The Summer Everything Changed (31 page)

Isobel was writing the final lines of the latest CityMouse post.

Isobel posted the blog, complete with photos of Gwen in a variety of fantastic jeans they had found while rummaging Goodwill. (There was a pair of super high–waist jeans that made them both hysterical.) And then she yawned so widely it became a laugh. Maybe a nap was in order; so much had been happening she felt exhausted even thinking about it all!

Like the fact that Jeff had been arrested, charged, and then released into his parents' custody. Rumor had it they had sent him to stay with an aunt and uncle in Colorado. Once again, they had salvaged the wreck that was their younger son. But if Jeff did ever show his face again in Ogunquit, he would be remembered as the guy who had attacked the Bessire women in their own home. Local papers had run the story, and Channel 6 had, too. The truth was known.

More importantly, at least as far as Isobel was concerned, her father had opened the door to better communication between them. Her mother had called him with the news about what Isobel had suffered at Jeff's hands. The conversation had been volatile; her mother had admitted to Isobel that they had blamed each other pretty harshly before calming down enough to begin the grieving process together.

Two days later Isobel had received a long, handwritten letter from her father. (Boy, was his handwriting bad!) She looked again at that letter now. His tone was one of abject apology. Isobel believed he was truly sorry for not having paid enough, or the right sort of, attention to her since the divorce.

“I put too much on you,” he had written at the end, “assuming you were too smart and tough to ever be really vulnerable. But that was self-serving, a convenient excuse to let me off the hook of guilt. I disrupted your life, your mother's, our family's life. I need to take emotional responsibility for that. I'm just sorry I had to learn that lesson as a result of your being hurt. Please forgive me, Isobel.”

Well, it would take time and effort to bring their relationship back to a solid state; Isobel accepted that. And she knew she would have to get past the desire to blame her father for the vulnerable state in which Jeff had found her; that it had made her more susceptible to his emotional machinations was beyond a doubt. But that was not to say that she might not have become Jeff's prey even if her father had still been around. She had been so attracted to Jeff, so willing to be with him no matter what sacrifice that required—including some of her most cherished passions and beliefs.

Ugh. It was all so—weird. But she was really beginning to feel that she was moving beyond relying solely on her father's (or any man's??) attentions to give her a good sense of self-esteem. She absolutely could not allow herself to be treated badly ever again, or to rely so utterly on one person's good opinion.

Ding!
Someone had sent her an e-mail. Isobel smiled. It was her dad.

The big day had finally arrived. Mother Nature (probably afraid to piss off Flora Michaels) had cooperated by providing plenty of sun, a cooling breeze, and low humidity.

Louise had splurged on a new dress, a simple silk sheath in a peachy tone that worked perfectly with her classic patent-leather nude pumps. Isobel was wearing her grandmother's paisley dress for the occasion (Louise had taken up the hem). So far, Isobel told her mother, she hadn't gotten any psychic transmissions or felt any residue of hidden personality from the dress, but she was hopeful.

“Did we ever get their names straight?” Isobel asked her mother, as they stood on the porch, watching guests take seats on the front lawn. Louise had pointed out that it would be more practical and private to have the ceremony on the back lawn, but practical and private were not big considerations for Hollywood types. The more cars that slowed to watch and take pictures—and create a traffic jam that would annoy the neighbors—the better.

“No,” Louise said. “The other day I called the groom Hake.”

Isobel frowned. “I think that's a type of fish.”

“It is. Often used for fish and chips. But get this. Each one uses a stage name. Know what their real names are? Mary Smith and Robert Brown.”

“Ha!”

Louise regarded the wedding party gathered before them. The bride's dress resembled a confection made of spun sugar and marshmallow. It was easily four feet wide across the hips and the train went on for a good seven or eight yards. The headpiece was a crown about a foot high and encrusted so heavily with crystals Louise was momentarily—and painfully—blinded when the blushing bride had made her appearance. Her bouquet—a densely packed mass of red and pink roses—was heavy enough to cause severe damage to anyone stupid enough to get hit by it (Louise thought:
Take note, bridesmaids!
). Her shoes were an entirely impractical choice for a wedding taking place on a summer lawn—five-inch stilettos. With each step the bride took toward the minister she sank a wee bit and then was forced to yank the foot free. It made for a rocky and not very attractive gait.

