The Summer Everything Changed (25 page)

Isobel pulled open the door to find Gwen standing there. It was the first time since they had become friends that she hadn't just walked in.

“Oh,” Isobel said. “Hi.”

“I can't stay,” Gwen said, remaining where she was, on the threshold. “I just thought you should know that someone has been sending me threatening texts.”

Isobel felt her shoulders twitch. “Since . . . Since when?” she asked.

“Two days ago.”

Isobel saw now that her friend's eyes looked haunted, wary. “That's awful, Gwen,” she said, her voice catching. “I'm so sorry.”

“Yeah.”

“But I don't understand. Why did you think I should I know?”

“Because we're friends.”

Isobel flushed. “Well, that, of course, but—”

“You don't get it, Isobel.” Gwen's voice had risen sharply. “The texts could be from someone who knows the both of us.”

“Oh.” The implication being that Isobel, too, might be his (or her) next victim. Was that what Gwen was saying? “What do the texts say?” she asked, though she really didn't want to know.

“I don't want to repeat them. They're—ugly.”

“Who do you think they're from?” Isobel asked. Her heart had started to beat furiously.

“I don't know for sure.”

“Can you guess?”

Gwen looked away.

“Did you tell your parents?” Isobel asked, afraid to know the answer to this question, too.

“No,” Gwen said. “Not yet.”

Not so very long ago Isobel would have urged Gwen to go to her parents. But things were different now. She herself was keeping so much from her mother . . .

“Just ignore the texts,” she said, with a lot more conviction than she felt. “It's probably just a stupid joke, anyway.”

“Yeah. Maybe. Still . . .”

“Yeah.”

“I gotta go.” Gwen turned and walked rapidly back out to her car.

“Be careful,” Isobel called as she drove off, but Gwen's windows were up and she doubted Gwen heard her.

Isobel closed the door. She wanted to lock it, bar it, but it was still early and guests expected to find an open door and a welcome.

“Please,” she whispered to no one. “Please don't let it be him, please.”

She thought of the waiter Jeff had tortured earlier, of the horrible name he had called that woman driver, of how he had accused her of flirting with someone at that awful party they had gone to, of the critical things he had said about Gwen and her family. There was violence in him, something more than just impatience or high spirits.

Isobel took a few deep breaths and willed herself back to reason. Her suspicions were out of proportion; the scant evidence she had was faulty; the suspicions were totally groundless.

They had to be.

She heard Catherine taking her leave. She didn't want to face anyone right now. She couldn't. Catherine usually came and went through the back door but just in case . . . Isobel ran up the stairs and locked her bedroom door behind her.

Louise was passing by the breakfast room when the sound of a familiar male voice stopped her. She knew that Isobel was in there, setting the tables for the next morning. She hadn't known that Jeff had come by.

No matter. She began to walk on when something Jeff was saying made her freeze. No, she thought, it couldn't be. “Your mother's friend, Catherine . . .” and then, “everyone in town knows she's a whore . . .” finally, “I can prove it if I have to.”

Isobel was speaking now. Louise listened hard but couldn't make out her daughter's murmured response.

Shaken, she hurried on toward the library where she sank into a chair. Jeff was a nice guy. He had apologized to Catherine for the incident with Charlie. He had brought Louise flowers and candy. There was no way he could have spoken the words she thought she had heard. She had misheard, and badly. Louise felt ashamed of herself, not only for accusing Jeff without real proof but also because if indeed he hadn't said those awful things she had heard—or thought she had heard—then the words had actually been a product of her own overworked mind.

Still, she would have to confront Isobel. She had to know for sure if what she had thought she had heard was what had really been said. If it was, Isobel was sure to be horrified and angry. But would Isobel tell her the truth? She had lied about other things this summer . . .

Louise waited in an agony of impatience for Jeff to leave, and as soon as he did, she went in search of her daughter. Isobel was in the kitchen. Louise noted that she was again wearing something ordinary, which was extraordinary for Isobel—a navy T-shirt and a pair of chinos Louise hadn't even known Isobel owned. Still, it didn't unduly concern her. Young people, especially creative, passionate people like Isobel, tended to adopt habits and trends and then drop them just as easily as they had acquired them.

“Isobel,” she said, “I have to ask you a question.”

Isobel shrugged. “Okay.”

