The Summer Everything Changed (6 page)

Louise had been out of bed uncharacteristically early, unable to sleep. All night she had been anticipating what she knew was going to be an unpleasant day. Today she was to meet the formidable Flora Michaels in person. Try as she might—and her imagination was a fertile one—she had little clear idea of what to expect, other than a nightmare of bossy behavior and miscommunication.

At exactly 10 a.m. a Hummer painted a strangely nauseating combination of red and purple (Louise cringed; some people's tastes!) roared up the drive of the Blueberry Bay Inn and came to an ungraceful halt by the foot of the porch, spewing gravel over the bottom steps. Three people climbed out of the vehicle, two men and a woman.

Louise and Isobel stood on the front porch, ready to receive wedding planner to the stars, Flora Michaels. At the first sight of her, Louise decided that the woman's name was about the only normal or inoffensive thing about her. She was painfully thin (Isobel had whispered that she made Rachel Zoe look robust and Victoria Beckham downright fat); the veins in her arms and hands protruded to a startling degree, and the tendons in her neck, not to mention her cheekbones, threatened to burst through the taut skin. Louise had a huge urge to run for a can of Boost and call for an intravenous drip.

Making the wedding planner's awkward appearance even more disturbing was the fact that she was wearing the most absurd outfit Louise thought she had ever seen other than on a couture runway. It appeared to be one piece, but whether it was in fact a sort of dress or a sort of jumpsuit, neither Louise nor Isobel could determine. It also appeared to be constructed of a variety of fabrics in strips of varying width, sewn together with crudely obvious stitching. The garment, Louise thought, would depress even the jolliest clown.

The shoes were beyond absurd, more (bad) architecture or (bad) sculpture than functional footwear. How she could walk without severe injury to her spinal cord was anyone's guess, and more than once during the course of the day (more like tens of times) Flora Michaels tottered dangerously as she made her precarious way across the back lawn or down the sloping front lawn, forcing Calvin Streep, her trusty and ever-scowling assistant, to grab at and steady her before she pitched to the damp grass face-first. Louise had been tempted to offer a pair of her Keds to the woman but realized almost as immediately as the idea had come to her that Flora Michaels would probably rather commit a particularly nasty suicide before sliding her narrow feet into a pair of something as common as a pair of sneakers, let alone sneakers belonging to another woman.

It was impossible to guess Flora Michaels's age. Louise decided on “indeterminate” as the nicest way to put it. The woman's makeup was flawless but in a heavy, masklike way, which was as fascinating as it was frightening. Her hair hung to her shoulders and was artfully and professionally colored in the ombre fad, but it was so thin that her scalp was clearly visible at the crown of her head. Too many extensions, Louise thought, that or poor nutrition.

Not once during the interminable day did she let go of her handbag, which was approximately the size of a chunky one-year-old and the shape of a—well, of a chunky one-year-old. Except that chunky one-year-olds weren't known to come in a puce and kelly green print. Isobel dubbed the bag The Incubus, for reasons she chose not to share. Louise was reminded of the enormous handbags carried by one of her favorite Elizabeth Peters's heroines, and then felt bad for having made such a poor comparison. She doubted Flora Michaels had ever brilliantly fought off the criminal element with her own appendage as had Jacqueline Kirby. When Louise helpfully suggested Flora Michaels set the bag down in the parlor, she was met with a look of such horrified disbelief she really wondered for a moment if she had committed a serious social blunder.

There was something both pitiful and disgusting about the woman; after only moments in her presence, Louise felt simultaneously sad for and repulsed by her. Isobel declared her the most unstylish fashion-addicted person she had ever seen, and that, she said, was saying something.

Worse, Flora Michaels's personality was as entirely devoid of charm as was her appearance. She treated Louise with a condescension that bordered on pathology and ignored Isobel as if she were a sticky, obnoxious toddler and not a well-mannered, well-groomed, and perfectly articulate fifteen-year-old. (Isobel didn't seem fazed by this treatment, but it made her mother's blood boil.) As for Flynn and Quentin, unobtrusively on hand for minor and unexpected emergencies, they, wearing jeans and plaid shirts, were well beneath her notice. Louise again thought it odd for someone whose profession required her to handle and satisfy Bridezillas and their mates to display such toxic behavior, but maybe that was the key to her success, she thought, being more awful than any awful client could be.

