Big Summer

by Jennifer Weiner

  “What was her name?”

  “Lotta Cox.”

  I laughed, and he smiled. I was enjoying his company, the sound of his voice, the sight of his big hands deftly working his lobster cracker, his fingers neatly removing every shred of meat from the claws. A dab of butter gleamed on his chin, and I felt a warm glow, low in my belly, as I imagined how it would feel to lick it away.

  “Save room for dessert,” Nick said. “They’ve got an ice-cream sundae bar. It’s homemade ice cream from Sweet Escape right up the road.” He told me how the place had thirty flavors, and how, the previous summer, he and his friends had tried to eat their way down the board. “We were fine until we got to the fig sorbet. Stopped us all in our tracks. We went right back to Ryder Beach Rumble.”

  He helped me up again, handed our empty plates to a waiter, and led me to the tables, draped in white cloths, with uniformed servers armed with ice-cream scoops at the ready. It was dark by then, the bonfires piled high with logs, flames snapping and sending swirls of embers into the star-shot sky. The wind had picked up, and the air had gotten almost chilly. The waiters were piling blankets near the fires, along with sweatpants and hoodies, both embroidered with “DrueandStu” in a heart.

  “Sweatshirt?” Nick asked, offering me one from the stack.

  “No, I’m fine,” I said, and added another thousand dollars to the wedding’s price tag.

  “How about we grab a blanket?” he asked.

  Oh my God. I wanted to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming; that this cute, attentive, adorable guy wanted to sit under a blanket with me. Maybe the universe was trying to make up for high school.

  I’d just picked up a bowl and a spoon when I heard raised voices: a man yelling, and a woman trying to calm him. When the wind shifted, the noise became words. “…fucking had it with you! I’ve fucking had it with all of this!”

  I turned, craning my neck. There, away from the firepits and near the darkened dunes, was Drue’s father, gesticulating with his arms spread wide. Drue was standing in front of him, wringing her hands, looking like she was trying to melt into the sand.

  “Daddy,” she said in an imploring tone I’d never heard from her before.

  “Don’t you ‘Daddy’ me. You and your mother. Peas in a pod.” Spit flew from his lips with each explosive p. He stabbed one finger up at the dune and the house on top of it. “A hundred thousand dollars for rental houses? Ten thousand dollars for a Bentley to drive you three miles?” He jabbed a finger down toward the sand. “Hand-knotted antique silk rugs on the goddamn sand?!”

  Drue sounded like she was crying. “You told me that you wanted it to be nice.”

  “Nice would have been fine. This is ridiculous.” He kicked at one of the rugs in a fury.

  “But I promise…” Drue turned her head and put her hand on her father’s forearm. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I could tell that she was offering something, trying to placate him… and that it wasn’t working.

  “Enough!” Mr. Cavanaugh sounded furious. He also sounded drunk. I recognized the slur of his words from the one time I’d encountered him back at Drue’s home, in the middle of the night, in the dark. “It’s enough!” he shouted again.

  “Robert, keep your voice down.” If Drue sounded desperate and her father sounded enraged, Drue’s mother sounded as cool as the vapors off a chilled martini. She put her hand on her husband’s forearm. He shook it off, so hard that she stumbled and almost fell before she recovered her balance. Drue flinched, but her mother’s face didn’t change.

  “You’re making a scene,” she said.

  Robert Cavanaugh shook his head. “You know what? I thought this would work. I trusted you. My mistake.” He jammed his hands in his pockets, turned, and went up the wooden stairs, taking them two at a time.

  Drue stood, frozen for a minute, her face shocked and unhappy. Her mother said something, and Drue said something back, but the wind had shifted again, and I couldn’t make out any words. When Lily put her hand on her daughter’s arm, Drue shook her head, turned, and went racing up the stairs after her father.

  “Oh wow,” Nick murmured. His arm had crept around me, and even though I was worried for my friend, I found that I didn’t mind that at all.

  Lily stepped back into the firelight and turned back to the crowd. She raised her arms and gave a big, hostess-y smile.

