Genre Fiction
![Jennifer Weiner - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B001H6NY0O.jpg)
That Summer: A Novel
From the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Big Summer and "undisputed boss of the beach read" (TheNew York Times) comes another timely and deliciously twisty novel of intrigue, secrets, and the transformative power of female friendship.
Daisy Shoemaker can't sleep. With a thriving cooking business, full schedule of volunteer work, and a beautiful home in the Philadelphia suburbs, she should be content. But her teenage daughter can be a handful, her husband can be distant, her work can feel trivial, and she has lots of acquaintances, but no real friends. Still, Daisy knows she's got it good. So why is she up all night?
While Daisy tries to identify the root of her dissatisfaction, she's also receiving misdirected emails meant for a woman named Diana Starling, whose email address is just one punctuation mark away from her own. While Daisy's driving carpools, Diana is chairing meetings. While Daisy's making dinner, Diana's making plans to reorganize corporations. Diana's glamorous, sophisticated, single-lady life is miles away from Daisy's simpler existence. When an apology leads to an invitation, the two women meet and become friends. But, as they get closer, we learn that their connection was not completely accidental. Who IS this other woman, and what does she want with Daisy?
From the manicured Main Line of Philadelphia to the wild landscape of the Outer Cape, written with Jennifer Weiner's signature wit and sharp observations, That Summer is a "compelling, nuanced novel" (Maureen Corrigan, The Washington Post) about surviving our pasts, confronting our futures, and the sustaining bonds of friendship.
Daisy Shoemaker can't sleep. With a thriving cooking business, full schedule of volunteer work, and a beautiful home in the Philadelphia suburbs, she should be content. But her teenage daughter can be a handful, her husband can be distant, her work can feel trivial, and she has lots of acquaintances, but no real friends. Still, Daisy knows she's got it good. So why is she up all night?
While Daisy tries to identify the root of her dissatisfaction, she's also receiving misdirected emails meant for a woman named Diana Starling, whose email address is just one punctuation mark away from her own. While Daisy's driving carpools, Diana is chairing meetings. While Daisy's making dinner, Diana's making plans to reorganize corporations. Diana's glamorous, sophisticated, single-lady life is miles away from Daisy's simpler existence. When an apology leads to an invitation, the two women meet and become friends. But, as they get closer, we learn that their connection was not completely accidental. Who IS this other woman, and what does she want with Daisy?
From the manicured Main Line of Philadelphia to the wild landscape of the Outer Cape, written with Jennifer Weiner's signature wit and sharp observations, That Summer is a "compelling, nuanced novel" (Maureen Corrigan, The Washington Post) about surviving our pasts, confronting our futures, and the sustaining bonds of friendship.
Editorial Reviews
"Weiner has made a major literary career out of writing engrossing popular novels that take women seriously. One of Weiner's signature strengths as a writer is her ability to realistically depict how people change in body and soul…Weiner writes incisively, yet with restraint… That Summer is a compelling, nuanced novel about the long, terrible aftermath of sexual assault and the things that can be stolen from women that can never be fully restored. But, because it's a Jennifer Weiner novel, it's no polemic. It's empowering in its own way. Weiner seems to steadfastly believe in the saving grace of humor, the ability of time to open up possibilities and the strength of female friendship. Me, too." ― Maureen Corrigan, The Washington Post
"Your ideal beach read, full of secrets and complicated female friendships." ― Cosmopolitan
"Weiner, the undisputed boss of the beach read, is back with another stunner. . . . That Summer incisively examines the way privilege shapes and shields those who wield it, and explores the circuitous path toward justice when healking falls short." ― New York Times
"Fun and flirty." ― PopSugar
"Jennifer Weiner's beachy books are basically a staple of the season, and this is no exception. This twisty novel about female friendship will make the hours fly by." ― Good Housekeeping
"A page-turner. Reflective of the #MeToo movement and the importance of accountability, it's a thought-provoking and timely book." ― Seattle Book Review
"Like many of Weiner's works, the novel explores themes of femininity and motherhood, but it's the book's tackling of the #MeToo movement through more than one complicit character that sets it apart." ― Shondaland
"This one will solve all your ‘I can't get into any book right now' problems." ― TheSkimm
"Weiner's storytelling skill is such that she paints an uncompromising, complicated portrait of the insidious dangers of the patriarchy that is also a lot of fun to read. Weiner's latest is a summer banger with a ripped-from-the headlines plot, which is sure to garner lots of attention." ― Booklist (starred)
"The summer wouldn't be complete without an aptly-titled novel from Jennifer Wein...
