The Summer Everything Changed (28 page)

Isobel lay in her bed, curled up in a fetal position. She would have to join her mother and Jeff in the kitchen soon. (He had dropped by unannounced, and her mother had invited him to stay.) Already, her mother had knocked on her door, urging her to come down for dinner.

Slowly, she sat up. This was no way to live a life, that much she knew. She had been living in a state of constant fear since the day Jeff had abandoned her at his house. Since then, she had learned very quickly to read his smallest gesture, like a dog with a cruel and inconsistent master, always looking for a clue that would tell him whether to flinch, cringe, roll over, or run away.

Because what did you do when you were afraid of something and you wanted desperately to survive it—and you knew that you couldn't or wouldn't simply run away from it? You watched it. You studied it. You hoped to eventually know enough to outsmart it.

Since that day Jeff had been hinting that he had been watching her more closely. “Paying more attention to her” was what he said, but Isobel knew what that meant. Jeff was spying on her. At least, he wanted her to think that he was. She didn't know for sure if he had found out about her library search. She didn't think he would believe her if she told him she had been trying to help a friend in need. Not with his suspicious mind . . .

But the spying wasn't the worst thing. Earlier that day, at his house, Jeff had forced her to perform oral sex on him. She had been afraid to say no. He was rough during the act; her neck and shoulders ached from his grip. When it was done, he told her how good she had been and had held her close.

She had been rigid with fear in his arms.

“You know I love you, Izzy, right?” he had whispered in her ear.

“Mmm.”

Jeff's grip had tightened. “I said, right?”

“Right,” she had managed to whisper.

“And you love me, right?”

“Right.”

But this wasn't love at all.

With her will in tatters, Isobel went down to the kitchen.

“Finally,” Jeff said.

Isobel took her seat between them.

“Did Isobel tell you she's no longer writing her blog?” Jeff asked as he helped himself to a second serving of green beans.

“Yes,” Louise replied. “She said it was becoming too much. Right?”

Isobel nodded.

Jeff turned to her. His expression was a mix of bemusement and concern. “I have to say, I was totally surprised when you told me,” he said. “I never thought you'd give up the blog. It meant so much to you and we had talked about your plans for expansion.”

Isobel was almost impressed. Jeff was brilliant in the role of innocent boyfriend, expressing concern for his girlfriend, being nice to the mother he had accused of abandoning her daughter. Who was she to equal his skill?

Jeff was saying something. Her mother was laughing.

Isobel poked at her food. Everything felt surreal. She wanted to leap from the table and shout, “Stop! It's all a lie!” She wanted to curl up and die. It would be so much simpler than fighting on . . .

Quentin came through the kitchen door just then, carrying a tool case. His right eye was almost swollen shut; the bruise was angry, black, purple, and red, and covered almost all of his cheek.

Isobel gasped. She knew absolutely that Jeff was responsible for Quentin's injury.

“Oh my God,” her mother cried. “What happened?”

Quentin turned partly away. “It's nothing. Got careless.”

“You should be more careful,” Jeff said, jocularly. “You don't strike me as the clumsy sort, but appearances can be deceiving, right?”

Quentin's lips thinned into what could be interpreted as a smile or a frown or a grimace.

“Do you want an ice pack?” Louise asked. “I can—”

“No.” Quentin's answer was abrupt. “Thanks. I'm going to fix that drain upstairs now.” He left the kitchen as quickly as he had entered.

“You know,” Jeff said, leaning confidentially toward Isobel's mother, “if that Quentin fellow isn't working out, I know a few guys you might hire.”

Isobel literally leapt from the table. “I need to use the bathroom,” she said. She ran to the powder room and locked the door behind her. Her heart was racing. She leaned against the wall for support; her entire body was trembling.

Gwen. Catherine. Quentin. Jeff hated them all. Only Isobel stood between her friends and more violence against them, verbal or physical. How had she become the protector of everyone she loved? In only weeks she had become an adult before her time and in a way she had never thought possible. It wasn't right. It wasn't supposed to be this way.

When she went back to the kitchen, her mother was still sitting at the table with Jeff. They were eating ice cream.

“I don't feel very well,” Isobel said from the doorway. She couldn't look either her mother or Jeff in the eye. “I'm going up to bed.”

“What you need is a good night's rest,” Jeff said solicitously. “I'll check in with you later.”

 

That night Isobel had lain awake trying to imagine a way to break away from Jeff. She couldn't. Every scenario she constructed ended in his successful pursuit. Even if she waited until she turned eighteen and could legally disappear into a big city, change her name if necessary . . . Jeff would still find her. He had the power.

And all night long he had sent her e-mails and text messages in which he made it clear he didn't believe she was sick. He warned her not to betray him. He reminded her of what they had done at his house the day before. He told her of what other things they were going to do, soon.

