At six o’clock, Hal had arrived. Her mom had opened the door, revealing a compact, well-built, dark-haired man, in a navy-blue suit and a red silk tie. He looked very mature to Daisy, a world away from the college boys in Birkenstocks and cargo shorts.
“Hal Shoemaker,” Daisy’s mother said. She’d touched his face and kissed his cheek and then, just as Daisy had feared she would, started to get a little sniffly. Hal represented a better time, a lost Eden, a golden-hued era when her sons had been boys; when home had been a near-mansion in Montclair and not an apartment in West Orange, when she’d been a mom, and not a single mom. He was everything she’d loved that had been so cruelly taken away, in a five-foot-nine-inch package.
He’d brought tulips, and as Judy wiped her eyes, he held them out to her, stiffly, his expression bewildered.
Quickly, Daisy swooped in. She took the flowers, put them in a water glass, and ushered Hal to the living room while her mother went to the bathroom to freshen up, and probably take a Valium.
“Sorry about that,” Daisy said. “She still gets upset by… well. Pretty much everything.”
“It’s okay. You two must have been through a lot.” He looked around the apartment, then at her.
“Danny’s little sister. Look at you, all grown up.”
“Well, it’s been a while,” she said. She’d been just six years old when Danny, a high-school senior, brought his friends home, and she had only the vaguest memories of a loud collection of large, clumsy male bodies descending on her mother’s kitchen like an invading horde.
Hal said, “I think I remember seeing you, sitting on the staircase. You had a blue-and-white nightgown with flowers, right?”
She nodded, remembering the flannel Lanz of Vienna, with a ruffled yoke and lace trim at the sleeves, a birthday gift from her parents. She’d loved that nightgown.
Judy came back to the living room, giving Hal a watery smile.
“And, of course, I remember Thanksgiving dinner, Mrs. Rosen. Your sweet potatoes were the best I’ve ever had.”
“Thank you,” Judy had said. Dad and I probably made those sweet potatoes, Daisy thought but did not say. Even as a girl, she’d helped out in the kitchen. She’d had a stepstool, and she’d stood next to her father as he’d help her measure and sift and pour, show her how to crack eggs, and separate them, and fold stiff egg whites into a batter—“gently, be gentle, you don’t want to break up the foam!”
Hal got to his feet, looking eager to be on their way. Daisy realized, with a sinking heart, that his spot on the sofa gave him a clear view of the kitchen and the fly strip dangling from the ceiling, with a few dead flies ornamenting its curls. He held out his hand. “Shall we?”
Hal had made a reservation at the ramen place Daisy had recommended, and the hostess led them to a table in the corner. They sat down, and both began talking at once.
“So tell me about—”
“So is it weird—”
They’d laughed, and he’d gestured at her, saying, “Please.”
“I was going to ask you to tell me about being a lawyer.”
“Oh, you don’t really want to hear about that,” he said. “I’d rather hear about you.”
So they’d talked. She told him charming stories about taking over the family cooking, emphasizing how much she enjoyed it, not telling him that, for years, her mom had been too exhausted and sad to put dinner on the table. Hal told her stories about his summers on Cape Cod, tales she suspected had been significantly bowdlerized, especially since she’d heard some of the unexpurgated details from Danny. He drank water with his meal, but he ordered an expensive bottle of plum sake and kept her cup full, and his eyes on her face, perfectly attentive and solicitous even when the buxom waitress dipped her knees and bent over to set down their dishes or clear them away. Daisy had enjoyed herself… or, looking back, maybe she’d just enjoyed the idea of the night, a handsome older man treating her with such thoughtfulness and care. She basked in his attention, going a glass of sake past her usual first-date two-drink limit, and then letting him order her Irish coffee with the mochi they got for dessert. When they walked outside at the end of the meal. Daisy’s body felt warm and loose, her gestures expansive and her voice perhaps a touch too loud.
