The Summer Everything Changed (9 page)

“Heads up!”

Isobel ducked, narrowly avoiding being hit by a wildly thrown Frisbee. The Ryan-Roberts party was in full swing. She had felt bad about leaving her mother to the wolves, as it were, and had offered to stay at the inn to help troubleshoot any crisis that might arise, but her mother had pointed out that Quentin was there and he was a big help, more like three people than one. Then Isobel had felt bad about Quentin not getting a day off, but there was nothing she could do about that except bring home some cupcakes or brownies from the party and hope he was still around to enjoy them.

Jim and James were also missing from the celebrations; they had gone to a party at a friend's in Booth Bay. Otherwise, it seemed as if a good number of the town's year-round residents, as well as those who summered there regularly, made an appearance at some point.

Catherine had driven Isobel to the party. Flynn More was there, as were the town librarian, Nancy, and her partner Glenda. Most of the McQueen clan of the Larchmere Inn had made an appearance—Craig and his wife, Anna; Hannah McQueen and her wife, Susan, along with their two children; Tilda and her second husband; and the estimable Aunt Ruth, with her longtime and, at first glance, unlikely companion, Bobby, a retired lobsterman. (Ruth McQueen had been a corporate bigwig for a large part of her life.)

There was also a bunch of people Isobel didn't know by name, only by sight, like the two guys who came to town each summer from Los Angeles to perform at the Ogunquit Playhouse, and the older woman who volunteered at the Ogunquit Museum of American Art. She was probably, Isobel guessed, in her late eighties and was wearing what Isobel called Ladies' Attire. The woman's dress was modest in the extreme, complete with white lace collar and cuffs. It was made of two different materials—a sheer top layer over a denser bottom layer in a very pretty peach color. In the crook of her elbow hung a cream-colored framed purse with delicate silver hardware. Her jewelry consisted of a string of pearls around her neck, a pair of clip-on pearl earrings, and a narrow wedding band on her left hand. To Isobel, the woman seemed a figure from another, more gracious time. She doubted the woman even felt the heat in that restricting dress—and if she did, she certainly wouldn't admit it!

Jeff's family, however, was not in attendance (Gwen confirmed that), and Isobel had no idea if they had been asked or not. She thought it might be inappropriate to question the guest list. Besides, for all she knew the Ottens moved in a much more rarified circle than Gwen's family. There was still an awful lot about her new home she didn't know or understand. The intricacies of small-town living were not to be learned and absorbed in a hurry. And information was doled out in dribs and drabs, only when a newbie was deemed worthy of receiving the information. It would probably take years before Isobel and her mom were in possession of half of what the longtime residents knew.

The party was a great success. There were horseshoes and badminton for the adults, though after a few games early in the afternoon, these activities were mostly abandoned in favor of eating and drinking and chatting. An inflatable kiddie pool, meant, of course, for the few babies and toddlers at the party, was rapidly taken over by two ten-year-old girls who spent the rest of the day in the pool (legs hanging over the side), applying handfuls of sunblock, posing for their camera phones, and giggling maniacally.

“Teenage disasters waiting to happen,” Gwen noted darkly.

Isobel was compelled to agree. “Girls gone wild, in training.”

Gwen's father Curtis had cued up hours of music featuring the work of some local musicians like Eric Bettencourt, singer and songwriter out of Portland; Joyce Andersen, an amazing local fiddle player; the Lex and Joe blues and jazz duo out of Ogunquit and Kennebunk; and Lady Zen, also out of Portland. Curtis had also cued up some classic favorites guaranteed to get people into a festive mood—songs by The Beatles (everyone, even the ten-year-old girls, seemed to know the lyrics to at least a few of the songs) and Bon Jovi and even The Clash (that surprised Isobel).

The food had been provided by a small but popular local catering company owned and operated by a husband-and-wife team who worked out of their home in Yorktide. There was everything from corn on the cob to lobster rolls, from clam chowder to green salads, from strawberry shortcakes to brownies (several of which Isobel snatched for Quentin, whose sweet tooth was well known). For the adults there was beer and wine, and for the kids and whoever wasn't drinking alcohol, there was bottled water, diet soda (under protest as neither Will nor Curtis were fans of soda or junk food), and juices.

Ricky spent most of the afternoon playing war with some friends. The boys were each equipped with huge water shooting assault rifles, and in spite of stern warnings from parents, a fair number of guests found themselves “accidentally” sprayed.
Boys
, Isobel thought. What was it about violence that seemed to attract them? Something on a hormonal level, no doubt. It was not her immediate concern.

Charlie ran around off leash with the other dogs whose parents had been invited, including two chunky but hugely energetic pugs named Beatrice and Eugenie who were, beyond a doubt, the cutest little dogs Isobel thought she had ever seen.

“If I ever get a dog,” she told Gwen, “I'm getting a pug. They're so velvety.”

“And they snore a lot. I'll stick to my cats. By the way, have you seen Hamlet? He's been harassing this one poor little cardinal that comes around even though I've asked him politely not to.”

“And cats always do what they're told.”

