The Summer Everything Changed (23 page)

Louise brought two cups of fresh coffee to the kitchen table and put one down in front of Catherine.

“Want to know the latest from wedding central?” she asked, pulling out a chair.

“Naturally.”

“Flora Michaels said the bride thinks it would be ‘cute' if the staff dresses in period garb for the wedding.”

“What period?” Catherine asked. “Mmm. Good coffee.”

“Well, that wasn't quite specified. The bride, as you might have surmised from her choice of career, isn't exactly academically inclined.”

“I see. Well, what did you tell Ms. Michaels?”

“I told her that under no circumstances would the staff—by whom she meant me and Isobel only, by the way, not those ‘scruffy males'—dress in anything other than their own contemporary attire. Appropriate for a special occasion, of course.”

“And how did Flora Michaels—and the bride—take that bit of news?”

Louise sighed. “We're still in negotiation.”

“By ‘scruffy males' I'm guessing they mean Flynn and Quentin.”

“And neither one is the least bit scruffy!”

Catherine seemed to be musing. Then she said, “Though I can see Flynn looking rather smart dressed in, say, one of those tight waistcoats, circa 1776.”

“And Quentin in a stovepipe hat?”

“Yeah, that's not going to happen, is it? Although he does have a Johnny Depp thing going on with that lovely face . . . Maybe a pirate costume? Were there American pirates? And maybe we could get Jeff to dress up. Wasn't Thomas Jefferson blond under that powdered wig?”

“I have no idea. I'm pretty sure he was tall, though. But speaking of Jeff . . .” Louise told Catherine about the bracelet he had given Isobel.

Catherine frowned. “He gave her an expensive piece of jewelry after only a few dates? I have to say, that's a bit worrisome. What's his rush?”

Louise shrugged. “I don't know. At least it wasn't a ring.”

“Huh. Thank God for small favors.”

“Well, I'm not entirely sure the bracelet really is expensive,” Louise amended. “It looks it, but these days you can get good knockoffs for not much money at all.”

“The illustrious Otten family doesn't need to resort to knockoffs.”

“Well, that might be the point. Jeff is probably used to a different level of lifestyle than we are. What seems expensive to us might seem like the deal of the century to him. In his mind, he could have given her a mere trinket, a token of his affection.”

“Are you trying to convince yourself or me?”

Louise smiled a bit. “Maybe both.”

“Mmm. Well, how does Isobel feel about the gift? That's what's important.”

“As far as I know, she hasn't taken it off since he gave it to her. But . . .”

“But what?”

“Nothing. It's just that she didn't tell me about it until I noticed it one day. I thought that was kind of odd. Restraint isn't one of her strong points.”

“No, it certainly isn't,” Catherine agreed. “Hmm. I wonder . . .”

“Me, too. I've been 'round and 'round in my head trying to puzzle out her motives.”

“Have you thought of asking her?”

“Of course. And she said she didn't say anything to me because she didn't think it was a big deal.”

“Well, maybe that's all there is to it. Isobel is an—how to put this? She's an individualist. Her reasons and motives for doing or not doing something are often not the norm.”

Louise smiled ruefully. “You mean that my daughter is a character.”

“Yes, I do, and you should be glad of that. You've raised a child who is not afraid to be who she is. That's huge.”

“Thanks. Though I'm inclined to give most of the credit to Isobel herself.”

Catherine shrugged. “Well, maybe it doesn't matter who's responsible. All I know is that it will be a pleasure to witness Isobel growing into the full person she's going to be.”

Louise felt tears forming. “I don't think you could have said a nicer thing to me.”

“Don't start to cry,” Catherine warned, blinking quickly. “I'm just about to get my period, and if you cry I will most certainly start to bawl.”

“Um, is this it?” Gwen asked.

The girls were hanging in Isobel's room. Gwen, sitting at the desk, had turned to face Isobel, who was sitting cross-legged on the bed.

“What do you mean?”

Gwen shrugged. “Well, it's just that your posts are usually, you know . . .”

“What?”

“Longer,” Gwen said carefully. “For one thing.”

“Yeah, well, brevity is the soul of wit. Shakespeare said that and if—”

“My dads are in theater,” Gwen interrupted. “You don't have to tell me what Shakespeare said and what he didn't.”

“Okay. So, what's the big deal?”

