The Summer Everything Changed (16 page)

Louise sat at the kitchen table, her laptop open in front of her. She had started out almost an hour and a half earlier browsing online for wedding inspiration. She yawned hugely and wondered where the time had gone.

It was amazing what a time sink the Internet could be. You hunted down your information with very little fuss and then four hours later you raised your swollen eyes from the screen and didn't know where the hell you were. Daily Mail UK Online? Why were you reading that trash? And how in God's name had you gotten to a site about some new, supposedly fantastic handheld vacuum and from there, on to a site that promised to double your financial investments within a week? “And don't get me started on all the websites about cats and their wacky antics,” Louise mumbled to the empty kitchen. They were more addictive than anything else, like the one about Maru, the Japanese Internet sensation who in one clip managed to stuff himself into a box about one-eighth of his bulk . . .

Enough! Louise got up from the table and began the preparations for a press pot of coffee. She smiled a bit wickedly as she did. Flora Michaels had sent a panicky e-mail (odd, as her usual tone both on-screen and off was icy indifference) saying that the bride was rumored to be four months' pregnant. Flora Michaels and Calvin Streep were on their way to her home in a desperate effort to convince her not to postpone the nuptials. A “bride with a bump” was chic nowadays, Flora Michaels stated, as if trying to convince Louise of this interesting fact. The bride must be made to understand this!

Louise had no sympathy to offer the bride or the wedding planner; she thought the rituals surrounding celebrity pregnancy and motherhood were ridiculous. Consider the frantic rush to erase any trace of the pregnancy! It was pretty insulting to the baby, when you thought about it. Mummy loves you but Mummy doesn't want anyone to know she gave birth to you. For her part, Louise had been thrilled by her child's birth, and proud to bear the stretch marks.

Louise poured a cup of fresh coffee and savored the first sip.
Ah,
she thought,
here I am enjoying life's simple pleasures when no doubt the celebrity couple's agents are frantically selling print and online rights to magazines and newspapers and Internet venues.
What a lot of fuss for what came down to just a party. You could get married in a courthouse or on a rowboat and save yourself the time and expense. What mattered were the vows, not the venue.

Her own wedding had taken place in a Universalist Unitarian church, with only about twenty people in attendance. They had honeymooned in Italy, a week in Rome and another in Ravenna. And the early years of the marriage had been really wonderful, filled with laughter and joy and the sheer fun of a child in their midst.

Where, when, why had it gone wrong?

Andrew's excuse for leaving her had been inarguable. He said that he had fallen out of love with her. What did that mean? Louise had wondered. Andrew couldn't quite say. Clearly, he didn't find her physically attractive any longer. They hadn't had sex in almost eight or nine months, but that wasn't terribly unusual for long-married couples, was it? Maybe he had become bored by her, by the meals she routinely cooked, by the TV shows she routinely watched, by the turns of phrase she routinely used, but she had become kind of bored by him, too. That was usual, also. Your spouse wasn't supposed to entertain you every day of the year. That was what television and movies and books and music were for. And friends. And children. And big fat cats like Maru . . .

Thankfully, James and Jim came into the kitchen just then, interrupting thoughts that threatened to become morbid and quickly.

“We just thought we'd see if you wanted anything special from Portland,” James said. “We're on our way up there now for lunch at our favorite Mexican restaurant.”

“And you know we're going to stop at Brown Trading while we're there,” Jim added.

Louise smiled. “How about you see what goody you can find me for twenty dollars,” she said. “I doubt it's going to be caviar, but . . .”

“Deal.”

No sooner had the men gone out through the front door of the inn than Catherine, sans Charlie, came knocking at the back door.

“Am I interrupting?” she asked.

Louise smiled. “Yes, but nothing that can't be interrupted. Slightly sad thoughts that were threatening to get very depressing very soon.”

“Oh good. I mean, good that I'm not interrupting happy thoughts. I guess. Anyway, I wanted to bring by that book I was telling you about.” She held out a fat trade-sized paperback for Louise to take. “
The Historian
. You'll love it, trust me.”

Louise glanced at the back cover and put the book next to the computer. “Thanks. Honestly, I'm not sure I'll have time to read it until after the wedding from Hades has come and gone . . .”

“No worries. Save it as a well-deserved treat.”

“My list of literary treats is getting longer every day. I just bought a copy of
Bring up the Bodies
by Hilary Mantel. Of course, I'll have to reread
Wolf Hall
first. My mind has become a sieve . . .”

