The Summer Everything Changed (10 page)
Read The Summer Everything Changed Online
Authors: Holly Chamberlin
Chapter 16
CITYMOUSE
Howdy, Style Wranglers!
Wranglers? Now where did that come from?
Come to think of it, I dreamed last night of being on a ranch that was scary-beautiful in its isolation and harsh, stark landscapeâthe jagged outlines of a mountain range in the distance, miles of nearly naked land, mini dust storms and tumbleweeds skipping devilishly along the dirt. Still, at one point I remember feeling so dream-frustrated that there were no places to shop or even to browse within walking distance and no cars on the ranch and so the only way to get to the stores was to ride there on a horse but I was dream-terrified of getting up on one of those huge, albeit gorgeous and noble beasts . . .
I guess that all means that in waking life I can't wait to get my driver's license so I can zoom up (okay, LouLou, within the speed limit) to Portland whenever I can to shop the fantastic stores. Not that I don't love shopping with LouLouâI do, I do!!!âbut sometimes, well, lately it's more often than not, LouLou is super busy tending to the Blueberry Bay Inn guests (whom we love, one and all) and simply can't be forced behind the wheel of our Beloved Family Vehicle and pointed north. And though Gwentastic Gwen is always willing to chauffeur yours truly, why shouldn't she get to be the passenger once in a while and relax and enjoy the scenery?
Anyway, Portland is simply packed with fun shops like Encore and Material Objects and Find and Second Time Around and the Flea-for-All (not a shop really, and open only on the weekends but worth a visit; it's a combination flea market, antique show, and crafts fair) and Little Ghost (my favorite store name ever). Oh, and not to mention Stones 'n Stuff and Se Vende and . . . Well, I could go on and on.
And since these style seekers are on a budget (wah, but who isn't?) and can't afford to purchase every single gorgeous item we covet/desire/crave, we are super grateful to the shop owners who allow us to photograph these items (without, of course, leaving anything sticky or icky on said items) and share them with our readers.
So, here for your enjoyment are a few photos of items Gwen and I did not purchase (for a variety of reasons) but were allowed to share with you via CityMouse. They are, from top to bottom:
*A plastic change purse in the shape and image of a doll in the traditional dress of Holland; the zipper runs along the bottom of the full skirt; circa 1970;
*A tiny Wedgwood plate in the classic (soothing) blue with white figures; said figures are dressed in Classical garb and seem to be performing a dance while waving garlands overhead;
*A very heavy statue of the Egyptian goddess Bastet, or, as I'm told, also known as Bast; as you can see, Bastet is an extremely elegant feline. (Hint to self: I think Gwen would like this statue or one like it for her birthday next April . . .)
Now, on another note altogether . . .
Some people say that becoming sixteen is a landmark of sorts, a big deal, a turning point, the stuff of angst-ridden novels. But others, well, others sayâor I think they say because I don't know; all I have to go on is their actions and you know what is said about actions in relation to words! Anyway, some people say that a sixteenth birthday is just like any other birthday, no great shakes, no big whoop, nothing to write home about, not even worthy of a phone call or a card with a personal note.
But whatever the truth about the Big One Six, I want to offer many and heartfelt thanks to those who tried and succeeded to make my sixteenth birthday a really special day. Love and hugs and kisses to them, especially LouLou, Gwen, Miss Kit-a-Kat, Blue-Bella, and The Jimmies.
Remember, Dear Readers, life is good!
Isobel finished posting the entry and closed her laptop. Life really was pretty good. Big deal, so her father had let her down. The other important people in her life certainly had not. The night of her birthday there had been a small and very lovely party in the kitchen with Isobel and her mother; Catherine and Princess Charlene; Gwen; and James and Jim.
Bella had made a scrumptious cake, with hazelnut cream between the vanilla cake layers and mocha-flavored icing on the top and sides. Everyone clamored for seconds, and thanks to Bella's generous notion of large, there was plenty to go around. They had shared a bottle of prosecco, with a small glass each for Isobel and Gwen, never to be mentioned outside of that room.
Gwen had given her a brooch made of brass and studded with colored glass stones. It had been part of a costume worn in a production of
As You Like It
that her father Curtis had directed years earlier in Boston.
As You Like It
that her father Curtis had directed years earlier in Boston.
James and Jim gave her another painting by Julia Einstein, this one depicting a glass jar, the kind used to put up preserves, standing on a rough wooden table, a spray of forsythia sprouting from the jar's open mouth. No one had ever given her a work of art before, and it was a very special first occasion.
Catherine gave her a gift certificate to Longfellow Books in Portland, and a pretty generous one, too. Her mom, the promise of a day together in Portland still there, had handed her a package wrapped in shiny purple cellophane. “Just a token,” she said. “A little something to mark a big occasion.” Inside the package was a cotton scarf the exact same turquoise as the ceramic pie plate on which Louise made her famous apple pie. Isobel was ecstatic.