“You must be Louise Bessire,” the wedding planner said, thrusting her bony hand at Louise, who gave it a very careful shake. She noticed as she did (how could she not?) that the nails were bitten down to the quick. “I, of course, am Flora Michaels. And this,” she added, jerking her head in his direction, “is Calvin Streep, my assistant.”

“Executive assistant,” the man amended blandly. He did not put forth his hand.

Calvin Streep was a sour-faced specimen, also of indeterminate age, and as comfortably padded as his boss was skeletal. Louise was immediately reminded of that awful old nursery rhyme about Fat and Skinny and the pillowcase race. Calvin Streep clearly despised his job or, perhaps more accurately, he despised Flora Michaels. He practically snarled his obsequious responses to her questions and demands, and when her back was turned he produced the most amazing expressions of loathing Louise had ever seen out of a horror film. At least his clothing was inoffensive. He wore a lightweight cream-colored linen suit with a pale blue oxford shirt and pink silk tie. On his feet he wore sensible and very expensive loafers, complete with shiny pennies. The only incongruous note was struck by a rather large gold and ruby ring he wore on the pinkie of his right hand.

Before a half an hour had passed, Louise had decided that Flora Michaels and Calvin Streep could easily have been invented by Charles Dickens, should he have decided to continue his career from the grave, or by some other, still living writer who specialized in macabre and obnoxious characters.

In addition to her assistant, Flora Michaels had brought a photographer with her, whom she failed to introduce. He was a bald, gruff-looking older man in head-to-toe camouflage (why camouflage? Louise wondered). The moment the three had climbed out of their Hummer (why a Hummer? Isobel wondered), Flora Michaels loudly directed him to “photograph everything,” which he proceeded to do—from the wide expanse of the front lawn to the details on the antique lamp shades in the parlor, from the lacy wood tracery of the gazebo to the hand towels in the first-floor powder room.

By eleven o'clock, Louise was approaching the limit of her patience. She stomped into the kitchen, where she found Isobel flipping through a magazine at the table.

“Mom, what's wrong?” Isobel asked loudly. “You're periwinkle again!”

“I'll tell you what's wrong! That—that creature! Well, if she thinks I'm going to replace that lovely old carpet in the front hall because the blue doesn't match the blue of her client's eyes, she's crazier than I assumed.”

“Good for you, Mom,” Isobel said. “Stand your ground. Wait. Really? The carpet has to match her eye color?”

“Not her eye color,” Louise said with a grimace. “His. The groom's.”

“Ah. Jake.”

“I think it's Blake, actually,” Louise said. “Or maybe it's Zack. Zack Dakota.”

“That doesn't sound right, either. Whatever.”

At exactly noon, Flora Michaels announced a break in the activities. Louise had provided a simple but substantial lunch, which she and Bella laid out in the breakfast room. Flora shrank from the buffet as if it offered toasted bugs and baked entrails and instead installed herself on a straight-backed chair in a corner of the room, where she sipped a fluorescent yellow concoction from a plastic bottle she had fished out of her monstrous bag. (Isobel murmured that the painfully bright liquid had “cancer causing” all over it. “I mean,” she said with a shudder, “that color is not found in nature!”)

After glancing briefly, and with disdain, at the buffet, Calvin Streep took himself off into town for what he called “a proper meal.” The photographer, whose name no one seemed to have caught, grabbed a sandwich in passing and continued to document every square inch of the inn, with the sole exceptions of Louise and Isobel's rooms. Louise held firm in spite of Flora Michaels's whining demands for access to their personal space.

“More for us,” Louise said with a sigh, surveying the untouched potato and green salads Bella had graciously prepared. Louise, Isobel, Flynn, and Quentin ate in virtual silence. When they had finished their meal, Louise packed the remainders for Quentin to take home. If Flora Michaels wanted coffee later in the day, she could damn well send her assistant into town for a cup.