“Nothing. It's your blog. You can do what you want with it. But—don't you think we should add a photo to the post? We always have at least two or three photos . . .”

“I don't think it matters much.”

“I could easily shoot a piece of jewelry. Your mom has that cool ring, the one with the five clear crystals. I could style a—”

“Don't worry about it.” Isobel snapped.

“I'm not worrying about it. I'm just—”

“Gwen. Really. We don't need to bother with a photo!”

Gwen turned back to the laptop and closed it. The room fell silent.

Isobel remembered. A few weeks ago, Gwen had suggested Isobel expand the blog by getting advertisers and teaming up with a brand for promotion. Isobel had been excited about the idea. She had talked to Jeff about it, of course. But he hadn't shared her enthusiasm at all.

“Come on, Isobel,” he'd said. “You're not exactly a businessperson type. This blog habit, it's harmless and keeps you out of trouble. But it's only a pastime. It's kid stuff. Don't be stupid and try to make it into something it's not. Besides, it already takes up too much of your time. The Facebook page, the Twitter account, all that time wasted hanging out with Gwen in those musty places selling crap to people stupid enough to think it's rusty gold.”

When she had tried to answer, to protest, he cut her off.

“What about me?” he had asked, and not for the first time. “Aren't I worth all of your attention?”

When they had first started to date, questions like those had amused Isobel. She had taken them as largely rhetorical. And she had thought that Jeff was cute when he was needy.

But she was beginning to understand the intensity—the utter seriousness—underlying his words. It worried her a bit. Just a bit.

But maybe he was right—again. Maybe she wasn't spending enough time focusing on him.

“Earth to Isobel?”

Isobel startled. “Oh,” she said. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

“I was asking if you're excited about our trip to Longfellow Books Tuesday night.”

Right. She had planned to drive up to Portland with Gwen and Will (Curtis was taking Ricky to a Red Sox game at Fenway Park) for a reading by one of their favorite Maine-based authors. Joan Nicholson wrote wonderful stories about life alone in her camp (no running water; a wood-fired stove; no cell phone reception or Internet) almost three miles from the nearest road.

But Jeff didn't want her to go. He told her he hated Joan Nicholson's work. And he told her he had made plans for them to do something Tuesday night. He hadn't told her what those plans involved, but he had seemed really disappointed and really annoyed that she was even considering leaving him on his own.

“I forgot to tell you,” Isobel said now, feigning nonchalance. “I can't go.”

“What do you mean, you can't go?” Gwen demanded.

“Just that I can't go.”

“But you were so psyched about the reading. And we were planning to get gelato at that place on Fore Street. And you've got that gift certificate from Catherine.”

Isobel looked down at the bracelet Jeff had given her. “I changed my mind, okay?” she said. “I'm allowed to change my mind.”

“You changed your mind? If that were true, then you would have said you don't want to go. Why can't you go? Jeez, Isobel, does this have anything to do with Jeff?”

“Of course not,” Isobel lied. She felt a bit angry—no, a lot angry—that Gwen was challenging her. “And by the way,” she blurted, “I decided I don't want to do CityMouse anymore.”

The moment the words were out of her mouth, Isobel wished she could cram them back in. But shock and pride, a strangely powerful combination, made her feel committed to the decision she had announced aloud.

Gwen's eyes widened and then narrowed. “What? I can't believe I'm hearing this. Why?”

“You always wanted it for yourself, anyway,” Isobel said with a snort. It was a ridiculous accusation, ridiculous and mean and untrue.

“I think you're losing your mind,” Gwen snapped. “CityMouse is your baby, your special project, and it's always been that way. I've never wanted it to be otherwise. I've always been perfectly content being the sidekick. You know that!”

Isobel could find nothing to say. She shrugged.

Gwen got up from Isobel's desk chair. “Look, I don't know what's going on with you,” she said, “although I have a pretty good idea. I do know we're not getting anywhere in this conversation. I'm going home.”

Gwen stalked to the door and slammed it behind her.

Isobel flinched.

“It's me, Louise.”

“I know,” Andrew said. “My assistant doesn't put through anonymous calls.”

“Oh,” she said. “Of course.”

“So, how's business?” he asked. Not how are you. Not how is my daughter.

“Great,” Louise replied brightly. “Business is great.”

“Good.”