By the end of the night the absence and the neglect of her father had been long forgotten.
And by the next morning, when her mother had asked if she wanted to come along with her while she ran some errands, Isobel, wearing her new scarf and her new pin and feeling pretty spiffy (she loved that word!), had jumped at the chance to tool around town and people watch.
They were stopped at a light along Route 1 in Wells when she saw Jeff. He was standing by his car, which was parked in the lot of a garage and repair shop. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, leaving his muscular forearms bare. He was wearing another pair of fantastic jeans that emphasized his slim hips and flat stomach . . .
Isobel was seized with the desire to touch him. She realized that her stomach was whirring and that she felt very close to passing out or to . . . She wondered if sexual attraction was always associated with nausea. She hoped not. That would be a sick joke on the part of the Universe or God or Odin or Xena, Warrior Princess or whoever had organized this whole thing called Life on Earth and tossed it into existence. Sheesh.
“Are you okay?” her mom had asked.
“Mmm, hmm.” Isobel hadn't trusted herself to say more. Jeff was now leaning into the car's open hood . . .
“What is taking so long for this light to turn?” Louise grumbled.
As far as Isobel was concerned, they could sit there all day, as long as she could continue to watch Jeff.
“Oh,” her mother said suddenly, “there's that nice young man who came by the inn. Jeff Otten.”
“Oh?” Isobel asked, doing her best to feign nonchalance. “Where?”
“Over there in the gas station. Or garage or whatever it is. The guy leaning over that gorgeous car.”
“Oh. That's him?”
The light turned greenâ“Finally!” Louise exclaimedâand they drove on. “Yeah, that's him. He's good-looking, don't you think, in that Armie Hammer or Chris Hemsworth sort of way. Big and blond.”
Isobel shrugged. “Sure, I guess.”
“Thor, with his hammer and whatever other weapon or tool he wielded. I can't remember now. Wow, it's awful how the memory deteriorates.”
“Mmm.”
“I mean, maybe Thor didn't carry anything but a hammer.”
“Yeah.”
An image of Jeff wielding a hammerâor maybe an axâhis sleeves rolled up past his elbows, his shirt buttons mostly undone, threatened to send Isobel into a fit. She resisted the urge to peer into the rearview mirror. She wondered if Jeff would think she looked pretty in her new scarf.
But she would probably never know.
Chapter 17
Catherine let out a monstrous sigh. “What a freakin' awful day.”
“You, too?” Louise asked.
The women were in the kitchen. On the table Louise had put out a selection of cheeses (all made in Maine), some good bread (ditto; it was easy to be a well-fed locavore in Maine), a dish of cured green olives, her own homemade tapenade, and a plate of shortbread cookies baked that morning by Bella. There was also a bottle of sauvignon blanc from Chile and a bottle of Malbec. Each bottle was almost half-empty and the women had only been at it for a half hour.
“I wonder if this is really what it all comes to in the end,” Catherine mused, sipping her wine.
“What?”
“This. Sitting at a friend's kitchen table, drinking.”
Louise grinned. “And eating. Could be worse.”
“Yeah. Maybe this is all that really matters. Hanging out with someone who gives a shit about you in spite of your annoying qualities.”
“Something's got you in a funk. Spill.”
“Well, if you must know, I got a call from this woman I knew back in Connecticut.”
“Bad news?”
“Not for her. She's getting married. First time. She's forty-three and he's fifty. She made a point of telling me that I shouldn't lose hope. Her hubby-to-be assured her that lots of men were willingâwilling!âto date women my age.”
Louise grimaced. “You must be kidding me.”
“I wish that I were. And I hadn't heard from this woman since I moved here two years ago! What possessed her to call me now? I'll tell you what possessed her. The need to boast about her man-hunting prowess. The need to make me feel bad.”
“Sounds like quite the bitch. Poor guy.”
“Oh, I don't give a crap about him. He's an adult. He should have figured out before now what he's getting himself into.”
“True.”
“You know, I've been accused of being too fussy when it comes to men. Me, fussy! That's ridiculous. I've been in several serious, healthy relationships. But none stood the test of time, or the guy just wasn't the right one to marry. And in one memorable case, I wasn't the right gal to marry.”
“Ouch.”
Catherine shrugged. “Why must there always be a reason for something to have happened or to not have happened? Why must we attribute events or non-events to human agency when maybe there's something else at work?”
“Like what?” Louise asked.
“Like a random occurrence in a random universe. Or God. Or Fate. Or sheer dumb luck, good or bad. It should be enough to say, I have never met someone I wanted to marry. It needn't be made into a psychological drama.”
