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Authors: Holly Chamberlin

BOOK: The Summer Everything Changed
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Chapter 6
CITYMOUSE
Greetings and Salutations!
Today, I would like to pay tribute to The Jimmies. (See Gwen's portrait below. The Jimmies are sitting in the charming gazebo behind the inn, enjoying an early evening cocktail, or what they call a “liquid sociable.” Whatever it is, isn't it a gorgeous shade of pink? And don't you just love their full and beautifully kept beards??) Together and separately they have reinforced for me the commandment or rule or truism that style is all about being who you are, and if who you are is genuine, then you have great and ever-lasting style.
But do you know how rare it is for people—okay, I'll say it, especially girls! Especially teenaged girls! Don't hate me!—to be comfortable in their own skin and to really know who they are and say “nope” to stuff that everyone else is wearing but that really isn't true to themselves? (Wow. Did I get all twisted in
theirs
and
themselves
or what? Grammar can be brutal.) It's rare. Really rare and sometimes it feels like it's getting rarer, that everyone (exaggeration there) is copying everyone else (is that even possible?????) and that real, true, individual style is just not something you come across a lot.
Like when LouLou and I take a road trip to Portland and walk down Congress Street and stroll down to Exchange Street and watch the boarders and art students and dropouts and guys and gals in their endless twenties, it's like wading through a sea of sameness. How did it come to pass that hipness and hipsterism is now uniform? How did it come to pass that looking “cool” could be so deadly boring and repetitive? Sometimes I think that if I see one more porkpie hat I'll start to scream and never ever stop! Just because something is declared “all the rage”—by some fashion industry marketing types!—doesn't mean you have to buy it and wear it! Let's face it, kiddos—not every head looks good under a porkpie hat! Not every pair of legs looks fantastic in jeggings or coated jeans or hot pink tights!
And then just when I think I'm going to die (not literally) of boredom or frustration (I wonder if you can be both bored and frustrated by something at the same time; I think so!), one amazing boy or one wonderfull girl pops right out at you and everything about him or her says, “Hey. I'm just me. And me is fantastic,” and hope springs again in my breast, and, but I'm guessing here, in LouLou's breast, too.
So, here's a photo of this guy we saw outside of Space Gallery on Congress Street. We snapped it with his permission of course—to do otherwise would be rude. And it all works, from the very seventies mustache (which somehow avoids looking cheesy) to the dress shirt buttoned right to the starched collar, from the flared, cuffed dress flannels to the pink leather brogues on his feet.
Pink leather brogues!
Remember:
Chacun a son gout!
CityMouse is signing off.
Isobel closed her laptop.
Well,
she thought,
I really spoke my mind this time!
She smiled as she remembered one of her first conversations with The Jimmies. The three of them were in the kitchen; the men were the only guests allowed into that inner Bessire sanctum.
“So, you're both named Jim,” she had said.
“Yup,” blond Jim in the plaid shirt said. “Officially, James.”
“So, when someone calls out, ‘Hey, Jim,' do you both, like, turn?”
“Sometimes,” brunette Jim in the striped shirt said.
“Well, doesn't it kind of drive you nuts?”
“It used to,” both said at once. “But not anymore.”
“What can be annoying,” blond Jim in the plaid shirt added, “is when people decide to differentiate us by calling us Jim One and Jim Two.”
“Or Blond Jim and Brunette Jim,” brunette Jim in the striped shirt said.
“Or Big Jim and Little Jim. Please!”
“Wait a minute,” Isobel had said, literally snapping her fingers. “Why doesn't one of you go by your middle name?”
Both men had laughed. “Because,” blond Jim in the plaid shirt explained, “we have the same middle name, too. Martin.”
“What are the odds!”
“In fact, I now go by James,” said brunette Jim in the striped shirt. “It helps.”
“Isobel!”
That was a voice from the present; it was her mother, calling from the first floor.
“I'm coming!” Isobel shouted, and proceeded to tear down the stairs.
Chapter 7
The parking lot was full, jam-packed with cars from as far north as Canada and as far south as Connecticut. Finally, after three turns around the perimeter of the lot, Louise found a space, narrowly beating out another driver who was too busy poking at her phone with her thumb to realize not only that she was passing an open spot but that Louise was easing her own car into it.
Louise chuckled to herself.
You snooze,
she thought,
and you lose. Or, you text and you—You what?