  “I apologize for the disturbance,” she said, and gave two brisk claps of her hands. “Now, who’s ready for sundaes and Irish coffee?”

  A few of the younger, drunker partygoers whooped their approval. With an effort so palpable you could hear it, the guests picked up their silverware and resumed their conversations, studiously keeping their eyes away from the hostess and the staircase. When I hazarded a glance in that direction, a woman who I thought was Drue’s grandmother had pulled Drue’s mom aside and was speaking to her urgently. I also noticed a number of guests on their phones, and wondered how many texts or tweets that little moment might have inspired.

  My own phone pinged in my pocket. It was Darshi. SEND UPDATES, she’d written. NEED PIX. My heart sank. I wondered what I’d tell her; if she’d gloat at the details of her nemesis in misery, or if she’d feel sorry for Drue. And I knew that it was time to attend to my maid-of-honor duties, even if it meant sacrificing my chance with Nick.

  “I’m going to go check on Drue,” I said. “If I don’t see you again tonight, I hope I’ll see you tomorrow at the wedding.”

  He smiled again. For a minute, I thought he’d kiss me. Instead, he squeezed my bare forearm, pressing his fingers against the skin. “Go take care of your friend,” he said, and nodded at my phone. “If you need any more pictures tomorrow, I’m your guy.”

  Chapter Nine

  I swung by the bar for a glass of ice water and two shots of tequila, and swiped a bottle of white wine from an ice bucket at the side of the bar. With the water in one hand, the shot glasses in the other, the wine under my arm, and two wineglasses tucked against my chest, I hurried up the stairs, the hem of my dress trailing behind me. In the big house, Drue’s bedroom door was locked. “Drue?” I called. I knocked and heard the creak of a bed, feet padding across the hardwood floors. “Here comes the bride,” called Drue, in a tear-clogged voice. When the door swung open, I saw that Drue had cried or scrubbed off all her makeup. Her hair had been pulled into a ponytail, and she’d swapped her party dress for a Harvard T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. Her feet were bare, and she’d taken off all her jewelry except for her enormous engagement ring. The man who’d given it to her was nowhere to be seen.

  “Okay. Maid of honor here, with the world’s best ice water,” I said, showing her the glass. “I’ve got tequila. I’ve got wine,” I said. “And I can go back to the bar and get anything else you want. I’m so sorry about…” I paused, considering, and finally went with “…all of that. Are you okay?”

  Drue stared down at the beverages. Then her face crumpled, and she started to cry, sobbing so hard that she could barely breathe. I set the beverage assortment down on her dresser beside a half-empty glass of champagne that Drue must have acquired at some point, and reached out to draw her into my arms. I patted her back, murmuring “It’s going to be okay” and “Don’t worry, everything’s fine.” It sounded as if she was trying to say something, but all I could make out was the word “dad.”

  “Hey. Deep breaths. Come sit down.” I got her settled on the bed and let her cry against me. When her sobs slowed down, she lay on the bed and curled on her side with her back to me, clutching her pillow. I settled a light blanket over her and rubbed her back in circles. When her breathing calmed, I went to the bathroom, wet a washcloth, and pressed it against her forehead and her cheeks.

  “That feels good.” Her voice was thick and froggy.

  “My mom used to do it when I had a fever.”

  Drue started crying again. “I wish… my mom…” she choked out between sobs. I kept patting her back, wondering exactly where
Drue’s mother was, and why she’d decided it was more important to keep her guests comfortable than to check on her daughter. Drue’s father, I assumed, had left the premises. I wondered if he’d show his face at the wedding tomorrow. Then I wondered if there was even going to be a wedding tomorrow.

  Drue pulled in a shuddering breath and pushed herself upright. She wiped her face dry with the hem of her T-shirt, grabbed one of the shot glasses, and nodded at the other one. I picked it up. “To better days,” I said. She clinked her glass against mine. We downed the booze, then I handed her the water. “Hydrate,” I instructed, and watched as she swallowed every drop.