“In other words, shit happens.”
Catherine smiled. “Crudely put, but exactly.”
“Well, I'd have to agree. Though some people do seem to bring misery on themselves,” Louise noted. “I think my mother was one of those people. Not that anything horribly traumatic ever did happen to her. But she always expected it to, and I think she was half-disappointed when it didn't. She was all about doom and gloom. I'm afraid I inheritedâor learnedâsome of that attitude.”
“What a waste of time and energy, anticipating misery, when the fact is it's going to come at some point, anticipated or not.”
“Right,” Louise agreed. “Worry is interest paid on a debt that might never come due. Andrew taught me that, actually. The man has nerves of steel. Well, that or he's so supremely arrogant he fully believes he can conquer any crisis that might come his way.”
“A helpful attitude in a career like his. Or in any career, I guess.”
“But pride cometh before a fall,” Louise said. “My mother taught me that, and it's a hard lesson to shake entirely. First, you have to really understand the difference between healthy pride and unhealthy arrogance and assumption.”
“Yeah.” Catherine seemed to be considering something . . . “Did you know that my situation is called âcircumstantial infertility'? Well, my former situation, as I'm no longer really in the running for a pregnancy. I mean, I'm not officially menopausal until my period has stopped for over a yearâI thinkâbut I'm close enough.”
“Huh. That's kind of an odd term,” Louise said, “but it could be way more offensive.”
“Yeah. It's all right. You know, why shouldn't I have held out for love and marriage, in addition to motherhood? Yeah, I wanted a child. But I also wanted a loving husband and a committed relationship.”
“You're preaching to the choir. In other words, you don't have to convince me.”
“I know what preaching to the choir means. Sorry. That sounded snippy. And thanks.”
“No worries. It's a sensitive subject. You know about my seminal experience, losing that first baby. It's colored the rest of my life. Not a day goes by when I'm not aware on some level or another of that lost child.”
“It must be horrible . . .”
“You get used to it, like you get used to most things in life . . .”
Catherine snorted. “I'm not sure I'll ever get used to how carelessly, casually cruel people can be. One so-called friend actually had the nerve to say to me that if I had really wanted kids I would have just gone ahead and had them. As if a kid was the equivalent of a pint of ice cream. You want the ice cream, just go ahead and buy it already. The message there is, stop complaining. You should have adopted or settled for Mr. Less Than Right.”
“It's amazing how some people have the nerve, the audaciousness, to pronounce on another person's desires! The only person who really knows how badly you wanted a family of your own is you. And it behooves those of us you tell to believe you.”
“Behooves, huh?” Catherine smiled. “But seriously, thanks. You're right, of course. You know, even worse than idiotic presumption is the pity. Poor barren woman . . . What a horrible word to use, isn't it? Barren. As if the very essence of my womanhood is a dry and dusty wasteland.”
Louise nodded. “Pity is rarely easy to accept, even when you want it, and we all do, sometimes. How do you handle it?”
“With humor, of course. Inside, however, I harbor visions of wreaking bloody havoc. Or, at the very least, of smacking her smug face until I'm the one feeling pity for her. And it's always a female who says such stupid things. Why is that?”
“Women feel they have immunity, given the subject matter?” Louise suggested. “I don't know. I'm sure there are plenty of men out there voicing their moronic and hurtful opinions to women who can't properly fight back.”
“Probably. Except in my worldâI mean, the corporate worldâif any man dared mention the subject of motherhood or marriage or sex, he'd be out on his can with a sexual harassment suit.”
“Thank God for small favors! But then why can maleâand femaleâpoliticians get away with making crude and ignorant and downright insulting pronouncements about women whenever and wherever they please?”
“Don't get me started on politicians! But as for God . . . Do you know the very worst thing someone ever said to me? That God didn't want me to be a mother. That He knew I'd be a terrible mother so He saved meâand the unborn childâfrom the experience.”
Louise gasped. “That's appalling. And incredibly stupid. Who are these people with a hotline to God, anyway? And why doesn't God tell them to stop calling?”
Catherine laughed. “Can you imagine the scene? I wish I were a comedian, maybe Louis C.K., so I could write a sketch showing God trying to let down a loonie gently. Or maybe not so gently. Maybe God gets a restraining order on the fanatical caller . . .”
“Restraining orders often don't work as well as they should,” Louise pointed out. “If I were God I'd just send a lightning bolt and be done with the loonies.”
“I think Zeus is the one with the lightning bolts. The Hebrew and Christian God sends plagues.”
Louise shrugged. “Same thing. Far more efficient than taking legal action.”