"Your ideal beach read, full of secrets and complicated female friendships." ― Cosmopolitan
"Weiner, the undisputed boss of the beach read, is back with another stunner. . . . That Summer incisively examines the way privilege shapes and shields those who wield it, and explores the circuitous path toward justice when healking falls short." ― New York Times
"Fun and flirty." ― PopSugar
"Jennifer Weiner's beachy books are basically a staple of the season, and this is no exception. This twisty novel about female friendship will make the hours fly by." ― Good Housekeeping
"A page-turner. Reflective of the #MeToo movement and the importance of accountability, it's a thought-provoking and timely book." ― Seattle Book Review
"Like many of Weiner's works, the novel explores themes of femininity and motherhood, but it's the book's tackling of the #MeToo movement through more than one complicit character that sets it apart." ― Shondaland
"This one will solve all your ‘I can't get into any book right now' problems." ― TheSkimm
"Weiner's storytelling skill is such that she paints an uncompromising, complicated portrait of the insidious dangers of the patriarchy that is also a lot of fun to read. Weiner's latest is a summer banger with a ripped-from-the headlines plot, which is sure to garner lots of attention." ― Booklist (starred)
"The summer wouldn't be complete without an aptly-titled novel from Jennifer Wein...
Readers Top Reviews
Sarah F
What a read! Full of twists and turns. Thank you, Jennifer, for another excellent story with a satisfying ending. Powerful.
S. FanSarah F
Diane, Diana, Daisy Kept forgetting who was who since Diane is also Dais? Good Summer read though. Sex scene could have maybe been a little less grafic or maybe I should be a lot younger.
WomanofthewealdS.
Lovely cape cod locations are in the background of this engrossing tale of long lost teenage summers and current teen tantrums…
Jane cWomanofthew
Another stunning read. I have only good things to say about this wonderful storyteller. You will not be disappointed. Thought provoking.
ReviewerJane cWom
I found this a very good story. It felt different to her usual style but I really liked it. Just to let people know, it features sexual assult.
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter 1: Daisy 1 Daisy
2019
Daisy Shoemaker couldn't sleep.
She knew, of course, that she was not alone, awake in the middle of the night. She'd read Facebook posts, magazine articles, entire books written about women her age consumed by anxiety, gnawed by regret, tormented by their hormones, fretful about their marriages, their bodies, their aging parents and their troublesome teenagers and, thus, up all night. In bed, on a Sunday night in March, with her husband's snores audible even through her earplugs, Daisy pictured her tribe, her sleepless sisters, each body stretched on the rack of her own imagination, each face lit by the gently glowing rectangle in her hands.
Picture each worry like a gift. Put them in order, from the mildest to the most intense. Imagine yourself picking up each one and wrapping it with care. Picture yourself placing the gift under a tree, and then walking away.
Daisy had read that technique on some website, or in some magazine. She's tried it along with all the others. She had imagined her worries like leaves, floating down a stream; she pictured them like clouds, drifting past in the sky; like cars, zipping by on the highway. She had practiced progressive muscle relaxation; she played, in her noise-canceling headphones, murmurous podcasts and Spotify mixes of soothing, sleep-inducing sounds-the chiming of Tibetan singing bowls; Gregorian chants, whales moaning to one another across the vast and chambered deep. She had swallowed melatonin and slugged down valerian tea, and trained herself to leave her phone charging in the bathroom instead of right next to her bed, with the ringer turned up in case her daughter, away at boarding school, should need her in the middle of the night.
Thoughts of Beatrice made her sigh, then look guiltily over her shoulder to make sure she hadn't woken Hal. Hal was still sleeping, flat on his back, arms and legs starfished wide. They had a king-sized bed, and most mornings Daisy woke up clinging to the edge of her side. Hal, while not unsympathetic, had been notably short on solutions. "What do you want me to do?" he'd asked, sounding maddeningly reasonable and slightly indulgent. "It's not like I'm pushing you off the bed on purpose. I'm asleep." He'd given her permission to wake him up. "Just give me a poke," he'd said. "Shake my shoulder." Probably because he knew she never would.
Sighing, Daisy rolled over to face the window. It was still dark outside, the sky showing no signs of brightening, which meant it was probably two or three in the morning, the absolute pit of the night. She had a big day coming up, and she needed to try to sleep. Breathe in, two, three, four, she coached herself. Hold, two, three, four. Breathe out. She exhaled slowly, trying, and failing, not to think about how the dean had sounded when he'd called to inform them of Beatrice's latest transgression, which had involved gathering up the members of the Emlen Feminist Liberation (pronounced Ef-el) and spray-painting the word RAPIST across a male classmate's dorm-room door.
"Unfortunately, this is not Beatrice's first infraction of our honor code," the dean had intoned. "We'll need at least one of Beatrice's parents to come up here to discuss this."
