The Summer Everything Changed (3 page)

“Well, I hate Dad right now,” Isobel had declared, “and I think I have a right to!”

Louise had let that outburst go without comment. Maybe Isobel did have a right to hate her father. Anyway, you really couldn't legislate emotions. What a person felt, she felt.

“And don't tell me that you forgive Dad for cheating on you,” Isobel had added.

“I'm working on it,” she had told her daughter.

“Why bother?” Isobel asked.

“Because forgiveness is good for your peace of mind,” Louise had recited. She believed that. She did.

Well, Isobel had come a long way since those first painful months. She was nothing if not resilient; it seemed to Louise that Isobel had been born that way. She only hoped that as Isobel aged and life took its occasionally brutal toll, she would never entirely lose that sense of wonderment and enthusiasm for life that marked her as special.

Louise closed the laptop, got up from the table, and grabbed her car keys from the hook on the wall. She had dallied with her thoughts long enough; there was so much work to be done. Right after she inspected the room that had been prepared for the new guest checking in later, she would drive to the Hannaford in York and raid the magazine section for wedding-related publications. She had learned long ago, in the early days of giving dinner parties for Andrew's colleagues and their spouses, that when all domestic inspiration failed, you turned to Martha Stewart.

Isobel posted the blog after one last check for unintended grammatical errors (intentional grammatical errors were sometimes allowed) and closed the laptop. She experienced a feeling of intense satisfaction when she had completed a piece of writing. Well, only if she thought the piece had merit.

Isobel thought often about how writing was a lot like acting (not that she had ever done any acting, but she was making an educated guess), meaning that even “your voice” on paper was only one of your voices or only one way your voice could sound at any given time. So even when you were writing in your journal, supposedly with only your own self as an audience, you were speaking to yourself with another self or another version of your listening self. It was inevitable, she thought, and kind of freaky. How did you ever get down to an authentic, totally normal, and real voice? Maybe you couldn't. Maybe it didn't matter. This sort of puzzling dilemma was one of the things Isobel really enjoyed about writing. There was such weirdness and ambiguity to it all, even when you were being hyper aware of style and grammar and rules. Odd turns of phrase and disturbing, alien thoughts could intrude and change the entire tenor of what it was you were trying to say—or what it was you thought you had wanted to say. It was true, from what Isobel had found, that you only really discovered your topic or your message through the act of writing. Strange.

Isobel came back to earth at the sound of a car in the driveway. She guessed it was Gwen; she had said she would try to stop by around now. She dashed downstairs and out onto the porch to see her friend getting out of her car.

Gwen Ryan-Roberts was a year older and a grade ahead of Isobel. She was also about a head taller and a good deal wider. Her face was downright cherubic—full cheeks, sparkling brown eyes, and dimples when she smiled—but Gwen liked to set off the angelic aspect of her appearance with short hair dyed a different improbable color every week. At the moment she was sporting a lilac mass; the week before her hair had been kelly green. She was also somewhat of a master makeup artist and could drastically change her look with a few artful strokes of a brush or pencil. Today, black eyeliner and heavy false lashes had given her a sultry air. If the sultry eyes didn't exactly work with the pastel hair, that was a decision Gwen had made consciously. She described her style as “inconsistent” and “provocative.”

Gwen and her brother had been adopted by Will Ryan and Curtis Roberts, Gwen when she was six and Ricky years later, when he was only eighteen months. He was now ten. Gwen hadn't known her brother until he came to live with the Ryan-Robertses. He was, in biological fact, her half brother. Ricky's father was Puerto Rican; Gwen's dad was, as Gwen put it, a mutt, someone of indeterminate cultural roots, a bit Irish, a bit German, a bit English, a bit whatever. The mother, about whom Gwen spoke with a frown, was an on-again, off-again drug addict. That was all that needed to be said about her.

“I kind of like not knowing much about where I come from,” she had explained to Isobel early on in their friendship. “I mean, my fathers have the names of my biological parents, and some basic medical information. But honestly, I don't care about knowing more. I have a feeling I'd be disappointed if I did. Besides, I have two loving parents right there with me at home. No, I'm happy right where I am.”