The groom wore a standard-issue black tuxedo with a spray of red berries on his lapel. “I think those berries are poisonous,” Isobel had remarked to her mother. “Should we say something?” Louise didn't see the point. “He's not dumb enough to eat them. I think . . .”

The maids of honor—there were nine of them, each one blonder than the next—wore nine different shades of pink, from the most anemic blush to the most shocking of shocking pink. The effect was slightly nauseating. “From calamine lotion to Pepto-Bismol,” Isobel pronounced. “From chicken pox to an upset stomach. Why didn't she stick to one shade?” Each woman carried a single red rose. “I bet the thorns are still on those stems,” Isobel said darkly.

The groomsmen—nine, each one with very dark, carefully coiffed hair—wore black tuxedos similar to the groom's, but with a cummerbund to match the dress of his partner. Ditto the nausea.

The flower girl, who could have been no more than two years old, was grotesquely made up like a toddler beauty pageant contestant. The skirt of the dress she had been stuffed into—pink, of course—stood out stiffly, like a ballerina's tutu, and was as scratchy as a Brillo Pad. Louise knew this, much to her dismay, because at one point that morning the bride, in a fit of annoyance, had thrust the squirming child, already decked out in her finery, at Louise, who had no choice but to accept her. “Keep it away from me,” the bride had ordered. “I think she needs her diaper changed.”

Poor little thing, Louise thought now. She was far too young for the responsibility of being a flower girl, all alone, pacing slowly toward the precariously erected bridal canopy under which the minister awaited. She had thrown a fit after one step and had to be removed from the scene by her supremely annoyed parents, who no doubt had been hoping for some free publicity for their little darling.

But all was not amiss. The miniature carousel had been nixed (thanks to Flynn), as had the flock of pink doves (ditto; he had had a friend on the town council write a letter claiming that such things were unlawful in the town of Ogunquit) —in favor of the black marzipan pigs (Isobel, thank God, was over her strange detestation of black, and had managed to snag a few pigs for herself) and a relatively realistic ice sculpture of a swan. (That it was already melting was the bride's headache, not Louise's.)

Isobel went off to find Gwen. A moment later, James and Jim, on their way to a friend's house, stopped on the porch to greet Louise.

“Congratulations, Louise,” James said. “You pulled this off magnificently.”

“Well, I don't know about that,” she demurred. “But at least that ridiculous bridal canopy hasn't fallen on anyone and nobody's thrown a punch. Yet.”

Jim laughed. “We wish we could stay to gape, but we have a previous engagement. See you when all is said and done.”

The men went off and Catherine joined her now. There was no way in hell, Catherine had informed Louise, that she would miss this event. If Flora Michaels dared to point out that she hadn't been invited, she would simply ignore her.

“They deserve each other,” Louise said, watching the bride and groom as they stood facing each other in front of the minister. “I don't know who is more self-absorbed, Tack or Manila. Watching them these past two days has been quite the edifying experience.”

“How long do you give the marriage?” Catherine asked.

“A few months, a year maybe?”

“Sounds about right. What a waste of time, effort, and money. And emotion, assuming the bride and groom actually have any feelings for each other, besides disdain.”

“Each is just a vehicle for the other's ride to ephemeral fame,” Louise said philosophically. “You know, in the end I might be the only one really profiting from this event.”

It was possible. Her name and the name of the inn would be printed in all of the magazines and tabloids that would carry the story of Crack and Burgundy's wedding, and business might very well boom because of it. Already a journalist from a slick home design magazine had come to interview Louise and photograph the inn in all of its late summer glory. Another publication had booked a visit for mid-October, in order to catch the Blueberry Bay Inn at the height of Southern Maine's leaf-peeping season. And yet another periodical was due to take photographs around the Christmas holidays, in spite of the fact that the inn wasn't open for business after November first. “You might want to rethink that,” the editor had advised Louise. “People enjoy sneaking away for a cozy winter weekend. You know, roaring fires, sparkling snow on branches, all that crap.”