“Just wait until you hit the menopausal years. Or, as they are also known, the ‘mental pause' years. You'll think back upon your old self as a rocket scientist.”

“Yikes. That bad, huh?”

Catherine's response—her open mouth indicated that she was about to say something—was interrupted by yet another visitor at the back door. This time, it was Jeff Otten.

“I hope this isn't a bad time?” he asked, smiling from Louise to Catherine.

“No, no, come in,” Louise said.

She would have to have been blind not to notice the massive bouquet of flowers cradled in the crook of his left arm. At first glance Louise could see that there were lush pink peonies and pale green bells of Ireland and quite a few white roses. It was a pastel symphony. The entire bundle was protected by shiny cellophane and tied with a pink satin ribbon.

“These are for you,” Jeff said, offering the bouquet with a touching solemnity.

Louise took it gently. “It's gorgeous!” she exclaimed. “Catherine, look at this!”

“It's a stunning piece,” Catherine agreed.

“I know the owner of the shop pretty well,” Jeff said, with modesty. “He owed me a favor actually, so . . .”

“I have to put these in water immediately.” Louise went to a cupboard for a vase and busied herself filling it with water. The flowers, she thought, would look lovely in the parlor, but she was sorely tempted to take them up to her own bedroom. Guests didn't have to share every aspect of her life!

She turned the water off and became aware that Jeff was speaking to Catherine.

“I'm glad to see you again, actually,” he was saying. “I felt so badly about what happened when we met the other day. Dogs usually love me. Anyway, I'm really sorry if I did something to upset Charlie. Maybe I made a sudden move or maybe it was the tone of my voice . . .”

Catherine smiled. “I wondered if it was your cologne or aftershave that set her off.”

Jeff looked stunned. “Wow,” he said. “I never thought about that possibility! Animals are super-sensitive to odors, way more than we are. Again, I apologize.”

“No harm done. And thank God for that!”

Jeff laughed. “Yeah. Charlie's teeth looked in very sharp shape.” Jeff checked his watch. Louise noted that it was a Rolex. “Well,” he said, “I've got to run.”

“Busy at work?” Louise asked.

“Always. My dad is a tough taskmaster. But that's one of the reasons he's so successful. And speaking of Dad, I'd better hurry—he's expecting me.”

With a final wave Jeff scooted out of the room.

“Thanks again for the flowers,” Louise called after him. “Sheesh,” she said, turning to her friend. “It's been like Grand Central Station in here today. Not that I'm complaining. It's nice to feel like you're really part of the community.”

Catherine was frowning a bit.

“What?” Louise asked.

“Nothing. It's just that he's actually pretty okay, isn't he, the junior Mr. Otten.”

“I told you. Maybe Charlie was having an off day when she tried to attack him. She's entitled. The best of us get the grumpies.”

“Yeah. He did seem pretty genuine just now, and sorry, though he had no reason to apologize. Maybe I was too quick to judge. It's been known to happen. And I do feel a bit protective of Isobel. How can I not?”

“And I appreciate that,” Louise said. “Believe me.”

“Not that she's the daughter I never had but . . . Well, in some way I guess she's the daughter I wish I had had.”

“We can share her friendship, to some extent.”

Catherine smiled. “Thanks. But I'll let you handle the college tuition.”

“Ha! How generous of you! Though actually, I'm hoping Isobel herself will cover a lot of the cost of college with academic scholarships. God knows, she's no athlete.”

“On that note, I should get going and leave you to the business of running this inn, just in case all those scholarships don't materialize.”

Catherine took her leave.

Louise regarded the bouquet Jeff had brought her and inhaled its heady fragrance. She hadn't seen anything quite so luscious in ages. It could easily be used as a bridal bouquet.

And speaking of which . . . Louise grabbed her phone and placed a call to Flora Michaels, wedding planner to the earthbound stars.

It had taken almost an hour to get to what Jeff had referred to as “the Blackmore estate.” When they pulled up into the ridiculously long driveway, it was already crowded with cars—nice ones, at that.

Isobel took a deep breath. She felt nervous and hesitant and she had since Jeff had first told her about the party.

“The Blackmores are important people,” he had informed her. “I hope you have something appropriate to wear.”

“Oh,” she had said. “Well, what sort of . . . I mean, is it fancy dress?”

Jeff had laughed. “Isobel, you're too cute. I told you, it's a lawn party. In the middle of the day.”

“Oh. Okay. So, how do you know the Blackmores?”

“They're friends of the family. They're good people.”