  She set the glass down and wiped her mouth with her hand. “It’s true,” she said. “It’s all true, what he said.” Her voice was raspy, and her face was splotched and flushed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “About the money.” She took another deep breath. “My mom was trying to spend as much on this wedding as she could. Not for me. But to get back at him. That was the entire point of this wedding. She wanted to stick it to him, one last time. They’re getting divorced.”

  “Oh, Drue. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah.” She bent her head. “I just found out a few days ago. The whole time we were planning this, picking things out, my mom just kept saying that I should have everything I wanted. That it would be, you know, my big day, and how it was what my father wanted for me.” Her lower lip was quivering, and her eyes were welling again. She turned away, blinking, tossing the bright spill of her hair over her shoulder. “Things haven’t been great for my dad’s business the past few years, but I knew that I could pay him back, for whatever the wedding cost. There’s a trust fund from the other side of the family. I get it after I turn thirty, or when I get married.” She shook her head, trying to smile. “Gotta love the patriarchy. ‘You can’t have the money until you’re old enough to make good decisions, or until you marry some man and let him decide for you.’ I mean, what if I got married when I was sixteen, and my husband was seventeen?” She cleared her throat. “Anyhow. My mom was the one who wanted all this. She and my father eloped. Did I ever tell you that?”

  I shook my head.

  “Yep. Lily got knocked up, junior year of Sweet Briar. She and my dad got married at City Hall. When we were planning, I thought that was why she kept pushing. That it was sort of a makeup for the wedding she didn’t have. All of this—the party on the beach, the décor, the bed, the food, the car… she chose every single thing. She kept telling me to go for it, to make it fabulous, the party of the year, that he’d want that for me, and I thought…” Her voice cracked. “I thought he did. I thought he cared. I thought he was finally going to just show up for me. That he’d see how amazing it was, and he’d think that I was amazing, too. And he’d be proud of me. For the first time ever.”

  “Drue. I’m sure your dad is proud of you.” I thought of the picture in the Times; the two of them, up on the roof, with the city spread out underneath them. “How could he not be?”

  Drue gave a humorless snort. “He was so hungover at our high school graduation that he left halfway through the ceremony. He didn’t even bother showing up when I graduated from…” She stopped herself, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter. Water under the bridge. I just thought, you know, he’d try to behave himself at my wedding. Or at least not make a scene.” Her lower lip trembled. “Except this isn’t about me and Stuart at all. It’s about him. Him and her. And I’m just the stick that they hit each other with.”

  She started crying again. I patted her back, and when she sat up and settled her head on my shoulder, I put my arm around her and held her tight. “You know, you don’t have to go through with this,” I said. “Or you don’t have to go through with it here, like this, if this doesn’t feel right. Just take a rain check, and do it in six months, somewhere else. Destination weddings are so hot right now!”

  She gave a sad smile. “It’s all paid for. Nonrefundable. Everyone’s here. Done is done. Might as well.” She waved her hand toward the party and sighed again, letting her head droop. “I have three dresses. Did I tell you?” She had, of course, but I didn’t interrupt. “One for the ceremony and one for the party and one for the after-party. Three dresses that probably cost more than…” Another head shake. “God, I don’t want to think about it. And my mother just kept saying, ‘Go for it. Get whatever you want. That’s what your father wants for you.’ ”

  “You’re going to be gorgeous. Stunning. The most beautiful bride anyone’s ever seen.” I looked her in the eye. “But seriously, Drue, if it doesn’t feel right, if it feels like it’s about anything besides you and Stuart, you’re allowed to call it off. Or postpone it. I’ll call Darshi. She’s in Boston. She can be here in less than two hours. We can whisk you off to Bora-Bora.”

  Drue gave a hiccuppy, sobbing laugh. “Darshi hates me.”

  “Well,” I said, “you did film her picking a wedgie and post it on our class Facebook page.”

  Drue’s next laugh was significantly less sobbing. “That was bad. I should probably apologize.”

  “You should definitely apologize. I’m sure Darshi would appreciate it. But not tonight. Tonight, just take care of yourself.”