“When Jeff was here just now, did he say anything about Catherine? Anything—unpleasant?”

There was a clatter as the spoon that Isobel had been holding dropped to the floor. “What?” she said.

Louise bent down, picked up the spoon, and put it in the sink. “Well,” she went on, carefully, “I was in the hall just outside the breakfast room and I couldn't help but overhear—”

Isobel cut her off; her voice was raised to an unnatural pitch. “He absolutely did not say anything bad about Catherine! How could you think that he would? How could you think that I would let him?”

“I didn't think that he would,” Louise protested. “Frankly, I was shocked. I figured I must have misheard. It's just that—”

“And how could you eavesdrop on us?”

“I'm sorry, Isobel,” Louise said, and she meant it. “I didn't set out to listen to a private conversation, really. But when I caught—”

“When
you thought
you caught—”

“Okay, when I thought I caught Jeff saying something hateful about my friend . . .”

“You felt you had to question me about it.”

“Well, yes,” Louise admitted. “You would do the same, I'm sure, if you thought you heard someone speaking badly about Gwen.”

“Thanks a lot, Mom. Really. Your trust is greatly appreciated.”

Louise had never seen Isobel so angry; her face was aflame with color. She supposed her anger was justified. Still, it was distressing to witness—and even more distressing to know she had been the cause of the anger.

“I'm sorry,” she said again. “Please, let's try to forget this ever happened.”

Isobel shook her head as if in disgust and stalked toward the kitchen door. At the last moment she turned.

“By the way,” she announced, “I'm thinking about getting a tattoo.”

“A tattoo?” Louise repeated stupidly. “I thought you hated the whole idea.”

Isobel shrugged. “That was then. This is now.”

Isobel had never spoken so disrespectfully.
God,
Louise thought,
my innocent snooping really hurt her, and badly.

“Well, I'm not sure how I feel about—” she began, but she was interrupted by a call from Flora Michaels. The woman's timing, like everything else about her, was uncannily bad.

Louise sighed. “I'm sorry, Isobel. I have to take this. We'll talk later.”

Without a reply, Isobel left the kitchen.

Louise dealt with the wedding planner with as much grace as she could muster, which was not a lot, particularly considering she seemed to have called simply to shout out a bad mood. Finally, Flora Michaels's spleen was entirely vented and she ended the call, leaving Louise free to worry about something much closer to home. Her daughter.

Well, she thought, there were a hell of a lot of worse things Isobel could do than get a tattoo. As long as the image was nothing violent or grotesque or vulgar. Tattoos were no big deal these days. Practically everyone had one, from bikers to stay-at-home mommies.

Still, the tattoo issue wasn't the most worrisome thing, not compared to Isobel's decision to postpone her driver's test. In spite of what Isobel had told Catherine, maybe she was afraid to get behind the wheel . . . But why not just admit that she was afraid?

Louise sighed. So much seemed uncertain these days. What she had overheard that morning . . . If she had been right, it was an awful, disgusting thing to say about Catherine and patently untrue. But if her own mind had come up with those revolting accusations, well, that was even more disturbing. Stress could do terrible things to a person; look at the resurgence of the nightmare. It could make a person paranoid and suspicious of good people; it could cause her to form ugly thoughts about a loved one.

Louise rubbed her temples. She wondered if she should see a therapist once this awful wedding was history. She decided it might not be a bad idea.

Isobel sat slumped in the chair at her desk, laptop closed in front of her. She rubbed her temples, but the pain in her head didn't budge. The questions and comments from her readers were piling up, but she just couldn't muster the energy to answer, not even the energy to thank a reader for taking the time to reach out.

She was glad that Jeff was coming to pick her up; she needed a change of scenery. Her bedroom, the entire inn, felt tainted somehow, like a prison, someplace alien and unsafe. Only weeks before it had felt like a refuge . . .

Not that being with Jeff was that much better. Lately, his behavior had been increasingly erratic. But in a weird way she almost didn't care. She felt so enervated she almost didn't care what he did or whom he insulted or what he said to her about her general incompetence.

She heard Jeff's car pull into the drive and went down to meet him. This afternoon, he seemed to be in a good mood. At least, he wasn't speeding (yet) and he hadn't spoken ill about anyone she loved (yet). They drove in silence for a bit. Isobel wondered where they were going but didn't ask.

