heard? Like she was still my friend, and I still cared?

  “Congratulations,” I said, keeping my voice expressionless.

  “Hey,” said Drue. She stretched out her fingers to brush my forearm. I jerked it away. “It’s been great to see how well you’re doing. Truly.”

  I shrugged.

  “I can’t believe that Jessamyn Stanley follows my high school BFF,” Drue burbled. Jessamyn Stanley was a plus-size yoga instructor, a black woman with close-cropped hair who posed in sports bras and yoga pants and occasionally smoked weed on camera and was pretty much the opposite of all of the yoga instructors I’d encountered during my dieting years. I’d been delighted to find her, and Mirna Valerio, another plus-size black athlete who ran ultramarathons in a body that looked like mine, and even more thrilled when they’d followed me back.

  “And Tess Holliday!” Drue continued. “And Lola Dalton!” Tess Holliday was a top plus-size model; Lola Dalton was a comedian who’d actually retweeted a video I’d made about how, for plus-size women, getting a sports bra on was the workout before the workout.

  “How’s Darshi?” she asked, her voice bright and upbeat, as if the three of us had been besties. As if Darshi hadn’t been one of her favorite targets back in the day.

  “She’s doing very well. Finishing up her dissertation at Columbia, actually. We’re roommates.”

  “Wow. That’s really great.”

  “What do you want, Drue?” I was glad to hear that my voice was pleasant but businesslike.

  She rubbed her hands against her thighs again, and smoothed her hair, giving me another look at her ring. “I need people,” she said softly. “People to be in my wedding.”

  I schooled my face into blankness and fixed my eyes on a point just above her head as Drue kept talking.

  “My fiancé… he’s got all these friends… he’s got, like, eight groomsmen, and I don’t have that many. I don’t have anyone, really.” Her voice cracked. Her chest hitched. Her eyes gleamed with the sheen of tears.

  I turned away. “What about the gruesome twosome?”

  Drue made a small, familiar gesture, one I’d seen her employ a dozen times, always in relation to some guy she’d been seeing, a flick of her hand that meant I’m done with him. When I kept staring, she sighed. “Ainsley’s in Tokyo for some job thing,” she said. “And Avery isn’t interested.”

  There was a story there, I thought as Drue pulled in a deep breath and sighed it out. “I haven’t been perfect,” she said. “I know that. And I’ve missed you.” Her eyes shone with what looked like sincerity. “I’ve never again had a friend like you.” She tried to smile. When she saw my stony expression, the smile slid off her face. Looking down, she said, “The wedding is going to be covered everywhere. We’ll be in Vogue, and Town & Country, and we’re hoping for the Times’ Vows column. And it’s going to look ridiculous if I’m up there all by myself.” Her eyes welled with tears.

  “You don’t have anyone?” I heard myself ask.

  “I’ve got two cousins, and one of them is pregnant.” She used her hands to sketch an enormous belly in the air. “She might not be able to make it to the wedding. And my assistant said she’d do it. Stuart’s got a sister. And I asked one girl from college, and one girl from grad school. They said yes. Probably because I said I’d pay their airfare.”

  Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? I thought. As if she’d heard me, Drue started to cry for real. “I haven’t been a good person. Maybe I don’t even know how to be a good person. And I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I was awful to you, but I don’t have anyone else, and you were the only one…” She gulped, then wiped her cheeks, and looked at me with her reddened eyes. “You were the only one who ever just liked me for me.” In a tiny, un-Drue-like voice, she asked, “Will you be in my wedding? Please?”

  I curled my hands into fists, digging my fingernails into the meat of my palms, and stared at her in a way I hoped managed to communicate my utter incredulity at the very thought that I’d ever participate in her wedding. Drue bowed her head and swayed forward, close enough for me to smell her shampoo and perfume, both of them familiar, both immediately taking me back to the cafeteria at Lathrop, and her bedroom, where I’d spent dozens of nights sleeping on the trundle bed on the floor next to her. There was a guest room, of course, but on the nights I spent there we always ended up in her room, together.

  “Daphne, I know I was awful. I’ve been in therapy.” Her lips quirked. “I’m probably the first one on either side of my family to do that.” Her laugh sounded rueful, the kind I’d never heard from her before. “WASPs don’t get therapists, they get drunk and have affairs.” Another sigh. “High school was not a good time for me, and I took it out on other people.”

  Part of me was dying to ask for details, to try to make some sense of what she was telling me. I had so many questions, but I forced myself to keep quiet and warned myself not to trust her, not to open the door and let her hurt me again.

  “My parents haven’t been happy for a long time. I don’t know if they ever were happy, but when we were in high school, it was…” She shook her head. “It was bad. My father would go on business trips for months at a time, and when he’d come home, they’d have these knock-down, drag-out, screaming fights.” She picked up her fork, broke off a tiny bit of cake, and mashed it flat with the tines. “My father had affairs. Lots of affairs. Remember how we used to go to Cape Cod in the summers, and then we stopped?”

  “I figured it had something to do with that mansion your dad bought in the Hamptons
.”

  Drue managed half of a smile. “Do you know why we bought that house? My mother’s parents told us—told him—that we couldn’t come back to the Cape.” She waited until, finally, I asked, “Why?”

  “Because every summer, my father would sleep with some family’s au pair or babysitter, so my grandmother finally put her foot down.” She touched her hair, toyed with her fork, recrossed her legs under the table. “My parents didn’t have a prenup. So if they’d split up, my dad would’ve fought my mom over the money she had when they got married. It would have been ugly and expensive for both of them, so I guess they just decided to, you know, tough it out.” Drue wrapped her arms around her shoulders. “It was awful.”

  “So why didn’t you tell me?”

  Drue made a face. “Remember Todd Larson?”

  I nodded. Todd had been one of our Lathrop classmates. Todd’s dad had been a city council member until his name was found among the boldfaced entries in a Washington madam’s little black book.

  “And Libby Ross?”

  I nodded again. Libby’s mom had found out that Libby’s dad was cheating after she’d snooped on his Fitbit readout and noticed his heart rate spiking suspiciously at two in the morning for three nights in a row when he was allegedly at a great-aunt’s funeral in Des Moines. When that fact had come out in open court in the middle of their lengthy and contentious divorce hearings, the gossip websites had feasted on the scandal for days.

  “I couldn’t talk about it. Not even with you.”

  “You think I would have told people?” My voice was incredulous.

  “My whole life, my parents told me not to trust anyone who wasn’t family.”

  I rolled my eyes. “It wasn’t like you were in the mafia.” When Drue didn’t answer, I said, “Okay, so you were going through some stuff. Your parents were fighting. Lots of kids’ parents were fighting, or getting divorced. Do you think that excuses the way you treated me?”

  “No,” she said. Her shoulders slumped. “You know what they say. Hurt people hurt people.”