Someone with more imagination than she had would have to come up with a new word that rhymed with text (the verb) so she could complete that sentence. You texted—and you wound up vexed? Nope. That wouldn't do.
Louise got out of the car and immediately began to sweat. It was one of those sultry days southern Maine could be plagued with, the air heavy with humidity and absolutely motionless. Louise fanned her face with her hand—a ridiculously futile gesture—and headed toward the pedestrian walkway.
First stop, the party store for anything swan-related she could find. Flora Michaels had asked (demanded) she supply representations of the bride's mother's favorite animal. Catherine had argued that Louise should have refused this request (demand) as outside the parameters of her contract, but Louise had been feeling generous for some unidentifiable reason.
And after that chore was accomplished, she would pay a visit to the Banana Republic outlet. Not that she needed any new clothes, but you never knew what incredible find you might stumble across on an outlet's sale rack. Isobel had not gotten her talent for bargain hunting from nowhere.
Louise's attention was suddenly caught by the sight of a couple standing dead center on the pedestrian walkway, forcing shoppers to make their way around them. They were a rough, unkempt-looking pair. The woman was badly overweight. The man wore glasses that had been repaired with silver duct tape, and a baseball cap turned backward. Both had on baggy jeans and T-shirts emblazoned with the brand names and logos of popular alcoholic beverages. The woman clutched a cloth tote bag that had seen better days.
Louise's instinct, finely tuned, told her that the man was an abuser.
It had been a long time since she had experienced a similar feeling, a gut-based knowledge of trouble. It had been back in Massachusetts, when she had been working as a volunteer at a safe house for battered women and leading workshops for young girls and—
The angry honking of a car horn brought home to Louise the fact that she had stopped in the middle of a lane of traffic. She hurried to the pedestrian walkway. The couple was still there; they seemed to be deep in conversation. Correction, Louise noted. The man was talking and gesturing wildly. The woman's mouth never opened; occasionally, she nodded. Louise continued to watch them without seeming to.
Her experience as an abused woman had made her even more concerned for the happiness of other women than she might have been if she had not gone through such an ordeal. At least, that was how she saw it. Making lemonade out of the lemons tossed into her lap? Maybe. Her experience had made her more attuned to the needs and well-being of others. That was probably not uncommon. Not everyone who suffered transformed into a selfish, bitter being.
The man was talking now on a cell phone. The woman was staring at the sidewalk. Louise continued to watch them.
Only months after her miscarriage—as soon as she could get around without the aid of crutches—Louise had begun to volunteer at a safe house for battered women. She had felt it was a moral duty. Which was not to say that it was an easy thing to do. There were days, especially in the beginning, when the weight of sadness emanating from the residents felt impossible to bear and she longed to run (or in her case, hobble) out through the back door and never return. But she stayed and learned and did what she could to help and was glad for it. She was grateful for her own survival and realized time and again just how lucky she had been in the end.
Her fearful mother had questioned her choice of work; she had wondered if it would be healthier for Louise to “put it all behind her,” to try to forget what had happened to her. Nancy Jones had thought it best that her daughter avoid associating with people who could only serve to remind her of what horrors she had been through with Ted.
But avoidance wasn't an option for Louise, not back then and not now, here in this parking lot. She felt the frustration mounting. She knew in her gut that the woman in the Jack Daniels T-shirt needed help—she knew it!—but there was little if anything Louise could do for her. If she dared approach the woman—if somehow the man turned away long enough to allow an approach—it was entirely possible, even probable, that the woman would lash out at Louise, even roundly defend her companion.
Some people sought abusive relationships for serious and complicated reasons. Riding to the rescue, even armed with proof of wrongdoing, was not to be taken lightly. You couldn't assume that every victim was willing to be saved. So many of them were simply too afraid to let go of the hell they knew for a hell that might prove to be worse. And some victims simply couldn't be saved. That was a grim fact.
Louise watched now as the woman searched in her dirty tote bag; the man, now off his cell phone, made gestures of impatience with his hand. The woman handed the man a lighter and he lit a cigarette. Did she imagine it or did he blow smoke directly into her face?
The couple turned away from Louise, and a moment or two later, his cigarette abandoned, they disappeared into the Old Navy outlet. Louise fought the urge to follow them. Better sense prevailed. Because, of course, there was the possibility—however slim—that Louise was wrong about the couple. Even the most perceptive of people occasionally misread a situation. And abusers were notoriously skilled at misleading those around them. A lot of times, their victims learned that skill, too. It was all about survival and protection. Protection of yourself and of those you loved.
