The Summer Everything Changed (22 page)

Her relationship with Jeff was exactly like all romantic relationships, Isobel decided firmly. Periods of constant negotiation and turmoil were followed by periods of peace and equality, and then by periods of more wrangling and argument until the next plateau was reached. For a while. That was the nature of a plateau. It didn't go on forever. Eventually, it came to an end and you fell off.

And if that was true—if that was how long-term relationships worked—then she had better get used to things being complicated. It was time to put aside childish ways. So she didn't like everything about Jeff. There were things about her that Jeff didn't like, either. Her clothes, for one. Her hair color, for another. Her best friend, for yet another.

Isobel jumped to her feet. It was a waste of time to sit around babbling to oneself. Better to be productive. And she had promised her mom she would inventory the supply of guest towels . . .

Just as she reached the front door, Ivan the Terrible, somewhere on the prowl, let out a viciously loud scream. Isobel flinched and hurried inside.

Louise and Isobel were sitting at the kitchen table that evening, watching television. There would be no hanging out in the parlor until after the fall season had come and gone and Louise and Isobel could expand into the otherwise public spaces of the inn.

Louise dragged her eyes back to the screen; they had wandered to the far more interesting microwave. She hadn't been able to focus on what was happening; it seemed to be a show about a couple. The couple had some friends. They all lived in a city she didn't recognize. And for some reason she couldn't fathom, one of the characters was a cross-dressing minister, which was supposed to be funny.

“But, darling,” the lead female character (played by their bride) was saying now, “you know I always eat spaghetti with my hands.”

There followed a bit of canned laughter. And then the lead male character (played by their groom), delivered the next line in what was obviously his trademark manner—hands on hips, head to one side, his voice a broad parody of exasperation.

“Tell me you didn't just say that!”

There followed more of the canned laughter, and Louise reached for the remote to mute the sound for the duration of the commercials.

“This is,” she said, “quite possibly, the worst television show I have ever seen. Ever. This show has jumped the shark at its conception. How many seasons has this garbage been on? What is the world coming to? And more in that vein.”

“If I had seen this before Flora Michaels first contacted us,” Isobel said in reply, “I would have told you to say ‘no' very loudly and very emphatically.”

“Wasn't this Gwen's idea, that we watch this?”

“Yeah.”

“She should be watching it, too, as punishment. Did you catch how Dax—”

“Who?” Isobel asked.

“The star. The groom. Dax. Or is it Jax?”

“I think it's Mack. Whatever his name is, he couldn't act his way out of a paper bag.”

“Kylie isn't much better,” Louise noted. “She brings a whole new meaning to the term
wooden
.”

“I think you mean Kyra.”

“No, I know it's not Kyra. Mackenzie?”

“I don't think I can stand to watch the final scene, can you?”

Louise hit the POWER button on the remote. “Absolutely not. Want anything to drink? How about some popcorn?”

“Mom, you can't drink popcorn.”

“Ha-ha. Well?”

Isobel shrugged. “Sure. Do we have any garlic salt for it?”

Louise set about putting a bag of popcorn in the microwave and locating the plastic container of garlic salt (she kept it in the house for Isobel; personally, she hated it). Then, she poured herself a glass of wine, a delicious sauvignon blanc from the Loire Valley Catherine had introduced her to, and took a pitcher of Bella's lemonade out of the fridge for Isobel.

They were settled together again at the table when Isobel said, “Tell me about how you and Dad met?”

“Haven't I told you that story a million times?”

“A million and one. But I want to hear it again.”

Louise shrugged. “All right, here goes. But I'm giving you the condensed version. I was out of college about a year. I had a job at one of the big bookstore chains; I'd just made manager. One day, this handsome guy who looked a few years older than me came in. Even so, I only noticed him because I thought it odd the way he was wandering up and down the aisles as if he had no idea what sort of book he wanted to buy.”

“And he didn't,” Isobel asked, “did he?”

“Nope. I was beginning to wonder if he was a very inexpert thief when he suddenly started striding with great purpose toward the information desk where I was checking some files online. When he was close enough to hear me, I asked, ‘May I help you?' ”

“And he . . .”