“That was fun,” she’d said, when she’d gotten into the passenger’s seat. She fumbled with her seat belt, realizing she was more drunk than she’d thought. Then she held perfectly still as Hal reached over, took the buckle from her hand, and slid it into place with a final-sounding click. She rested her head against the back of her seat, and she must have dozed off. When she opened her eyes, they were back in the parking lot in front of the apartment. Daisy yawned enormously, then, embarrassed, put her hand over her mouth, hoping she hadn’t snored, or drooled, or otherwise managed to embarrass herself.
“Sorry,” she said. “This is a pretty late night for me.”
“I understand.” Hal slid his hand over hers, and squeezed. “You’re a peach,” he said.
A peach, she thought. It made sense at the moment, when her thoughts were all fuzzy. And she liked the idea of being round and juicy, sweet and delicately furred. Well, maybe not that, she thought, and giggled.
“I’d like to see you again,” he said, and Daisy, who was used to guys who waited two or three days or even a week before deigning to call again, flushed with surprised pleasure.
“Okay.”
“But I should tell you,” Hal continued. He squeezed her fingers again. “I’m not interested in playing games. I want something serious. If you aren’t ready for that, I understand. I know you’ve got another year of college, and maybe you’re not ready to settle down. I just want you to tell me now, so we don’t waste each other’s time.”
And there it was, Daisy thought dreamily. The difference between being in your twenties and your thirties; the difference between Hal Shoemaker and all the boys she’d been wasting her time with. Here was a man, an actual, in-the-flesh man, stable and employed and interested in her. It seemed almost too good to be true, and even though she hadn’t planned on getting married that young, hadn’t imagined she’d meet a likely candidate for years, it seemed that the world had set one in her lap, and who was she to turn away such a gift? Daisy could hear her mother’s voice: Don’t let this one get away. She gave Hal a slightly woozy smile. “I’d like that.”
“Good.” He walked her to the door and insisted on taking the elevator back upstairs. In front of her mother’s door, he cupped the back of her neck and pressed his lips briefly against hers.
“Oh, come on,” she whispered. “I bet you can do better than that.” If you want me, show me, she thought. She stood on her tiptoes, and he’d pulled her close and kissed her, slowly and thoroughly, a long, dreamy kiss that left her flushed and breathless and completely on board with whatever Hal had planned for their future.
“There’s just one thing,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“You’re going to think it’s silly.”
“What is it?” He was rubbing gently at the back of her neck, slowly and tenderly. Daisy felt like she was melting, her body slowly transforming from solid to liquid. He leaned close and whispered in her ear, “Can I call you something else?”
Daisy drew back, staring at him. She wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been that. “Don’t you like ‘Diana’?”
“I knew another Diana, once. I’d rather call you something different. Something that’s special, just for you.”
Like a secret, she thought. He’ll give me a secret name. And when he names me, I’ll be his. She giggled, realizing that she was still very drunk. When she stopped laughing, Hal was still looking at her, still cupping the back of her head, waiting for her answer.
“My middle name is Suzanne. Diana Suzanne. My grandma used to call me Daisy. But she’s been dead—”
“Daisy,” he interrupted. He raised his hand and settled it in her hair, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “M
y pretty little flower. That’s perfect.”
30
Daisy
Daisy parked her car, unlocked her front door, walked inside, and stood in her beautiful kitchen, still as a pillar of salt while Lester whined at her feet.
She’d managed to stay calm as she’d made the drive home, replaying the conversation over and over again, listing the facts: Diana did not live at the apartment where Daisy had cooked with her; Diana did not work at the company where Daisy believed she spent her busy days. Diana was not a consultant. Diana was not anything that Daisy had believed. Diana lived in a cottage on Cape Cod, in the same town where Daisy had spent every one of the last eighteen summers, the town where, as a teenager, Diana had been assaulted by an Emlen Class of 1987 graduate, a white man with curly dark hair. Diana believed that Hal had raped her, and that Danny had watched. And now Diana had disappeared, and Daisy had no idea of what to do with any of that information. She had no plan, no clue, nothing except a muddied jumble of thoughts and a frantic, overarching need to run. Run from whom? Run to where? She didn’t know.