Isobel waved as Gwen climbed the stairs to the porch.

“Nice day, huh?” Isobel said.

Gwen shrugged. “If you like sunny and warm, with a good breeze, sure.”

Their childhoods had been so very different. While Isobel had been living the pampered life of a suburban only child, complete with two-week summer swimming camps and brand-new clothes each season and her own spacious room with private bathroom, Gwen had been transferred among several lower middle class, hardworking foster parents, forced to be content with crowded public swimming pools and hand-me-down clothes, and the cramped family bathroom down the hall. But the girls had emerged from their respective childhoods with intelligence and curiosity and kindness and passionate interests in common—style, shopping, and the arts.

Today Gwen was wearing a kimono-inspired top in cobalt and emerald and black over black leggings. In an odd way, it complemented Isobel's simply styled but vibrantly colored maxi-dress—more cobalt, a dash of jade, and a hint of what might be called peridot or spring green. That happened pretty often, as if, Isobel thought, the girls were on the same sartorial wavelength.

They sat side by side on the top step of the porch.

“I just posted the red boot dilemma,” Isobel informed her friend.

“Life is tough for CityMouse, isn't it?”

“Ha-ha. How's Ricky?”

“He's fine. Loving day camp, especially the archery lessons.”

Isobel's eyes widened. “They let a child handle a real weapon?”

Gwen shrugged. “Blunt-tip arrows? Believe me, for what my parents are paying, I'm sure the camp takes all sorts of precautions. And, has all sorts of insurance.”

“Huh. Hey, so I have big news.” Isobel told Gwen about the celebrity wedding Blueberry Bay Inn would be hosting later in the summer.

“Yikes,” was her first response. “Your mom is a tough cookie to take on Hollywood types. They're different from you and me, you know.”

“Oh, it won't be that bad. Weddings are happy occasions.” Even, Isobel thought, her father's wedding back in December, exactly a week before Christmas, had been a happy occasion. Well, for him if not entirely for her.

Gwen gave her the look Isobel had come to recognize as the “are you kidding me?” look, with the emphasis on the first syllable of “kidding.”

“Don't you think you and your mom should at least watch that show, whatever it's called?”

“Why?” Isobel asked.

“To get some sense of the happy couple?”

“But the characters probably have nothing to do with the actors.”

“I wouldn't be so sure. From what I've heard—and seen—a lot of times an actor takes on the personality of his character and has trouble shaking it off. You should hear the stories my parents tell.”

“But they're talking about stage actors, right?” Isobel said. “Aren't theater people notoriously different from film and television people? Quirkier or more superstitious or something?”

Gwen shrugged. “Whatever. I just think it would be smart—at least that it couldn't hurt—if you watched the bride and groom at their day job. Actors come to believe their own publicity machines, you know.”

“I guess.”

“I suppose it's inevitable when you've got a camera trained on you every single moment of the day,” Gwen went on. “I mean, these people can't even run out for a quart of milk without someone snapping a shot and publishing it with some awful heading about how limp their hair looks or how their pants don't fit right. What a weird way to live. After a while you must want to be the characters you play. At least a character is something to hide behind.”

“Yeah. Like how a voice on the page, a narrative voice, is also something you can hide behind. Or something you can use to fool people, if that's your thing.”

Gwen nodded. “The unreliable narrator. So I guess there are going to be a lot of paparazzi types at this shindig. And maybe a horde of fans, too, waving autograph books.”

“Or body parts. I read somewhere that some people like their favorite celebrities to sign a body part.”

“That's beyond pathetic,” Gwen announced. “No wonder the really big celebrity types have so much disdain for the public.”

“Disdain is never really justified,” Isobel argued. “At least, I don't think it should be. People should really try to be understanding of each other.”

Gwen laughed. “Isobel, you really are kind of naïve, you know that? I'm not saying there's anything wrong with it. Frankly, I find it refreshing. It's so easy to be cynical and suspicious. I think it takes more courage to be—well, nice and kind.”

Isobel shrugged. “Well, I'm not trying to be anything in particular.”

“I know. You were just born that way. And I was born—not that way.”

“You're nice and kind!”