Catherine nudged Louise with her elbow. “Flora Michaels looks pretty bad.”

Flora Michaels, who was standing by a stand of black-eyed Susans at the foot of the porch, was wearing a caftan-like garment that engulfed her skeletal body in a disturbing mélange of orange polka dots, yellow stripes, and gold squiggly lines. The Incubus was also present. Louise thought Flora Michaels admirably subdued once the actual event had gotten under way. Maybe deep, deep down beneath those prominent bones a heart beat after all . . .

“What's new about that?” Louise asked. “She can hardly support that . . . that thing she's wearing.”

“No, I mean, she looks sick. The makeup is pouring off her face in tan streams. Fascinating but—Oh crap, she's on the ground.”

Louise and Catherine scurried down to where the wedding planner lay in a heap of garish fabric. Flynn appeared from nowhere and scooped her up (muttering that she weighed no more than a medium-sized Maine coon cat). He then carried her inside to the parlor, where he unceremoniously dumped her on the couch and left to scout out a cold beer.

When Flora Michaels revived after a few minutes of Catherine's fanning her face with a magazine, Louise helped her to a sitting position. Catherine then poured water down her throat and gave her a lecture on proper hydration and nutrition. Neither Louise nor Catherine assumed the lecture would do any good, but it was out there.

“I'd like to use the business end of a hose on her face,” Catherine mused quietly as Flora Michaels lay back again to continue her recovery. “See what's under all that goop.”

Calvin Streep, his own plump face shining with sweat above his impeccable seersucker suit and white shirt, chose that moment to peek into the room. His face contorted in disdain when he observed his employer stretched out on the couch.

“She'll be fine,” Catherine said with an insincere smile. “In case you were worried.”

“She's not my concern anymore,” Calvin Street replied, with something approaching glee. “I've quit. I've taken a position as executive personal assistant to the head of Olympian Studios. No more pathetic weddings for two-bit actors in poky little towns.”

“How nice for you!” Catherine crowed.

“Break a leg,” Louise added. When Calvin Streep had slithered off, she added, “No, really. I mean, fall down and break a leg.”

Isobel and Gwen appeared in the parlor then.

“Is she okay?” Isobel asked, peering down into Flora Michaels's makeup-streaked face.

Catherine shrugged. “She'll live. And we'll never have to see her again after today.”

Louise nodded vigorously. “I'm never saying yes to this dragon lady ever again.”

“This is the big, bad wedding planner?” Gwen sighed. “Wow. That's a lot of trouble in a pretty small package.”

A burst of applause, some obnoxious whistling, and a few catcalls from outside reminded the women of the sacred ceremony being performed on the front lawn.

“I guess it's a done deal,” Isobel commented.

Catherine turned to Louise. “You'll consider my business proposition, I hope.”

“What proposition?” Isobel and Gwen asked at the same time.

“Catherine has suggested she become a partner in the Blueberry Bay Inn.”

“It will take some of the pressure off your mother,” Catherine explained. “Let her concentrate on the people part of the business. And frankly, I'm getting bored with spending my days painting. Monet, I'll never be.”

Louise laughed. “So, I guess we're in the hospitality business to stay. You okay with that?” she asked Isobel.

“Sure. I think we all make quite a team.”

“Hey,” Gwen said, “how can I get in on this enterprise?”

“You can take pictures of the inn for the website,” Louise said. “The ones there now aren't as good as they could be. I didn't know any really good photographers when we first moved here. I'll pay you, of course.”

Gwen beamed. “My first professional gig! Thanks, Mrs. Bessire.”

“I think this calls for champagne,” Isobel proclaimed.

Louise smiled. “A glass for each of us. Team Blueberry Bay deserves it.”