One part of her mind was screaming the particulars of Diana’s revelations: Not who she said she was! Not living where you thought she’d lived! Everything she told you was a lie! Another part was trying to insist that maybe Diana was wrong. Maybe it hadn’t been an Emlen boy who’d raped her, or, if it had, maybe not from the class of 1987, and, if it was a boy from that class, maybe it hadn’t been Hal, and a third part was saying, You knew. You knew it was something bad. You’ve always known.
Head down, hands squeezed into fists, nails pressing at the flesh of her palms, Daisy walked in circles around her beautiful, airy kitchen. Lester trailed after her, his tail drooping, making worried grumbles in the back of his throat as Daisy walked from the apron-fronted farmhouse sink, around the marble and butcher block island, past the built-in benches of the dining nook and the bump-out bay window, past the rows of cabinets and countertops and specially designed drawers for her utensils and her spices. “Whatever you want,” Hal had told her. “Whatever makes my little bird happy.”
Daisy walked. She thought about Hal, the man she’d lived with for almost twenty years, the man she’d slept beside almost every night. She remembered a famous optical illusion; a drawing that could be either a beautiful young woman or an ugly old hag, depending on how you saw it. For almost twenty years, she’d seen only the good—a loving, kind, generous husband; a beautiful house; a beloved, cherished daughter. But for the past weeks and months, things had been changing. It felt like she had finally seen the witch, after years of only seeing the young woman, and now she couldn’t un-see. I lived by performing tricks for you, Torvald. But you would have it so.
Daisy’s breaths were coming in painful gasps. Her chest felt tight, her guts clenched, and she had to race to the bathroom, barely making it in time. The instant she made contact with the toilet seat it felt like everything inside of her came flooding out in a horrible, scalding gush. She moaned, leaning forward with her elbows on her thighs, burying her hot face in her hands.
What was she going to do? And what about her brother? Had he actually watched Hal rape a young woman, then let Daisy marry him, without even a word of warning? If Danny knew what Hal was, surely that was the reason Daisy and Hal and Danny and Jesse hardly ever spent time together as a foursome, the reason she almost always saw them by herself. Daisy’s mind lurched back to the days before her wedding, when both of her brothers had come home; David with his wife and children, Danny, by himself, from New York City. Danny had been distant the week of the festivities, so quiet that she’d asked Hal if something had happened at the bachelor party. Once she and Hal had said their vows, her brother had given her a quick kiss, said, “Good luck, Di,” and left the party early.
Daisy moaned again. Her mouth was very dry, and her stomach was still twisting. She was remembering that morning in the fall; Hal in his running clothes, his spinach drink untouched, staring at his iPad, telling her that Bubs had committed suicide. Had he been involved? Had Diana tracked him down, the same way she’d done with Hal and Danny? Had Brad Burlingham’s death actually been a suicide, or had it maybe been a murder? She had never asked Hal any more questions. She’d never followed up. The incident had flown right out of her mind, in the whirl of handling Beatrice’s return, managing her business, running the house. My little scatterbrain, Hal would say, smiling affectionately when Daisy misplaced her car keys or her phone. He’d rest his hand on her hair. You’d lose your head if it weren’t attached, wouldn’t you?
Daisy’s laptop sat beside the bed. She pulled it out and plugged Brad Burlingham’s name into Google, which obligingly spat out a pageful of headlines. The first was an obituary from the Baltimore Sun. Bradley Telford Burlingham, 51, died at his home Saturday. The second story, from a Baltimore news and gossip blog, was more helpful: Prominent Baltimore Family Mourns Its Son.
On Sunday evening, the body of Brad Burlingham, youngest son of the Baltimore Burlinghams, real-estate magnates and political kingmakers, was found at his apartment, a mile away from his parents’ mansion on Deepdene Drive. Like his brothers, his father, his uncles, his grandfather, and his great-uncles, Burlingham was a graduate of the Emlen Academy in New Hampshire and attended Trinity College. Friends and relatives acknowledged that Burlingham’s life was troubled. He was arrested three times in two different states for driving under the influence, and eventually had his license revoked. He married Marianne Conover in 1996. They had two children and divorced in 2005, and Conover was awarded full custody of the children. A second marriage, to Elspeth Dryer in 2009, lasted only four years. Burlingham held various marketing jobs for institutions including the Baltimore Sun and the University of Maryland Medical Center.