Louise took a deep breath, not easy to do on a hot and humid day. She had struggled not to become an alarmist; she had resisted the impulse to see crises everywhere. That would be to morph into another version of her mother, and how miserable and small life would be then. Besides, she was wary of crusaders; some of the crusader types she had met over the years seemed to want people to be victims of injustice in order to validate their own personal mission. Not all, of course, but some.
Louise reminded herself of why she had come to Kittery in the first place, not to seek out (to imagine?) victims of domestic violence, but to purchase items for the wedding. As quickly as she could, Louise completed her task; swan-themed items proved easy to find. When she came out of the store she scanned the parking lot for any sign of the couple she had been surreptitiously watching. They were gone and it was likely she would never see them again. She could only hope that the woman—if indeed she was being abused—found the strength to turn to a friend, a family member, or a crisis center before it was too late.
Before what she lost to her abuser—her self-esteem, a child's life, even her own life—was beyond retrieval.
Chapter 8
CITYMOUSE
Good day, Everyone!
No self-respecting Mainer, even one as newborn as I am, can avoid paying tribute to L.L. Bean. And as a Maine blogger, I can't go a moment longer without extolling the Beauty of the Bean—the legendary company whose designers are masters of color as well as of utility. The summer sweaters, the winter boots, the canvas totes! And though in general my personal sartorial style tends to be more oddball than what La Bean offers, even I have found classic pieces of such durability and, well, class, they have found their way into my wardrobe. Take, for example, the lemon-yellow rolled-neck cotton sweater LouLou bought for me the first time we made an excursion to Freeport, home of outlets galore. The color makes me happy, happy, and so I feel pretty jaunty when I'm wearing it.
“Isobel!” It was her mother, calling from the front hall. “Are you ready?”
“Coming!”
LouLou calls! I'm off for now, so best wishes to all and the next time an L.L. Bean catalog shows up in your mail, buy something from it. You won't regret it, I promise, and CityMouse does not break her promises.
Isobel closed the laptop. She wouldn't actually post the blog until later, when she had had time to add Gwen's photos—one of Isobel in the yellow sweater and another of Gwen wearing her own favorite Bean piece, a men's hunting jacket. In spite of the fact that Gwen was grossed out by the notion of hunting (though she did eat venison and even moose), the jacket really worked for her. Maybe it was the juxtaposition created by the pink cashmere scarf she usually wore with it . . .
Isobel dashed downstairs and out onto the front drive.
“What were you up to?” her mother asked as Isobel slid into the passenger seat.
“Writing.”
“Of course. Should have known.”
The day was perfectly clear. If there was a cloud in the sky, Isobel couldn't see it. As the Bessire women drove into downtown Ogunquit, Isobel felt her spirits soar for no specific reason—well, other than the fact that it was a gorgeous day and she was psyched about the summer ahead. There would be the week with her father in Newport and adventures with Gwen and now, the celebrity wedding in late August. At the very least the wedding would be a hoot.
“I'll be about a half an hour at the accountant's office,” her mother said as she drew the car to a stop. “I'm sure you can occupy yourself while I'm gone.”
“No problem. And then we'll head down to Wells to check out that new secondhand clothing store, right?”
“How could I have forgotten? You've been reminding me every hour for the past day.”
Louise waved and pulled off into the slow-moving yet somehow frantic summer traffic of downtown Ogunquit. Isobel hurried to one of her favorite little shops; it sold lots of prettily packaged lotions and handmade soaps. She peeked inside and saw that it was mobbed with tourists, so she decided to window-shop until the crowd departed.
A display of bejeweled hair clips held her attention for a good three minutes; they were both hideous and gorgeous at the same time.
Isobel finally turned away—and bumped smack into a chest. It was attached to a guy. He was tall, a bit over six feet, Isobel guessed. His eyes were blue (she knew that because his sunglasses were sitting atop his head), surrounded by lashes and set off by eyebrows that were very dark in contrast to his hair. That was blond and wavy and sun-streaked; she didn't think it was the result of a box of dye. She didn't like dyed hair on a guy. (Was that sexist? she wondered.)
He was wearing a pair of low-riding (but not too low, ugh) dark jeans and a paler blue linen shirt, partially tucked in and open at the neck. On his feet were European-influenced loafers. On the middle finger of his right hand he wore a thick silver band; there were tiny silver hoops in his ears.
“Oh, I'm so sorry!” she cried.