“I want you to see my home,” Jeff announced suddenly.

“Really?” Isobel said. “Wow.” The news pleased her, though not as much as it once might have. “Thanks.”

Jeff looked over at her and grinned. “For what?”

Isobel didn't answer. Before long they had turned on to a long private road, perfectly paved, at the end of which stood the Ottens' house. Isobel's breath was taken away. It was truly beautiful, a rambling yet majestic old stone building with an enormous porch wrapped around three sides and two turrets soaring into the sky from the third story. The Atlantic shimmered and undulated in the background. The sheer drama of the scene—the azure of the sky, the sparkling navy of the sea, the deep green of the lawn—had a strong effect on Isobel. She felt more alive than she had in weeks.

“You grew up here?” she asked when they had gotten out of the car. “With this magnificent view of the ocean?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. It's like something out of a fairy tale, but better.”

Jeff laughed. “You're too easily impressed, Izzy. This is nothing compared to what I'm going to have in ten years' time.”

He led her around the back of the house first. There was a tennis court and an in-ground pool overlooked by a deck with an entire kitchen (not just a grill) and bar, and cushioned lounge chairs and small tables and standing heaters and a big fire pit.

“You didn't tell me you had a pool!” Isobel exclaimed. “Do you use it much?”

Jeff shrugged. “Not anymore. When I'm not working, I'm with you. We could go for a dip later if you want,” he said.

“Oh, but I didn't bring my bathing suit.”

Jeff grinned. “So what?”

“That's okay,” Isobel said quickly. “I'm not really in the mood to go swimming. By the way, where's your mom?” If Mrs. Otten was around, there was no way he could force her to go skinny-dipping. Not that she would allow herself to be forced to do anything she didn't want to do but . . . Jeff could be persuasive.

“In Boston,” Jeff said. “She goes down about twice a month to see some old friends.”

“Oh. That's nice. I'd like to meet her someday.”

Jeff gave Isobel a look she couldn't interpret.

“What's wrong?” she asked timidly.

“Nothing,” he replied. “Except that I don't plan on introducing anyone to my parents other than my fiancée. Frankly, they don't even know you exist.”

Isobel felt stung. And stupid.

Jeff suddenly laughed. “Don't worry. You stand a very good chance of being a member of the Otten family someday.”

“Oh.”

“You don't believe me?”

“Of course I believe you,” Isobel said. What else was there to say?

“Good. Just go on being my good little Izzy.”

They went inside then, and Jeff told her that the staff had the afternoon off. He led her through room after room on the first floor—a beautifully appointed morning room (his mother's domain), formal dining room, enormous kitchen, a living room with three couches, and finally into what Jeff called the study (his father's domain). One wall contained floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Another wall was almost entirely covered with awards, official photographs, and framed diplomas. Isobel quickly scanned them and saw only the names and images of Jack Otten and his elder son. Both, she noted, were very good-looking men. Before she could ask where Jeff's awards were, he took her arm and led her out of the room. They were now in a hall, the walls of which were hung with paintings and prints. Just in front of her was a gorgeous framed print in brilliant, jewel-like colors. It looked Arabic but Isobel didn't know enough about art of the eastern world to place it in time or style with any accuracy at all.

“Do you ever travel on business to Dubai with your dad?” she asked.

“Where?”

“Dubai. You said your father travels to Dubai on business.”

“Oh yeah,” Jeff said. “No. I don't like traveling outside the United States.”

“Really?” Isobel said. “I want to travel everywhere. Europe, Asia, the Middle East. I'd love to go to Israel someday. Of course, there's a whole lot of the U.S. I'd like to visit, too. The Grand Canyon, San Francisco, New Orleans.”

Jeff didn't respond.

“My mom heard that your brother lives in Switzerland,” Isobel went on. “Did you ever visit him?”

Now Jeff did respond, and his expression darkened into a scowl.

“I told you never to mention him.”

“Oh. But I thought—”

“You're not supposed to think!” Jeff shouted. He took a step closer to Isobel, his face now red with fury. “You're supposed to do what I say.”

“I want to go home now,” Isobel said. She was surprised she had the nerve to speak; she hated that her voice was trembling.

Jeff took another step closer. “We all want things we can't have,” he said harshly.

“My mother is expecting me.”