“His face turned the color of a plum and he said, ‘Yes, please. Will you go out with me?' ”

“And you said . . .”

“And I said, ‘How will that help you?' I wasn't trying to be mean. I guess I was just surprised.”

“And he said . . .”

Louise laughed. “He said, ‘I have no idea. But I think you're very pretty and I would like to get to know you. Please.' It was the final ‘please' that did it.”

“So, you took pity on him and said yes.”

“I guess so. And the rest, as they say, is history.”

Isobel looked thoughtful. “Did you guys fight a lot in the early days?” she asked.

“I don't know about a lot,” Louise said. “The early days are usually the blissful ones for a new couple. But arguing is an integral part of a marriage. You can't live with a person day after day after day and share meals and a bed and a bathroom and not get on each other's nerves now and then. And then there are the outside challenges that can cause fights, like a job loss or a troublesome family member or even needing a new car.”

“Is that why you and Dad always had such wildly different cars?”

Louise smiled. “He wanted form, I wanted function.”

“Sometimes Jeff and I disagree,” Isobel said.

“Well, that's normal. As long as when you do argue, each of you listens to what the other has to say. So, what sort of things do you disagree about?”

Isobel shrugged. “I don't know. Just things. Nothing important.”

“Misunderstandings?”

“Yeah. Mostly.”

“You should be careful of too many misunderstandings. That points to bad communication. But who am I to talk? My marriage failed.”

Isobel reached for her mother's hand. “The divorce wasn't your fault, Mom. You know that.”

“Do I? Well, okay, it wasn't entirely my fault, but it takes two to tango—yeah, a cliché—and maybe there was something I was doing or not doing that contributed to your father's looking elsewhere for a companion.”

“I guess,” Isobel said, though she sounded doubtful. “Though I hate to think of you staying up nights blaming yourself. After all, you weren't the one who cheated and lied.”

“Don't worry,” Louise assured her. “I don't waste any time blaming myself. I just recognize that maybe I was a part of the dynamic of failure. Probably.”

“Sometimes I feel so mature,” Isobel said suddenly. “And other times, I feel like a babe in the woods. I feel like I know absolutely nothing about stuff I should know all about.”

“That's pretty common at your age, you know. Being a teenager is uncomfortable and from what I remember, supremely frustrating.”

Isobel smiled a bit. “Well, misery loves company, I guess.”

“Are you really miserable?” Louise asked, concern furrowing her brow.

“No, no, I didn't mean it like that. I just meant to say that I'm glad I'm not a freak for feeling like two different people smushed into one head.”

“You, my dear, are not a freak. Anything but!”

Isobel smiled. “Even after what happened with you and Dad, are you happy now when you remember those old days?”

Louise nodded. This was something she had thought about often. “It's funny,” she said, “but yes. Well, maybe
happy
isn't the word; I don't feel happy now about stuff that happened so many years ago. But I can remember feeling genuinely happy back then and that's valid. Meaning, even though things didn't last happily ever after with me and your father, the good times were real and I believe them.”

“I'm glad. I mean, it would be horrible if all those good times turned out to mean nothing in the end just because they didn't last forever.”

“Yes, it would be horrible,” Louise agreed. “And while we're on the subject of relationships, have you and Jeff had sex yet?”

Isobel blushed. “No,” she said. “Not yet. I'm taking my time. Jeff's cool about it.”

“Good. But you have the birth control pills your doctor prescribed, right? And a condom with you at all times. And—”

“Mom, really, I'm all set. Honestly. I'm not about to do something stupid, trust me.”

“I do trust you. It's just that when it comes to sex—”

“Mom!”

“Let me say it. When it comes to sex, even the smartest person can become an idiot in the blink of an eye.”

Louise reached across the table and took her daughter's hand. In response, Isobel scooted her chair closer to her mother and gave her a long, big hug.

Louise was deeply pleased; it had been some time since Isobel had hugged her so fiercely. Isobel was indeed in some ways still a babe in the woods, naïve and almost dangerously enthusiastic at times. Louise was flooded by memories, both emotional and physical, both joyful and sad, of the days when Isobel was a baby. How precious those days were, never to return . . .