Andrew didn't have to know the whole truth. So far she had managed to keep the celebrity wedding a secret from him. She most definitely did not want his advice, well meaning though it might be. She most definitely did not want to feel what she had felt so often during their marriage, that she was ill-equipped to handle a task at hand. She didn't really think that Andrew intended to make her (and others) feel bad about their abilities; he just couldn't seem to help being officious. It served him well in business, if not always in his personal relationships.

And she most definitely did not want Andrew to tell Vicky the business genius about her project.

“How is Vicky feeling?” Louise asked, priding herself on being woman enough to ask.

“Pretty good. She's past the morning sickness. And she's convinced the baby is a boy. She says she's carrying differently this time.”

“So, you're not going to know the sex for sure until the baby is born?”

“That's how Vicky wants it. This is her show, after all.”

Louise rolled her eyes. “Well, I'd say you had something to do with the show's production.”

Andrew laughed. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call? The checks should have gone out already. Is there a problem with them?”

“No, no. I got the checks yesterday and they're safely deposited.”

“Then, what's up?”

“Andrew, when did you last speak with Isobel?”

There was a bit of silence, into which Andrew cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, “I guess it's been some time now, maybe a couple of weeks.”

“More like over a month, at least. And texts and e-mails don't count. Really, Andrew, what's wrong with you?”

“Nothing's wrong with me, Louise,” Andrew protested. “Frankly, I get the feeling Isobel doesn't have a whole hell of a lot to say to me.”

“Maybe she'd have more to say to you if you showed some interest in her life. Fake it if you have to.”

“I don't have to fake an interest in my daughter's life! For Christ's sake, Louise, I'm not an unfeeling monster.”

Louise bit her tongue. She really didn't want a fight; at best it would be unproductive and at worst, it would leave her with a bad headache.

“Look,” she said wearily, “just make more of an effort, okay?”

“Is there some particular reason why you're pushing this? Is Isobel in trouble?”

The patience it required to deal with this man . . . Louise sighed.

“She's fine. At least, she says she's fine but I think she's under some strain. Maybe it's because of what's going on here with—” Louise caught herself just in time. “With it being our busy season. Anyway, it certainly wouldn't hurt for you to call her if you don't have time to Skype. Please, Andrew.”

“All right, of course. When is she usually home?”

“She's a teenager, Andrew. She has her own schedule. Just call her on her cell.”

“Fine. Look, Louise, I have a meeting in ten minutes. I've got to go.”

“Fine,” Louise repeated.

She ended the call with a mixture of relief and frustration. No sooner had she left the kitchen than she was greeted by a familiar querulous cry.

“Mrs. Bessire? Mrs. Bessire?” It was Mr. Starck, a guest in one of the rooms on the third floor. He was a google-eyed little man, tubby and tiny with a penchant for whining. At the moment he was coming at her with his arms held straight out in front of him, two large white bath towels draped across them. An offering of sorts, Louise thought idly. As if I'm a goddess and he's a supplicant . . .

“My bath towels aren't dry,” he announced.

Not an offering. A complaint. “When did you last use them?” Louise asked pleasantly.

“About two hours ago. I always shower first thing in the morning.”

“Well, it is a humid day,” Louise said, mustering all the patience she possessed. And after that phone call with Andrew, it wasn't a lot. “They'll need a little longer to dry completely.”

“But I'm just back from the beach and I want to shower again now.” His whiny tone was also partially puzzled. Why, he was really asking, wasn't the world exactly how he wanted it to be? Why?

Louise faked a smile. She was getting very good at faking smiles. “Then let me get you some fresh towels, all right?”

She put out her arms for the towels. They felt perfectly dry.

“I'll be right up,” she said to Mr. Starck. He pouted and scurried off to the stairs.

Louise headed down to the basement. She would toss the towels into the dryer for a few minutes. If that didn't satisfy him, he could go—

Louise sighed. Her guests were her responsibility. They paid the mortgage and a host of other expenses. Besides, she had chosen this business. She had gone into it with eyes wide open if partially blinkered. And a whole succession of Mr. Starcks would still be a hell of a lot easier to handle than one Flora Michaels.

With a loud and satisfyingly dramatic sigh, Louise threw the towels into the laundry bin and selected two fresh towels from the linen shelves. If Mr. Starck wanted dry towels, he would have them.