Morning finally dawned. Isobel was both grateful (she could stop pretending to herself that she was capable of sleep) and fearful (it was another day in which she would have to see and deal with Jeff).

She went down to the kitchen though she wasn't in the least bit hungry. If her mother was around she would try to eat something for the sake of appearance.

Her mother was there.

“Are you feeling better this morning, Isobel?” she asked, a frown of concern on her face.

“Fine,” Isobel said. “Must have been a twelve-hour virus or something.”

“Can I make you some eggs?”

“No, thanks. I'll . . . I'll just have some toast or something.”

She took two slices of bread from the bread box and stuck them in the toaster.

“I've been thinking about going out west for college,” she said, her back to her mother. “Maybe California or Seattle.”

“What? First of all,” her mother said, “you're only going to be a junior this fall. It's a bit early to be making decisions about college, isn't it? And second, I thought you wanted to stay on the East Coast, near me. And your father.”

“It's never too early to think about college,” Isobel countered, turning now to face her mother. “And besides, I've been thinking. I want a big change in my life. Change is good, right? Look how we left our life in Massachusetts and moved to Maine because you wanted a fresh start.”

“Well, that wasn't quite the same . . .”

“Why wasn't it the same?” she challenged.

But her mother's phone announced that someone else demanded her attention.

“It's Flora Michaels,” Louise said with a sigh of annoyance. “We'll talk about college plans some other time. I've got to deal with this.”

Her mother left the kitchen, phone to her ear.

The toast popped. Isobel put the pieces of bread on a plate and left the kitchen. She heard her mother's voice from the library. For the first time she realized that the only person in her life Jeff had never vilified—except for that once, the first time at his house—was her mother. In fact, she had asked him the other day why he never called her Izzy when they were with her mother. He had said that using her full name was a sign of respect.

Isobel had wondered what exactly he had meant by that but hadn't bothered to ask.

Jeff texted her.

She responded immediately. She had to.

Louise was exhausted. She had been afraid to sleep the night before, afraid to be swept into the nightmare that grew increasingly dark and dangerous with each manifestation.

She had sat vigil over her sanity until against her most strenuous will she fell into a light sleep around 5 a.m. Her alarm clock woke her at six thirty, rousing her from a vague waking dream involving a bride in a tattered dress and, for some reason she couldn't understand, Andrew in a chef's coat, fixing the bride dinner.

She was in the kitchen, watching a news show, when Isobel came in.

“Bella made scones this morning,” she said to her daughter. “Cinnamon and raspberry.”

“That's okay. I'm not really hungry.”

“Just letting you know that I've got my eye on the last cinnamon one, so if you're going to change your mind you'd better change it fast.”

Isobel smiled a bit and took a seat at the table. “That's okay. You can have it.”

“Oh, I want to hear this.” Louise raised the volume on the TV. Kathleen Shannon of Channel 6 in Portland was doing a story about domestic violence; the story highlighted the city's social services for abused women and advised women in trouble on how to get a restraining order and otherwise seek help.

At the commercial break, Louise lowered the volume again. “It's just so sad,” she said. “But I guess there will always be abusers out there. I'm not naïve enough to think otherwise.”

Isobel didn't respond.

“Are you okay?” Louise asked, finding Isobel's silence unnerving. Usually, she was such a chatterbox.

“Fine,” Isobel said.

“I know it's hard to listen to these stories. It's hard not to feel some of the pain and shame those women feel. And the anger and the fear.”

Isobel nodded.

Louise looked back to the television and raised the volume. The weatherman was predicting rain. “I feel bad that I haven't had time to volunteer since we moved to Maine,” she said. “I should be out there helping other women.”

Isobel suddenly stood, bumping against the table and rattling the spoon in her mother's empty cereal bowl. “I forgot I left my laptop open,” she said, and dashed out of the kitchen.

Louise's phone chirped. There was a text from Flora Michaels. Could there be little marzipan pigs the flower girl could scatter like petals as she walked the aisle, she wanted to know. Louise supposed it was possible and texted back that she would speak to the owner of Harbor Candy Shop about the special request.

Another text a moment later specified that the little marzipan pigs should be black. Was black the cool color for brides this season? Louise wondered. Either way, it was a harmless enough, if bizarre, desire.

The universal appeal of weddings . . . Even if you weren't personally acquainted with the bride and groom, you couldn't help but marvel at how a couple entered marriage with such enthusiasm. It was human nature to seek the positive. And it was also human nature, Louise thought now, to display a sort of arrogance about the future. I'll be smarter, I'll have more patience; he'll never hit me, she'll never leave me.

Louise cleared away her breakfast things. Had Isobel eaten anything at all that morning?

Someday Isobel might marry, Louise mused; it seemed likely, given her romantic nature. And she would display the same giddy certainty that all would be well in her married life.