Isobel released her mother. “Thanks,” she said. “You're a good mom.”

“You know, we could probably watch another episode of the show online if you want.”

Isobel shrieked. “Mom! Are you trying to punish me?”

“No, no, sorry. Bad joke. Why don't we see if we can find a good PBS mystery?”

“Oh, I'd love to see an episode of Hercule Poirot! The clothes! The interior design!”

Louise laughed and picked up the remote. “Don't get your hopes up.” She turned on the set and rapidly pressed the button for their local PBS station. “Oh. My. God,” she said, staring over at her daughter. “Did you look at the listings earlier? There's an episode of Poirot just about to begin.”

Isobel grinned. “Of course not,” she said. “All I did was get my hopes up.”

Isobel posted, closed down her laptop, and sighed deeply. It was another anemic entry. Not that the topic was boring—the ring was really beautiful and the store was fantastic—but her writing had amounted to a sort of lame advertisement and nothing more.

Life just seemed a little dull lately, like the edges had been blunted or the center of things blurred. Her interest in the things she loved continued to flag, and her focus was bad and getting worse. New York Fashion Week was coming up in early September and usually, by now she was in a frenzy of anticipation, as eager to see what was being worn by the people in the audience as what the designers had come up with. But this year, she found that she didn't really care about getting a glimpse of that faraway street style and the fantastical runways.

She didn't think she was actually, really, clinically depressed (she had been able to laugh at that ridiculous TV show), and she certainly didn't have anything remotely resembling suicidal thoughts and thank God or whoever for that!

And she had enjoyed the talk with her mom; her mom had confirmed that yeah, relationships were difficult. Still, Isobel hadn't been able to bring herself to tell her mother all of the things that had been bothering her about Jeff . . . Rather, about her inability to understand him properly. It was no good to blame other people for what amounted to your own failure.

Isobel glanced critically around her room. Jeff would be there soon and she still couldn't find her phone. She knew she had had it the day before. She was sure of it. She had rummaged through her room at least three times, and turned out every bag she had carried in the past two days, and even those she hadn't worn in weeks. But the phone had not emerged. She made one more visual sweep of the room. Nothing.

“I'm getting absentminded in my old age,” she muttered to herself. “That, or I'd better learn how to get organized.”

Isobel heard a car crunching on the gravel of the driveway and hurried downstairs. Jeff was always on time and he didn't like to be kept waiting. Lots of people were like that. She ran down the porch steps and slid into the passenger seat of his car.

And there was her phone, on the floor.

“What's my phone doing here?” she asked, reaching down for it. “I've been looking all over for it.”

Jeff pulled out of the driveway. “You must have dropped it the last time you were in the car.”

Isobel shook her head. “No. I distinctly remember having it in the kitchen yesterday . . .”

Jeff laughed. “Then what's it doing here? Izzy, you know how absentminded you are. Anyway, what's the big deal? You found it, right?”

“I guess,” Isobel agreed. But inside, she wasn't so sure. Could Jeff have taken her phone to check up on who was calling her, or on whom she was calling? No. That was absurd.

“What's the deal with that Raisa chick?” he asked as they drove along.

Isobel startled. “How do you know about Raisa? I never mentioned her to you.”

“Yeah, you did. Remember?”

She did not remember. What she did remember was that she had missed a call from Raisa Morris, an old friend from Massachusetts, and had planned on getting back to her but for some reason she had not.

Well, maybe she had mentioned Raisa to Jeff once. It wasn't impossible. Still . . . Isobel was loath to believe that Jeff could have taken her phone to check up on her correspondence. Wouldn't that be stealing? Didn't he trust her? And why hadn't he noticed the phone on the floor of his car, and called her mother about it so that Isobel wouldn't be worried she had lost it for good? And he was always sending her text messages and expecting immediate answers. If he had been trying to reach her last night and getting no response, wouldn't he have come by the inn to see if she was okay? Or, again, called her mother?

Something wasn't right, or maybe it was that she couldn't quite grasp what was going on. It was probably another symptom of the sort-of depression she was experiencing; everything appeared all blurry and confused. Jeff wasn't the responsible one here. She was. She was the guilty party.