That made sense. The rich and powerful were friends with the rich and powerful. The rich and powerful didn't hang out at Arby's or Walmart, meeting up with the poor and insignificant. It was the same reason rock stars married models and not the girls who worked at J. C. Penney or the nail salon.

Still, Isobel had not been at all reassured. She had even thought for a brief moment of using her mother as an excuse, before realizing that a lie could get complicated very quickly. Besides, why in the world would her mother refuse to let Isobel attend a daytime party at the home of a respectable family?

But Jeff had taken the decision out of her hands. He had called her mother to assure her that the people hosting the party were decent and that many of the guests were also friends of the Otten family, and that while there would be alcohol he would refrain from drinking, and that they would be home well before dark.

Her mom had seemed pleased that Jeff had come to her with reassurances, and of course she had assumed that Isobel wanted to go to the party. Isobel hadn't had the heart to tell her mother the truth.

Sigh. She had had the worst time choosing an outfit. She had never been told to dress “appropriately” for an event before; it was a lot of pressure! Finally, she had settled on an A-line skirt that came to just below her knee, in a summery plaid of pale blues, greens, and yellows; a pale yellow shirt; and low wedge sandals. Sandals and bag were the color of heavy cream. She kept her jewelry simple—gold-tone hoop earrings; three gold-tone bangle bracelets; and a blue topaz and silver ring that her father had given her for her twelfth birthday. (She might be displeased with her father, but that didn't mean she had to be displeased with a perfectly innocent piece of jewelry!)

When Jeff had come to pick her up, he hadn't commented on her outfit. She took his silence on the subject as approval. Still, when she got into the car he was frowning.

“What's wrong?” she asked, wondering if bare legs were somehow not exactly “the thing” for a party at the Blackmores'.

“That guy.” He jerked his head in the direction of the driver's side window. Isobel leaned forward and looked past him.

“Oh, Quentin.”

“I know who he is. What's he doing here?”

Isobel had giggled. “Don't the hedge clippers give it away? He works for us! He's sort of a handyman, jack-of-all-trades. It's pretty amazing, all the things he can do.”

Jeff had not replied. He drove them swiftly off, with another frowning look in Quentin's direction.

Once parked in the long drive of the Blackmore estate, Jeff took Isobel by the elbow and they joined the other party-goers on a spacious lawn. Isobel glanced around at the other guests and had trouble discerning a dress code. There were women in shorts and T-shirts, in linen pants and silky blouses; there were women in maxi-dresses and there were women (some of the younger ones) in miniskirts. With few exceptions, the men wore chinos with white or blue oxford shirts, sleeves folded up to mid-forearm, and natty European-style loafers. Jeff was one of the exceptions. His jeans were on trend—dark and slouchy—his shirt was taupe linen (Isobel thought he must have an entire closet full of linen shirts), and he wore it buttoned at the collar and sleeves. His low-heeled boots were artfully scraped and bruised. Isobel thought he was easily the best-looking and the best-dressed man at the party.

The house was enormous, one of the largest Isobel had seen, and she had seen a heck of a lot of impressive piles both back in Massachusetts and here in Maine. In spite of its romantic if somewhat grand name—Eagle's Eye Ridge—she found herself forced to describe it (silently, as she didn't want to insult anyone's taste) as a McMansion, more bland bulk than interesting style, more hotel chain than personalized home.

The hosts—and Jeff had not introduced her to them; for a while Isobel wasn't even sure who they were among the crowd—had erected a tent under which had been placed about twenty small round tables with chairs. There was a live band set up at one end, playing a selection of jazz and blues and classic rock, and waiters circulated the lawn with trays of appetizers. A bar served beer, wine, and a limited range of exotic cocktails, none of which were at all familiar to Isobel. There were no dogs and no children. In fact, Isobel thought she was probably the youngest person at the party by several years.

This shindig, Isobel thought, made the Ryan-Roberts party look amateur in comparison—if you cared about comparing such things. Isobel found herself longing for shouting boys with massive water pistols, and pudgy pugs underfoot.

They had been there no more than ten minutes when Jeff turned to her and announced that he had to “do the rounds.”

“It's my social duty when I represent my family,” he explained.

“Okay,” Isobel said. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No.” His reply was emphatic. “Why don't you get something to drink?”

She watched him walk off and join a small group of guys about his age. They all shook hands. Jeff must have said something funny because all three of the guys suddenly laughed. One glanced in her direction, and Isobel immediately felt embarrassed. Of course she hadn't been the object of a joke, especially not one told by Jeff.
Wow, I am being beyond silly today,
she scolded herself.