“Brad was the black sheep,” said a longtime observer of Baltimore’s upper crust, a friend of the family who requested anonymity in order to speak freely about the deceased. “Every big, rich family’s got one, and the Burlinghams had Brad. He didn’t have an easy life. I hope wherever he is, he’s found peace.”
Friends describe a man who’d made numerous attempts at getting sober. Prior to his death, Burlingham had been working at Starbucks, a job his AA sponsor recommended, according to Corby Kincaid, a college classmate of Burlingham’s.
“He tried very hard to clean up his act, and be a father to his children,” Kincaid said. “He had demons, though, and I guess in the end they won.”
“Brad was a loyal friend, a devoted son, and a loyal member of the Emlen community,” Dr. G. Baptiste, dean of Emlen, said in an interview. “This is an unfathomable loss for all of us.”
Daisy looked at her phone. It was just past four thirty. Beatrice would be home in fifteen minutes. Hal would be home in an hour. She stood, washed her hands, then picked up her phone and punched in her brother’s name.
“Hello? Di? Is that you?”
“It’s me.” Her voice sounded faint, like it was coming from the bottom of a well. “I need to ask you about something.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“The summer after you graduated from Emlen, you went to the Cape. There was a party there. The last party of the summer. I need you to tell me what happened that night.”
There was a pause, so long it felt endless. Then, finally, Danny began to speak. “You have to understand, this was a long, long time ago,” he said, his voice low and rough. “People’s understanding about consent and—and things like that—has changed in the last thirty years.”
“Danny,” said Daisy. “Can you cut the bullshit? Please? Just tell me what happened!”
Her brother sighed. “Hal had been talking to a girl for most of the time we were there. A townie, or an au pair. Something like that. And yes, there was a party on the beach, and everyone had a lot to drink, and I saw—what I saw—” Danny’s voice was getting higher, more hesitant.
“Just spit it out,” Daisy said. “Just tell me.”
“Hal was having sex with the girl.”
“And was another boy holding her down?”
“I—I can’t—” She could picture her brother, the way his neck would get flushed when he was upset, the way he’d pace, the same way she did. Maybe he’d be walking the tiled floor of his tiny office at the high school, with its walls covered, floor to ceiling, with college brochures meant to inspire the students, or in the gym at the Boys & Girls Club, or in his kitchen, with a visiting baby in his arms. “It was a long time ago, Di. And I was a different person. Things were hard for me. I’m not making excuses…”
“Yes, you are,” Daisy said.
Danny’s voice was mournful. “Every time I think about it, I think I should have done more, that I could have done more. But I was…” His voice trailed off. “I had a crush on Hal. I thought I was in love with him, and I was terrified about what would happen if he found out about me. When he took me into the dunes…” He sighed again, and, against her will, Daisy found herself imagining it—Hal’s hands on Danny’s shoulders, both of them drunk and stumbling, Hal urging Danny on and Danny going willingly, maybe hoping that Hal felt the same way he did, not seeing until it was too late, where Hal was leading him.
“It was a long time ago,” Danny said bleakly.
“But it wasn’t,” said Daisy. “Not for the woman Hal did this to. Diana has to live with what he did to her, every day of her life. And she was fifteen years old, and she was passed-out drunk!” Daisy found that she was shouting. “Jesus. How would you like it if someone did that to Beatrice? Did you ever try to find the woman, and tell her you should have done more? Did you ever feel anything about what you’d done? Does Jesse know?” I’ll tell him, she thought, the idea sizzling like acid, hot and spiteful in her mind. I’ll tell Jesse, and Jesse will leave Danny, and Danny will have his heart broken, which is what he deserves.
That Summer Page 33