When Calvin Streep returned to the inn an hour after he had gone, Louise detected the slight but unmistakable scent of alcohol. His eyes were brighter, as was his attitude. Louise found that she couldn't blame Calvin Streep for his indulgence. She might take to boozing at lunch or worse if she had to work for Flora Michaels.

Louise was in the backyard with that estimable creature when she said, “Have I mentioned that the couple have demanded a miniature carousel? Well, they have.”

“What do you mean by miniature?” Louise asked, hoping to clarify the conflicting images that had leapt to mind.

“Small, my dear,” Flora Michaels replied, in a tone that betrayed just what she thought of such an idiotic question. “Tiny. In that vein.”

“Yes, I understand what ‘miniature' means. What I mean is, is the carousel small enough to sit on a table?”

“What? No, it's an actual working carousel.”

“For children?”

Flora Michaels's tone was now glacial. “There are no children invited to this wedding.”

“Okay, so . . . Who's going to ride this thing?”

“No one is actually going to ride it. Lord!” Flora Michaels attempted to stamp a foot and tottered dangerously. Louise did not reach out to steady her, and the wedding planner eventually righted herself.

“So, people will just stand by looking at it go 'round and 'round?”

Flora Michaels shrugged.

“How tall is it?” That was from Flynn, who had appeared at Louise's side like, she thought, a saving angel. “What are the dimensions?”

With a sigh of great exasperation, Flora Michaels fished in her monstrous bag and retrieved a folded catalogue. “There,” she said, handing the catalogue to Flynn. “Page thirty. Pictures and the specs.”

Flynn frowned down at the page and made several odd noises that sounded a bit like a lawn mower's engine spluttering. “Won't work,” he declared, thrusting the catalogue back at Flora Michaels. “Fire hazard.”

Louise frowned and nodded in what she meant to be a wise way.

“How could a carousel be a fire hazard?” Flora Michaels demanded, waving the catalogue.

“You think it runs on wishful thinking?” Flynn snapped. “Nope. No way. That's a death trap of a machine you're talking about. You'd never get the insurance.”

Flora Michaels thrust the catalogue into the depths of The Incubus and squinted around the yard.

“Can the gazebo be relocated?” she asked suddenly.

“It most certainly cannot!” Louise cried. What in God's name might that cost! And where were they supposed to relocate it to? Louise wondered.

“Why not?” Flora Michaels demanded. “It's just a stupid little building.”

Flynn's face took on an expression of extreme gravity. “Too much torque involved in the deconstruction and your leverage would completely collapse the infrastructure, causing the internal fuse lines to crack and run the risk of combustion. Also internal.”

Louise fought mightily not to collapse in laughter. Where had Flynn learned to lie so creatively?

Flora Michaels sighed. “I told them that holding an event in the backwoods was a mistake . . . Calvin!”

Her scream—not a cry, a genuine scream—caused both Louise and Flynn to wince. Across the yard, Quentin and Isobel clapped their hands over their ears.

“We're done here for today,” Flora Michaels announced, turning back to Louise.

Calvin, who appeared to be sagging by this point if the beads of perspiration on his forehead were any indication of fatigue (or an oncoming hangover), grabbed his employer's arm and half-dragged her across the yard and around to the front of the inn. Louise and Flynn, Quentin and Isobel, followed in silence.

Calvin Streep got behind the wheel of the Hummer. His boss crawled in next to him, and the enigmatic photographer and his piles of equipment installed themselves somewhere in the vehicle's massive darkened interior.

There had been no farewells, no thanks, no more bony hand to shake.

“I hope he knows how to drive that thing,” Quentin said as they watched the Hummer speed off down the narrow road, a clear menace to vacationers not on the watch for military-style vehicles and to local farmers rambling along in their pickup trucks.

Flynn shook his head. “The photographer didn't say a word all day. Not one. Amazing.”

“Smart man,” Quentin said with a nod.

Isobel sighed dramatically. “Geez, it was like a reality show around here today. Seriously crazy in that, ‘oh come on, this has to be scripted' sort of way. You know, fiction being stranger than truth.”