“Maybe. I certainly want to be nice and kind. But I'm not very positive by nature. I can put up a good show, but my default mode is caution and cynicism and suspicion.”

“Well, I like you just the way you are. If it matters.”

Gwen smiled. “It matters,” she said.

“So, that's that,” Louise said. “The wedding of the century—in the minds of the bride and groom, anyway—is going to take place on my front lawn.”

James whistled. “Wow. That is big news.”

James Chappell and his longtime partner, Jim Goldman, were sitting at the kitchen table with Louise. A half-empty coffee cup stood before each of the men. Louise had come to realize that she seemed to attract people who liked coffee as much as she did. Take Catherine, for example. And James and Jim, already each on his third cup of the day; Jim took his coffee with two sugars and cream; James took only a splash of low-fat milk.

The couple had been visiting Ogunquit and the Blueberry Bay Inn every summer for the past fifteen years. Although the first summer Louise had run the inn things were not perfect—Louise had never been a landlord, and in spite of months of research she found herself taken by surprise almost daily by unexpected domestic crises of the plumbing and mechanical variety, and by the sometimes frighteningly odd demands of guests—the men didn't complain, and they had come back this summer for another three-month stay in the large guest room on the second floor. Sure, they could rent a house for the months or even buy one, but the inn lifestyle suited them just fine. Who wanted, they said, to be responsible for the bills when the plumbing went haywire? They had enough responsibility with the, as James called it, “gargantuan pile” they owned back in New York's Hudson Valley.

“I'm not sure I've got what it takes to pull this off,” Louise admitted now, draining the last of her coffee and getting up to bring the French press pot to the table.

“Don't be so sure,” Jim said. “You know, the last owner of this place didn't know anything about marketing. You've done so much better at getting the name out there in the two years you've owned the inn than he did in the twenty-some odd years he owned it.”

“Yes, well, I can't say that I've done anything so unique or innovative. I mean, it's not like I've claimed to have discovered a dashing, sea captain ghost in the attic.”

“Hmmm. As far as I know,” James said, “Ogunquit lacks a genuinely haunted inn. If only we could hold a séance, see what we can find . . . We could advertise on all the travel websites . . .”

“Oh Lord,” Louise said, “that's all that needs to get out! I could lose business if people think the inn is really haunted.”

“Or you could reinvent your business,” James said. “You could cater to the ghoulish thrill seekers. But the truth is, Blueberry Bay Inn is not haunted. We would know. Jim is a sensitive. No need to hold a séance with him around. The specters would be flocking.”

“Are you really a sensitive?” Louise asked Jim. “Wow. Were you ever menaced by an evil spirit? Did you ever feel a spirit touching you? Is what they say about cold spots being evidence of ghosts true? What about disembodied voices?”

Jim put his hands to his temples in mock despair.

“So you're not totally opposed to ghosts, then?” James asked with a laugh.

“Oh, I'm opposed,” Louise said emphatically. “Especially when they're on my property. But I am interested.”

“Well, this wedding should put you on the map, ghosts or no ghosts.”

“Yeah, as a disaster zone.”

“Louise,” Jim said firmly, “it's time for an attitude adjustment.”

“Yeah,” James added. “Don't become a self-fulfilling prophecy. I think I will fail, therefore I will fail.”

“It's just that I've never done anything without a safety net,” Louise explained. “Either Andrew had my back or I was working as part of a team—you know, all those volunteer committees—where we all shared blame and responsibility and success. Frankly, I'm scared witless.”

“Let me suggest that you use the energy the fear generates for a better purpose.”

Louise looked at Jim as if his head had suddenly sprouted bean shoots. “Please,” she said, “give me something I can use.”

“In other words, take hold of your fear and transform it into forward action.”

“You got a how-to manual for that?” Louise laughed. “Sorry, Jim. I know you mean well and your advice is probably very good—for someone who knows how to accept it.”

“So what outrageous demands has this Flora Michaels person made so far?” James asked.

“Well, nothing terrible,” Louise admitted. “It all seems normal enough. Actually, the most unusual thing she's asked for so far are detachable seat cushions for the folding chairs, and I'm pretty sure they won't be too hard to find. You know something? You're right. Maybe I am being a drama queen. Maybe everything will be okay, after all.”