“So, what's up with her?”

“Who?” Isobel asked.

“Duh. Raisa?”

“Oh. Nothing. She called me the other day and I meant to get back to her but I forgot.”

“Maybe you should wear a string around your finger so you won't forget to do the stuff you mean to do.” Jeff laughed. “But knowing you, you'd forget why the string was there in the first place.”

Isobel attempted a smile. There wasn't much point in arguing with him. He always seemed to have the final word. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“For a drive.”

“I know, but where?”

“You'll see.”

A half second of annoyance was replaced by dull acceptance. Jeff could be as stubbornly silent as he could be loud and verbal. It was just the way he was.

“You know, Izzy,” Jeff said suddenly. “I was thinking about what happened to your family. I mean, I know the man is your father and everything, and it's in the Bible that everyone should respect his parents, but that's only if the parents deserve respect. How can you respect a guy who cheats on his wife—and with his buddy's wife? That's a double betrayal. He screwed his wife and his friend.”

Isobel felt a bit sick. “I never told you that part,” she said. “About Vicky being the wife of my father's colleague.”

“Sure you did. How else would I know?”

“But I'm sure I didn't—”

“Izzy, please. Are you calling me a liar?”

“No, of course not.”

“Anyway, I have a zero-tolerance policy on cheating. There's no legitimate excuse, ever.”

It frightened Isobel a bit, Jeff's knowing about Vicky, and the vehemence with which he had condemned her father. But at the same time, he had tapped in to the very real anger she felt toward Andrew Bessire.

The fact was that she hadn't seen him in months, and that had been for only an afternoon. She had taken the bus down to Boston one cold March day to meet him for lunch at Union Oyster House (her father's nod to old times?). The meeting had not been a success. They were awkward with each other, and there was none of the old feeling of Daddy and Daughter against the world. After lunch he had asked her if she wanted to go shopping. But he had looked at his watch before asking and it was clear to Isobel that he hoped her answer would be no. She hadn't disappointed him. He walked with her to South Station but hadn't waited to see her off. She had cried a bit on the bus ride home, but by the time the bus reached the station she had managed to put the disastrous day behind her. She had greeted her mother with a smile and a hug and had reported that the time she had spent with her father was “nice.” After a few gently probing questions that had resulted in pleasant though uninformative answers, her mother had said no more.

“Why are you so quiet?” Jeff was asking.

“No reason,” Isobel said automatically. And then, she revised her response. “Well, actually, I was thinking about the last time I saw my father. It wasn't a success.”

Jeff reached over and squeezed her hand.

“I swear I will never cheat on you, Izzy. You're safe with me. Forever.”

Safe. Forever. It didn't sound so bad . . . Though what it had to do with the failing relationship between her and her father wasn't clear. “I'll never cheat on you, either,” she said, again, automatically. Well, she wouldn't. She would never cheat on anybody.

“Swear it.”

“Okay,” she said. Why not? “I swear I will never cheat on you.”

Jeff nodded. “That's good. I'm glad we got that settled.”

Isobel managed a smile and wondered. Was Jeff implying that he wanted to marry her someday? It was almost always this way. She was almost never sure of the meaning behind his words.

Isobel was hardly aware of the passing scenery, lovely though it was. She thought she should probably feel good and comforted by Jeff's pledge—and by the vehemence with which he had made it, but she didn't quite. Nice girlfriend she was. Her boyfriend vows eternal loyalty and all she could feel was—what? Trapped? Annoyed? Resigned?

“Dickhead.”

Jeff uttered the word beneath his breath. A sports car had pulled up alongside them at the light. Isobel knew what was coming. Jeff revved the engine. When the light turned green the car raced ahead.

She clutched the armrest. She wished he wouldn't speed. But she was afraid of asking him to slow down. She had a feeling his response would be perverse, that he would speed up even faster. Jeff was willful. That wasn't necessarily a bad trait—his father was probably willful, too; how else would he have become such a success?

“Loser,” Jeff crowed, as they left the other car far behind. “Right?”

Isobel nodded. “Right.”