Jeff laughed. “Your mother abandoned you for that stupid wedding. She wouldn't notice if you were missing for days.”

Isobel gasped; she felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. “How dare you say that about my—”

“Shut up!”

His fist slammed into the wall just to the left of her head, hard enough to cause the gorgeous Arabic print to tilt wildly. And then he stormed off down the hallway.

She didn't know why—she was in shock, she was afraid, she felt sick—but Isobel followed him closely enough to see him bolt out the front door and slam it behind him.

She watched through the window in the door as he drove off, abandoning her.

She heard a whimper and realized that it came from her own throat. “Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.” She chanted the words dumbly, and after a moment or two she felt some bit of sense return to her.

She had no idea when Jeff would return, or even if he would return. The staff was out, as were Jeff's parents. It was too far for her to walk home and too dangerous with summer highway traffic.

She was trapped. She felt another whimper rising in her throat.

No, Isobel told herself, summoning every bit of courage she had left. She could not succumb to panic. She would not. She was not trapped; she was not Jeff's prisoner. She had a brain. She would use it.

She could call her mother or Catherine or James or Jim or even Flynn to come and get her. Sure.

And then she would have to explain why she was alone at Jeff's house. She would have to tell them what had happened, the whole story, right from the start—or she would have to lie. Again.

It did not occur to her to call the police.

Isobel stood in the massive front hall of the Otten house as if bolted to the floor. The nasty things Jeff had said about Catherine at the inn came roaring back to her. Her mother had overheard correctly. But Isobel had lied to protect Jeff. Or had she lied to protect herself? What, she wondered now, would he have done to her if she had told her mother the truth? What would he do to her now if she told anyone the truth? Because Jeff would find out that she had betrayed him. She was sure of that.

She could not call anyone for help. That was just the way it was. Isobel felt a deadly inertia overcome her as she waited, miserably, for Jeff to return.

When he did return, almost two hours later, Isobel was sitting on the front steps of the house. Her heart began to race, painfully, when she saw his car approach up the drive.

She wondered if a sixteen-year-old could have a heart attack. She stood abruptly when he got out of the car, the better to run if she had to run. Though why she hadn't run away earlier she just didn't know.

Yes, she did know. She was Jeff's prisoner whether he was there with her or not.

Jeff walked slowly toward her. His expression was unreadable; that was nothing new.

“Look,” he said without preamble, “I'm sorry I stormed off earlier.”

Isobel couldn't open her mouth. She thought she smelled alcohol on his breath, but she couldn't be sure what was real with Jeff and what she was imagining.

“I had to blow off steam,” he went on. “You wouldn't have wanted me to stay, would you? You made me so mad I thought I was going to punch you. I did you a favor by getting out of here, you know. You should be grateful that I care so much.”

“I'm sorry,” Isobel said. She wondered why she was apologizing. She dared not admit to him that she was frightened. She suspected it would only make him angry again. But anything might make him angry again . . .

In the space of a few weeks Jeff had become an entirely unknown quantity, unpredictable and threatening. Maybe he had been that way all along and she just hadn't seen the truth. Oh, but why hadn't she seen the truth? How could she have been so mistaken about him?

“I'll take you home now,” Jeff announced.

Isobel was afraid to get in the car with him, and afraid not to. She wondered if she would make it back to the inn or if there would be an accident. If he had really been drinking, if he did still want to hurt her, would he instead take her someplace isolated where no one could hear her scream . . . Isobel clicked the seat belt into place and gripped the strap over her shoulder.

Jeff started the car. “We're cool, right?” he said, staring hard at her.

Isobel had to clear her throat before the word would come out. “Yes.”

“Good. You know, Isobel, I don't know what I would do if anything happened to you.”

“What could happen to me?” she said, with a sick and aborted attempt at a laugh.

“Anything. Anything can happen to anyone. Life's a crapshoot, Izzy. Don't ever forget that.”

Neither one spoke on the drive home. When they pulled up outside the inn, Jeff leaned over to kiss her. Isobel's deepest instinct was to pull away but she fought it. As long as she was in the car she was still under his control. She kissed him back, feeling repulsed and dirty.

When he had roared off, Isobel ran upstairs to the bathroom she shared with her mother and locked the door behind her. Her hands were trembling. She caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror above the sink. She didn't recognize herself.

Izzy.

She was violently sick to her stomach.