Louise turned on the dishwasher and went to the broom closet for the broom and dustpan. Jeff Otten, she thought, as she began to sweep under the table, was certainly a nice young man, but he did seem a bit paternal in his treatment of Isobel. True, he was a few years older but that shouldn't make much of a difference. The real issue might be that with his family money he might be used to getting his own way, to making decisions on his own and to issuing orders that were followed without question.

She wanted Isobel to find her own way in life and to make her own decisions, and that could be very hard to do when someone was—or expected to be treated as—the leader in a relationship. A partner was what Isobel needed. It was what everyone needed in a romantic, committed relationship. Not a father or a mother but a sidekick, a friend, someone who would appreciate you for the individual you were.

Louise dumped the contents of the dustpan into the garbage and returned the broom to the closet. All she wanted to do next was to sleep, but sleep, too, would come when celebrity couple Kick and Monty had finally tied the knot at Blueberry Bay Inn.

Isobel closed her laptop and let the tears flow unchecked. She deeply appreciated Gwen's kind gesture; Gwen knew that Jeff was behind all of her odd and hurtful behavior. God, she wanted so badly to see her friend, but it was better for them to stay away from each other until—until what? Until Isobel could find a safe way out of this mess . . .

The day before Jeff had—mercifully, for Isobel—been unable to see her. He said he was going to Boston with his father. Isobel had wondered if he was lying but didn't care. His absence was a brief respite in the madness that was her life. Still, Jeff had harassed her from afar, calling and e-mailing and sending her texts every half hour or so. She wondered what his father thought about it all, or if he had even noticed, and decided she didn't care about that, either.

Now, oddly, he hadn't been in touch with her yet that day. His silence scared her. And it gave her the tiniest glimmer of hope. What if Jeff had gone back to Vermont, tired of her, tired of working for his father? What if he had been in an accident and had died . . .

She couldn't even feel guilty for thinking this.

But her luck would never be that good. Once, only weeks before, she had thought she was “one lucky gal.” How miserably naïve she had been. She would never be so naïve again, or so innocent.

Isobel left her room and wandered aimlessly downstairs. She heard a sound from the parlor and peered cautiously inside.

Quentin was there, bent over an overturned chair, screwdriver in hand.

“Hi,” Isobel said. Her voice sounded weak to her ears.

He looked over his shoulder, and the expression in his large brown eyes seemed more solemn than usual.

“Hey,” he said. He turned back to work.

“Your eye looks a little better,” Isobel said. She felt ashamed and responsible. She wondered if Quentin had had to go to a doctor about the eye. She wondered if his mother had health insurance.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Have you seen Gwen?”

“Yeah.” He kept his back to her during this exchange.

“How is she? I mean, I haven't seen her in a while.”

“She's okay.”

There was another ponderous moment of tension, and then Quentin turned around.

“Is your mom around?” he asked. “I haven't seen her today.”

“No. She went into town.”

“My cousin Lara used to date Jeff Otten a few years back,” he said without preamble.

Isobel wanted to run away but she felt rooted to the spot. “Oh.”

“He used to hit her. One time, the last time, he broke her nose.”

Isobel reached out for the back of the chair closest to her. She felt light-headed.

“Mr. and Mrs. Otten bought off my aunt and uncle to keep them from going to the police,” Quentin went on, his tone almost matter-of-fact. “Paid them enough to cover Lara's medical expenses. And a bit more.”

Isobel heard this with a heavy heart. She knew that Quentin was telling the truth. Still, even after all she had been through, she didn't want to believe it. It was too, too awful. “Oh,” she said feebly.

“My aunt and uncle are farmers. It was a bad year following a bad year. They didn't have the money for a doctor to fix Lara's nose. Besides, Lara was too embarrassed to go public. You can't blame them for keeping their mouths shut. Though sometimes I find myself thinking they're just as guilty as Jeff. And maybe I am, too. Maybe I should have told you this sooner. But I have a tendency to believe that people can change for the better. Maybe, I thought, Jeff Otten's grown up some. But I don't know.”

A conspiracy of silence, Isobel thought. And all to protect—what? A family's good name? A social façade? The privacy of a violent young man?

Isobel felt as if she had been hit in the face with a brick. She didn't know what she could possibly say to Quentin. “I'm so sorry about your cousin,” she managed finally.

“Yeah. Me, too.”

“Why did you tell me this?” she asked then. Though of course she knew very well why Quentin had told her. He knew or at least suspected that Jeff was abusing her. And he might not be the only one who knew. Was she really fooling anyone by keeping quiet? Yes. She was fooling her mother. And Catherine. And Flynn. And herself.

Quentin smiled a bit. It was a kind smile. “I thought you should know what you're involved with,” he said.

She knew she should thank Quentin. He deserved her thanks. But she couldn't give it.

“I just hope I didn't speak up too late,” he added.

But the look in his serious brown eyes before he turned back to work told Isobel that he knew he had, indeed, spoken too late.