James stood from the table. “Now there's the spirit. Let's go, Jim. We're going to miss prime people-watching time.”

The men left for the beach, canvas bags over shoulders and ergonomic folding chairs under arms.

Quentin came through the kitchen door then, a bandana around his head, his light blue T-shirt stained with sweat, soil on the knees of his old jeans. “I've gotta run to the hardware store, Mrs. Bessire,” he said. “Can you think of anything you need while I'm out?”

Louise thought about it for a moment. “Honestly, Quentin, I probably do need something, but for the life of me I can't think what. Of course, the moment you drive away it will come to me.”

Quentin grinned and went off. Louise knew she was lucky to have him working for her. From what she knew of Quentin's home life—which admittedly wasn't a lot, other than the fact that his father had passed away suddenly a few years back, leaving a wife and four children—he could use what money he could make. But Louise suspected that need alone wasn't what made Quentin the dedicated, hardworking young man that he was. Quentin had character, which was saying an awful lot these days.

No sooner had Quentin gone than Catherine made an appearance at the kitchen door, loaded with her painting gear—a portable easel slung over her shoulder, a camp chair, and an enormous satchel that held her paints, brushes, two small canvasses, and other miscellaneous but vital items an on-the-go artist needed.

“I'm just stopping by to say hello.” She held up a plastic to-go mug. “You wouldn't happen to have any coffee going to waste, would you?”

“You just missed James and Jim,” Louise said, taking the cup and filling it half with coffee and half with ice, the way Catherine liked it when she worked outside in the summer heat. “They were off to the beach.”

“What is it they do for a living, exactly? Do you know?”

“Not really. James told me once that they work for themselves. Whatever they do, it enables them to escape from the rat race for three months a year. I hardly ever see either one on a cell phone or using a computer.”

“Maybe once they're in their room at night they continue to build their empire.”

Louise shrugged. “As long as they pay—and it's always in advance, by the way—they could be Lex Luthor's right-hand men for all I care.”

Isobel came into the kitchen then. “What about Lex Luthor?” she asked, opening the fridge and peering inside.

“No hello?”

“Hey, guys.”

“Hey,” Catherine said. “Well, I'm off to channel Woodbury or some other notable Maine artist. Wish me luck.”

“You don't need luck,” Louise told her. “You have talent and desire.”

“Darling friend,” Catherine replied, her hand on the doorknob, “everyone needs luck.”

“Everyone needs good luck,” Isobel amended, shutting the fridge.

“I thought that went without saying. See you later, alligator.”

Louise smiled. “See you in a while, crocodile.”

“You guys should get married already,” Isobel said, when Catherine had gone. “You get along so well. It's pretty cute.”

“That's exactly why we won't marry,” Louise replied, laughing. “Not enough arguing to keep things interesting. Well, that and the fact that neither of us is gay.”

“Yeah, but lots of women your age change teams,” Isobel pointed out. “Look at that woman who was on that old show you used to like.
Family Ties
. I heard that she's with a woman now. And there's the woman who played Miranda on
Sex and the City
. Cynthia Nixon. She's legally married to a woman and they have a baby together.”

“Well, that's nice for them.”

“Yeah. I think it's hormonal. Or maybe it's that a lot of women finally feel safe being who they really are. No more having to hide behind a person that someone else thought they should be. Whatever the reasons, it's perfectly normal.”

“Be that as it may,” Louise said, “what do you mean by ‘women my age'?”

Isobel smirked and shrugged. “You know. Old.”

Louise made a playful swipe with the dishrag she had been using to dry a mug. Isobel squealed and dashed out of the kitchen.

Louise was aware that her mood had lightened considerably since only an hour ago. She wasn't alone in this new life after all. Yeah, the business of the inn was her responsibility, but there were people who had her back. There were people who had faith in her abilities and who were sure she would succeed.

In fact, she felt pretty good about her life right then. She mentally reviewed the afternoon thus far: the lively conversation with James and Jim, Quentin's generous offer to stop at the store, Catherine's unexpected friendship, her daughter's unconditional love.

Jake and Amber? Jordan and Montana? Now all she had to do was get the bride and groom's names straight.