  Drue wrapped her sinewy arms around me and hugged me hard. “I can’t thank you enough for being here.”

  “My pleasure. It’s going to be great. I checked the weather, and it’s perfection. High seventies, partly cloudy, slight breeze. Your chiffon overskirt will be blowing, your tendrils will be curling, you’ll look like an angel. Now, what can I get for you? More water? Advil? Your fiancé?”

  It looked like she was on the cusp of saying something. Her mouth was open, her eyes fixed on mine. Stay with me, I thought she’d ask. Don’t go. And I wouldn’t, of course. Because she was the bride. Because she was my friend. Because she was in a state you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. Then her lips closed. She smoothed her hair and lifted her head and I watched as the veil of wealth and privilege dropped down around her; as she became, once again, beautiful, untouchable Drue Lathrop Cavanaugh: the luckiest girl I knew.

  “I’ll be okay. I’ll just, you know, get my beauty sleep. It’ll all look better in the morning.” She tried to smile as she gave me a teasing shove. “You should go find that guy.”

  “What guy?” I asked.

  “Oh, c’mon,” she said, nudging me harder. “The cutie with the curly hair. The one who took our picture. He likes you. I can tell.”

  For a minute, I was right back in high school. He likes you. I can tell.

  “What’s his name?” Drue asked.

  I made myself smile. “Nick Andros. He said you were in sailing school together.”

  “PYC!” she said, her face brightening briefly.

  “You don’t remember him? He says you locked him in the supply closet and put hermit crabs in his shoes.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “I wish that narrowed it down, but sadly, it does not. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but I was kind of a mean girl growing up.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I’ll bet Grandma Lathrop knows him. Dad said she’d invited half the Cape. That was, like, complaint number thirty-seven. Ask her if you need the dirt on the guy, or his family. She’s probably holding up the bar.”

  Nick hadn’t said anything about his family being in attendance. Then again, I hadn’t asked. Either way, I wasn’t about to start grilling Drue. Not if there was even a tiny chance that they’d hooked up at some point. If they had, I did not want to know.

  “Whoever he is, he’s adorable. Go on,” she said, and gave me an encouraging push. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.” At the door, she hugged me—a real hug, not the hands-on-the-shoulder, bodies-apart maneuver I’d seen her perform with other guests on the beach. “Thanks, Daphne,” Drue whispered in my ear. “Thank you for being my friend.”

  * * *

 
; I left Drue’s bedroom via the deck, thinking that I could use the fresh air. The bonfires and the party lights were vivid against the dark sky and the dark sea. I could smell seaweed and woodsmoke, and could hear the waves and the opening bars of a Beyoncé song, signaling the DJ’s arrival.

  I was halfway across the deck when a voice came from the dark corner.

  “Is she all right?”

  I gave a little scream and jumped, whirling around, trying to make out the face and the body that belonged to the voice. “Who’s there?”

  “I’m sorry.” A figure detached itself from the shadows and moved toward me, into the light. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  I bit my lip as I looked the stranger over. If Nick and the groom’s friends had displayed the gloss and the ease of old money, at home in their own skin, convinced of their own worth, of their own place in the world, this guy was neither shiny nor comfortable. His hair was thick and dark, cut so that it covered his forehead. He had dark skin, thick brows, a narrow face, and big brown eyes behind heavy, plastic-framed glasses.

  From the neck down, things only got worse. His chest was narrow, his belly was soft, his hips were wide, and his legs were as skinny as twigs. He wore the same kind of shorts that Nick had been wearing, but while Nick’s were faded to a pinkish-maroon and looked soft and worn and comfortable, this guy’s shorts were fire-engine red, the waist pulled up high and tight around his midsection, the leg holes so loose that they made his thin legs look scrawny. He was beltless, which was wrong, and his white polo shirt was tucked in, which was also wrong. A plume of chest hair protruded from the V-neck. Instead of bare feet or flip-flops or deck shoes, he was wearing—I blinked to confirm it—sandals. Tevas. With white athletic socks pulled halfway up his hairy shins.