“And then there are the women who say, âYou have no children? Oh, my, God, you are so lucky! I have four and I haven't slept in ages!' They smile when they say that, of course. Some of them laugh. A few of them tell me how young I look, and that it must all be due to a stress-free, âchildless' life.”
“Ow. I'd be tempted to punch someone who said that to me.”
“I've come close,” Catherine admitted. “Only my incredible self-control stopped me. Oh, and once I was even told that it was a good thing that I didn't have kids because it allowed me to concentrate on myself. What the hell does that mean?”
“I'm assuming that helpful soul meant that as a childlessâor as some like to say, a child-freeâperson, you were able to take up a variety of costly and time-consuming hobbies.”
“Yes, that sounds like quite the life, doesn't it? What do you think of my raising carrier pigeons? Or maybe collecting model trains is the way to go. Knitting? Bonsai? Extreme mountain climbing?”
“I always thought macramé would be a fun hobby . . .” Louise mused.
“Macramé? Hmm. I used to enjoy macramé when I was a kid . . . And was it just last year that macramé was said to have made a fashion comeback?”
“Really? You'd have to ask Isobel about that. I'm afraid I don't keep up with the trends these days.”
“Trends are boring,” Catherine pronounced. “Isobel would agree.”
“Forget about trends. I'm going to eat this last bit of goat cheese unless you want it.”
“Go ahead. I've got my eye on the cheddar. You know, these perimenopausal years are pretty hellish. I have this awful sense of my body mocking me. The whole system that makes us so biologically special was useless in my case. Before, when I was younger, at least it was of some potential value. But now, my period feels like a sick joke my body's playing on itself.”
“That's awful. Really, I don't know what to say to console you.”
Catherine shook her head. “Oh, there's nothing to say and I shouldn't be whining.”
“I don't think it's whining to bemoanâokay, let's say to mournâthe loss of something as important and as potentially powerful as the ability to bring new life into the world. I think you've got a very justifiable reason to mourn. Or to whine and rant and rave.”
“Thanks. Hmm. I shouldn't have let you eat that last bit of goat cheese . . .”
“Sorry. But hey, your life isn't so bad the way it is, is it?” Louise asked.
“God, no. I had a fantastic career that allowed me to retire early with plenty of money. Face it. If I had married and had children, my career would have taken a backseat. It's just that the life I have now is entirely different from the life I imagined I'd have.”
Louise nodded. “I think a lot of people can say the same. Maybe most people. I grew up with this boy who was an amazing runner. He won every medal you could win and was in training for the Olympics when he broke his leg. And that was it. The leg healed badly and a career as a track star was out of the question. He was only seventeen and everything he had planned for his life was suddenly scrapped.”
“Yikes. Whatever happened to him?”
Louise smiled. “Last I heard he was a college track coach. So, I guess he found a way to make the dream come true after all.”
“I wonder if he's an example of the rule or an exception to it.”
“And I wonder if he's happy or bitter.”
“I once dated a guy who was bitter,” Catherine said. “From morning 'til night, it was all about what rotten luck he had always had and how he could have been a great success if only the world hadn't been against him from the start. Honestly, I don't know how I stood it for so long.”
“Why did you go out with him in the first place?” Louise asked.
“I was young. I mistook bitterness for brooding masculinity. Too many romance novels as a teen, I guess. I didn't make that mistake again, I assure you.”
Louise nodded. “Ah, yes. Young women really do have a knack for turning a guy's annoying character traits into evidence of heroic suffering and his faults into charming quirks. A tendency to throw punches becomes evidence of unfathomable bravery.”
“And moodiness means he's a poetic soul when really, he's just a nasty son of a bitch.”
Louise laughed.
“I wonder,” Catherine said, “if that sort of thing is as common with today's young women as it was when we were young, or when our mothers were growing up. Take Isobel or Gwen, for that matter. Neither strikes me as likely to make a complete ass of herself over a totally unsuitable guy.”
“They might be an exception to the rule,” Louise said. “Let's hope they are. And let's hope we're not so biologically determined that a future generation can't break a mold that's clearly destructive to our well-being.”
“Well, I hate to be the pessimistic oneâor, as I would prefer to call myself, the realistic oneâbut I think we humansâwe women, to be more exact, for the purposes of this conversationâare indeed pathetically predisposed. If we don't convince ourselves that guys are romantic heroes, we'll never sleep with them and thus the end of the human race. Which, of course, might solve a lot of problems for the planet, but it ain't gonna happen without some weirdo dropping a bomb.”
“Always lovely chatting with you!”
Catherine executed a mock bow from her seat.
Louise poured a bit more wine into her glass. “Getting back to one's expectations of one's life,” she said, “I certainly never expected to be divorced. I knew it was a possibility, of course, but I never counted on it! I was so in love when I married Andrew, and he was so in love with me.”
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