“My fault,” he said, though Isobel knew that it hadn't been. “I'm Jeff.”
“I'm Isobel.”
“So . . .”
“So . . .”
They laughed.
“Are you from around here?” Isobel asked, kind of amazed at her boldness. She didn't think she had ever talked to such an incredibly good-looking—and older—guy before. It was a bit unnerving!
“Yeah,” he said, “born and bred. But I go to school in Vermont, Worthington College. You might not have heard of it. It's a small and private school, kind of an experimental learning environment. Anyway, I'm home for the summer, working for my father.”
“That's nice,” Isobel said. “I mean, that you work for your family. Your father, I mean. What do you do?”
“I'm helping him with some personal business. You must have heard of my father, Jack Otten.”
Isobel shook her head. “No, sorry,” she said. “I don't think so.”
“Really?” Jeff's eyebrows went up with surprise. “Well, the Ottens have kind of been established here for generations. And, no doubt, we'll be here for generations to come. You might have heard about the new youth center in Yorktide? My father financed the construction. Protecting the future of our young people is something he believes in strongly.”
“Wow,” Isobel said. She was genuinely impressed. And that explained Jeff's clothes, she thought. She could tell they weren't from a bargain basement. And if they were from a bargain basement, she wanted to know which one!
“I've never seen you around,” Jeff was saying. “Are you here on vacation?” He smiled disarmingly. “That might explain why you don't know about my family.”
“Oh no,” Isobel said. “I live here. My mom owns the Blueberry Bay Inn.”
“Yeah, okay. I heard the place had new owners.”
“Well,” she corrected, “we're not exactly new. We've been here for almost two years now.”
Jeff laughed. “According to us native Mainers, you're still ‘from away' and will be when you've been here for twenty years.”
Isobel laughed, too. “Yeah. I've heard that. Well, we like it here so that's all that matters.”
Jeff gestured off right, toward the beach. “What's not to like?”
“Well, winters can be a bit harsh . . .”
“That's when a lot of us head down to Florida. When we're not in school, that is. Or, like my dad, troubleshooting a corporate crisis in Dubai.”
“Dubai?” Isobel repeated, pretty much stunned. She had never met anybody who knew somebody who had been to Dubai. “Really?”
Jeff shrugged. “It's just a city like any other city.”
Isobel didn't know about that, but before she could comment Jeff was offering to drive her wherever it was she was going. “That's my car right there,” he said. “The Jaguar.”
“Oh, that's okay,” she said, glancing toward the car and back again. Wow. The Ottens must have a serious amount of money if they could afford a Jaguar—and a convertible one!—for their son. Sheesh. “I'm waiting for my mom. But thanks.”
In truth, though the idea of getting into that cool car with a gorgeous guy sounded pretty awesome, it also sounded a bit scary. He was, after all, a stranger. A friendly, incredibly good-looking stranger, but still. Isobel was not dumb.
“No worries,” he said. Jeff raised his hand in a gesture of farewell. “Maybe I'll see you around town.”
Isobel watched him get into his car, put his sunglasses back in place, and pull out. He didn't wave or look back at her. Well, she thought, why should he?
Her mom pulled up to the curb a moment later.
Isobel got into the car, aware of the smile on her face.
“You look like the cat who ate the canary,” Louise commented.
“I have yellow feathers sticking out of my mouth?”
“Ha. And gross. What happened?”
Isobel shrugged. “Nothing.”
“You're grinning for no reason?”
“Do I need a reason for grinning? Other than it's a beautiful day, the birds are singing, and I'm happy?”
Louise laughed. “Guess not.”
Wow, Isobel thought, as her mother pointed the car in the direction of Wells. That was completely atypical behavior on her part. She always told her mother everything. What had made her—well, lie? Because choosing not to tell her mother something—especially something that couldn't possibly worry her—was the same thing as lying, wasn't it?
Well, maybe not really the same.
As they drove south toward Wells, Isobel decided that even though she doubted she would ever see Jeff Otten again, or at least not for a very long time, she wasn't going to tell anyone about their meeting, not even Gwen. It felt like her little secret—and she realized with a little rush in her tummy that she felt both guilty and excited about keeping it to herself.
Weird.
“Penny for your thoughts?” her mother asked as they passed one of the elaborate miniature golf courses along Route 1.
“Huh?”
“You're unusually quiet.”
Isobel smiled her best angelic-daughter smile. “I thought you'd be grateful for the respite.”

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