She turned away and walked to the bar, where she asked for a seltzer with a slice of lime (she usually asked for lemon, but maybe it was time to be wild and crazy!), and while she sipped it, she couldn't help but overhear a conversation between two very well-dressed middle-aged women. They were talking about Jeff's older brother, Michael. The brother Jeff hadn't yet mentioned to her.

Flynn had told her mother that Michael Otten was an impressive person, and had been even as a kid. The women's conversation revealed more of the same. Something about an award he had won for some research . . . Isobel didn't want to linger in the hopes of catching details and risk being caught eavesdropping on a private conversation—especially a private conversation among people who—if their clothes and jewelry were any indication—were very probably “important.”

Isobel moved off. She remembered that her mother had mentioned that Michael Otten worked for a big pharmaceutical company and that he was based somewhere in Switzerland. She would like to go to Switzerland someday. In fact—

Her thoughts about travel scattered when she spotted Jeff a few yards off, chatting with another girl. She looked about Jeff's age or maybe, Isobel thought, even a bit older, twenty-one or twenty-two. She was dressed in a skintight short skirt and an equally skintight T-shirt with spaghetti straps, and on her feet were a pair of wedges that had to be at least five inches high. Her hair was sleek and black and very long; her eyes were hidden behind enormous black sunglasses. For the first time in her entire life, Isobel felt a twinge of doubt about her appearance. She felt juvenile and even a bit—dowdy.

Jeff leaned down and whispered something in the girl's ear. Whatever he said made her smile and touch his arm. And then he came strolling toward her, a smile on his face that Isobel could only call secretive.

“Hey, there you are,” he said. “I was looking all over for you.”

You weren't looking very hard,
Isobel answered silently. “Who was that girl?” she asked.

“What? That girl I was just talking to?” He shrugged. “Just some girl.”

Isobel struggled to keep her voice even. “Do you know her?” she asked. “I mean, did you know her before today, or did you just meet her?”

Jeff's expression stiffened, and he took a step closer to her. “What's up with the third degree?” he demanded.

“Nothing.” Isobel hesitated. She felt a bit intimidated with him looming over her. She took a tiny step backward. “It's just that it looked like you were—like you were flirting with her. It was . . . it was kind of embarrassing for me.”
And hurtful,
she added silently.
And humiliating. And utterly shocking.

Jeff sneered. “You have some nerve yelling at me. I saw you with that guy before, over by the band. You were totally coming on to him.”

Isobel felt her stomach lurch with the absurdity of Jeff's proclamation. “I wasn't yelling at you, and I was not coming on to him,” she protested. “He said hello to me and I said hello back. That was all. How could you accuse me of . . . of doing something so awful?”

Jeff grunted and shook his head. “You're such a child, Izzy. You have no idea what you're doing, do you? Look, just don't talk to anyone for the rest of the party, okay? These people are my friends. I don't need the embarrassment.”

He turned away and then, spun around and pointed a finger at her.

“And by the way,” he said, “I saw that photo of you on your blog, the one where you're wearing that skimpy bathing suit. I also don't need people seeing my girlfriend half-naked. I'm an Otten. Remember that. We have a reputation to uphold.”

And then he stalked off.

Isobel opened her mouth, as if to respond to Jeff's latest criticism, but even if he had still been there to hear her, she had no idea what she would—or could—say to him.

She closed her mouth. She had never felt so utterly embarrassed. She wondered if anyone had heard their confrontation, but she couldn't bring herself to glance around for witnesses. What would she do if someone caught her eye?

Isobel spent the rest of the party on her own, afraid that another guy would try to talk to her, or that she would catch Jeff with another girl. More than once she found herself fighting back tears. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Jeff rejoined her and announced that they were leaving. Without another word they walked to his car and got in. Jeff was silent on the ride home. It wasn't usual for him. Or was it? Was what she had witnessed today par for Jeff's course? Was this sort of thing what routinely went on between boyfriend and girlfriend?

Isobel just didn't know. She had been out of her league, spending an afternoon with people who were so much older, people with more experience dating and flirting. People who were drinking. Not that anyone had acted drunk, but even one glass of wine or one bottle of beer could have an effect on someone's behavior . . .

Finally—the ride had seemed interminable to Isobel—they pulled up outside the inn.

“Good-bye, Jeff,” Isobel said, her voice soft.

He grunted, and didn't look over at her.

Isobel got her courage in hand. “Thanks for taking me to the party.”

This time, he didn't even bother to grunt.