"Okay," Daisy had stammered. "Although-would you mind calling my husband? You have his number, right?" She wanted Hal to handle this. Hal was the Emlen graduate in the house, the one whose own father had attended the school, a loyal alumnus who donated money each year, in addition to paying Bea's tuition. He'd know what to do… and, if the dean called, Hal would hear the news from the school and not her.
"Of course," said the dean. Daisy had hung up, her legs watery with relief, thinking, Hal will fix this. Hal will talk to him. He'll figure it out, and by the time he comes home, everything will be fine.
But Hal hadn't, and it wasn't. Two hours later her husband had stormed into the house, wearing the blue suit and red-and-gold tie that he'd left in that morning and a thunderous look on his face. "They're probably going to expel her," he said. "We need to be there Monday morning. Don't look so happy about it," he'd snapped before Daisy had even said anything, and Daisy turned away, her face burning. He brushed past her, on his way to the stairs. "I'm very disappointed in her. You should be, too."
"But…" He was already halfway up the staircase. When she spoke, he stopped, his hand on t...
2019
Daisy Shoemaker couldn't sleep.
She knew, of course, that she was not alone, awake in the middle of the night. She'd read Facebook posts, magazine articles, entire books written about women her age consumed by anxiety, gnawed by regret, tormented by their hormones, fretful about their marriages, their bodies, their aging parents and their troublesome teenagers and, thus, up all night. In bed, on a Sunday night in March, with her husband's snores audible even through her earplugs, Daisy pictured her tribe, her sleepless sisters, each body stretched on the rack of her own imagination, each face lit by the gently glowing rectangle in her hands.
Picture each worry like a gift. Put them in order, from the mildest to the most intense. Imagine yourself picking up each one and wrapping it with care. Picture yourself placing the gift under a tree, and then walking away.
Daisy had read that technique on some website, or in some magazine. She's tried it along with all the others. She had imagined her worries like leaves, floating down a stream; she pictured them like clouds, drifting past in the sky; like cars, zipping by on the highway. She had practiced progressive muscle relaxation; she played, in her noise-canceling headphones, murmurous podcasts and Spotify mixes of soothing, sleep-inducing sounds-the chiming of Tibetan singing bowls; Gregorian chants, whales moaning to one another across the vast and chambered deep. She had swallowed melatonin and slugged down valerian tea, and trained herself to leave her phone charging in the bathroom instead of right next to her bed, with the ringer turned up in case her daughter, away at boarding school, should need her in the middle of the night.
Thoughts of Beatrice made her sigh, then look guiltily over her shoulder to make sure she hadn't woken Hal. Hal was still sleeping, flat on his back, arms and legs starfished wide. They had a king-sized bed, and most mornings Daisy woke up clinging to the edge of her side. Hal, while not unsympathetic, had been notably short on solutions. "What do you want me to do?" he'd asked, sounding maddeningly reasonable and slightly indulgent. "It's not like I'm pushing you off the bed on purpose. I'm asleep." He'd given her permission to wake him up. "Just give me a poke," he'd said. "Shake my shoulder." Probably because he knew she never would.
Sighing, Daisy rolled over to face the window. It was still dark outside, the sky showing no signs of brightening, which meant it was probably two or three in the morning, the absolute pit of the night. She had a big day coming up, and she needed to try to sleep. Breathe in, two, three, four, she coached herself. Hold, two, three, four. Breathe out. She exhaled slowly, trying, and failing, not to think about how the dean had sounded when he'd called to inform them of Beatrice's latest transgression, which had involved gathering up the members of the Emlen Feminist Liberation (pronounced Ef-el) and spray-painting the word RAPIST across a male classmate's dorm-room door.
"Unfortunately, this is not Beatrice's first infraction of our honor code," the dean had intoned. "We'll need at least one of Beatrice's parents to come up here to discuss this."
"Okay," Daisy had stammered. "Although-would you mind calling my husband? You have his number, right?" She wanted Hal to handle this. Hal was the Emlen graduate in the house, the one whose own father had attended the school, a loyal alumnus who donated money each year, in addition to paying Bea's tuition. He'd know what to do… and, if the dean called, Hal would hear the news from the school and not her.
"Of course," said the dean. Daisy had hung up, her legs watery with relief, thinking, Hal will fix this. Hal will talk to him. He'll figure it out, and by the time he comes home, everything will be fine.
But Hal hadn't, and it wasn't. Two hours later her husband had stormed into the house, wearing the blue suit and red-and-gold tie that he'd left in that morning and a thunderous look on his face. "They're probably going to expel her," he said. "We need to be there Monday morning. Don't look so happy about it," he'd snapped before Daisy had even said anything, and Daisy turned away, her face burning. He brushed past her, on his way to the stairs. "I'm very disappointed in her. You should be, too."
"But…" He was already halfway up the staircase. When she spoke, he stopped, his hand on t...
