Summer and the City (The Carrie Diaries 2)

“Wow.” I shake my head. Everything about this is so unlike my father—from his sentence construction to the motorcycle itself—that for a moment I don’t know what to say. “How’d you find this kid?” I ask.

“He’s Wendy’s cousin’s son.”

My eyes bug out of my head. I can’t believe how casually he’s mentioned her. I go along with the game. “Who’s Wendy?”

He brushes the seat of the motorcycle with his hand. “She’s my new friend.”

So that’s how he’s going to play it. “What kind of friend?”

“She’s very nice,” he says, refusing to catch my eye.

“How come you didn’t tell me about her?”

“Oh, Carrie.” He sighs.

“Everyone says she’s your girlfriend. Dorrit and Missy and even Walt.”

“Walt knows?” he asks, surprised.

“Everyone knows, Dad,” I say sharply. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He slides onto the seat of the motorcycle, playing with the levers. “Do you think you could cut me some slack?”

“Dad!”

“This is all very new for me.”

I bite my lip. For a moment, my heart goes out to him. In the past five years, he hasn’t shown an ounce of interest in any woman. Now he’s apparently met someone he likes, which is a sign that he’s moving forward. I should be happy for him. Unfortunately, all I can think about is my mother. And how he’s betraying her. I wonder if my mother is up in heaven, looking down at what he’s become. If she is, she’d be horrified.

“Did Mom know her? This Wendy friend of yours?”

He shakes his head, pretending to study the instrument panel. “No.” He pauses. “I don’t think so, anyway. She’s a little bit younger.”

“How young?” I demand.

I’ve suddenly pushed too hard, because he looks at me defiantly. “I don’t know, Carrie. She’s in her late twenties. I’ve been told it’s rude to ask a woman her age.”

I nod knowingly. “And how old does she think you are?”

“She knows I have a daughter who’s going to Brown in the fall.”

There’s a sharpness in his tone I haven’t heard since I was a kid. It means, I’m in charge. Back off.

“Fine.” I turn to go.

“And Carrie?” he adds. “We’re having dinner with her tonight. I’m going to be very disappointed if you’re rude to her.”

“We’ll see,” I mutter under my breath. I head back to the house, convinced my worst fears have been confirmed. I already hate this Wendy woman. She has a relative who’s a Hells Angel. And she lies about her age. I figure if a woman is willing to lie about her own birth date, she’s willing to lie about pretty much anything.

I start to clean out the refrigerator, tossing out one scientific experiment after another. That’s when I remember that I’ve lied about my age as well. To Bernard. I pour the last of the sour milk down the drain, wondering what my family is coming to.

“Don’t you look special?” Walt quips. “Though a mite overdressed for Castlebury.”

“What does one wear to a restaurant in Castlebury?”

“Surely not an evening gown.”

“Walt,” I scold. “It’s not an evening gown. It’s a hostess gown. From the sixties.” I found it at my vintage store and I’ve been wearing it practically nonstop for days. It’s perfect for sweaty weather, leaving my arms and legs unencumbered, and so far, no one has commented on my unusual garb except to say they liked it. Odd clothing is expected in New York. Here, not so much.