Gwen shrugged. “I can try. And he listens when he's in the mood. Hey, what's with all these people naming dogs after European princesses?”

“What's with you naming cats after Shakespeare's characters? Hamlet. Laertes. Henry the Fifth?”

“Quoting or making reference to Shakespeare needs no excuse,” Gwen replied loftily. Isobel was forced to agree.

The afternoon passed quickly, as fun times mostly do. It was only after many hours, when a good deal of the food had been consumed and the younger set of guests had fallen asleep in the laps of parents, did Isobel experience a sudden pang of loss. She saw Gwen standing in between her parents, an arm around each dad's middle. Curtis leaned down and kissed Gwen atop her hot pink head. Will smiled fondly at his daughter.

Isobel had to look away. She wasn't jealous of Gwen. She couldn't be jealous of someone she loved, even when that someone's happiness highlighted her own unhappiness. Envy was the green-eyed monster (kind of unfair to green-eyed people, and wasn't Shakespeare at least partially responsible for that slander?), and you didn't want him hanging around. It was just that her birthday was in two days, and try as she might, she couldn't seem to banish the memories of the fun birthday times she had shared with her mom and dad.

Though Isobel still wouldn't admit it to anyone, her dad's canceling the vacation had really hurt. And in spite of her denials she was angry, too. She had sent him an e-mail in reply to his. “I'm really disappointed, Dad,” she had written, plainly. “I was really looking forward to spending some time with you.”

His response was brief and almost lighthearted. “Really sorry, kiddo,” it had read. “Nothing I can do about it.” Disappointment had been heaped upon disappointment.

Still, Isobel really, really hated to feel angry with someone, even if it could be argued that that someone deserved her anger. She didn't like displeasing anyone, and to be angry with someone made her feel somehow guilty or wrong.
Isobel
, she told herself—and quite sternly whenever she felt she was getting grumpy about someone—
move on!

Isobel grabbed a lobster roll (her second) from one of the tables laden with food and gobbled it down. Food helped one's mood, too, especially when it involved mayonnaise.

Her father, it had to be said, had sent a perfectly nice card from Hallmark. But it was too little too late. Isobel had barely glanced at it before stuffing it in a dresser drawer. There had been no personal note, and no present, and no phone call. Her father had expended the least amount of effort for her birthday. Maybe he had even asked Vicky to pick out the card; it seemed possible. Isobel couldn't help but wonder what he had done for his stepdaughters' birthdays earlier this year. Helped bake a seven-tiered cake? Dressed up as a clown and made balloon animals? Bought each of the girls a pretty little pony?

At least the signature on the card had been his. He had signed Vicky's name, too. Isobel wondered if Vicky knew that he had. She suspected that Vicky didn't care either way. Really, why would she? Isobel was out of sight, all the way up north in Maine. It must be easy to put her out of mind, as well.

Move on,
Isobel had told herself.
Don't dwell on the negative!
Besides, it wasn't as if everyone in her life was ignoring her. Just the day before, she had received a birthday card from—of all people!—Jeff Otten.

Her immediate reaction had been one of intense excitement. It had taken a few minutes before she wondered how Jeff had known it was her birthday. There were lots of easy ways you could find information about people. Okay, sometimes maybe not ethical ways, but Jeff Otten hadn't struck her as some sort of creepy stalker type. Not driving a car like he drove and being the son of a man who was pretty much a local celebrity.

Anyway, she had kept the card from her mother (and from Gwen!), like she had kept the gift of the daylilies from her, and the fact that she had met Jeff in town, three acts of almost unprecedented secrecy. What was it about Jeff that made her want to hide him away and treasure his attentions in private? Or maybe it had nothing to do with Jeff at all. Maybe she was just growing up, needing her proverbial space.

Isobel stared off at the row of pine trees at the back of the yard. Whatever. She wasn't really worried about what she had done, or had failed to do.

“There you are.” Isobel blinked; Gwen was standing directly in front of her. She hadn't been aware of her at all.

“It's almost time for fireworks,” Gwen went on. She held out her hand; Isobel grasped it, and they made their way to where Curtis and Will had arranged a small (and carefully controlled) fireworks display. When every party guest was gathered within a safe distance, Will lit the first fuse. There were cries of joy and excitement. The dogs barked. The ten-year-olds exclaimed, “Awesome!” The boys punched their fists into the air.

For her part, Isobel fought back tears. Ceremonies of any sort always made her cry. Parades were the worst. She hadn't been able to attend Ogunquit's Memorial Day Parade back in May; she had learned her lesson the year before when the trolley ferrying three ancient veterans from WWII came by. She had burst into tears and hadn't been able to stop crying pitifully for almost a quarter of an hour. Sometimes, being a sensitive person could be a liability.

Now, Isobel looked around at the smiling group gathered in the Ryan-Roberts's yard. It was a beautiful evening and it had been a really fun day. She had stuffed herself with yummy food and had tried her hand at badminton (she had been awful!) and had sung along with Gwen and her fathers to that song Lex and Joe played about Memphis women and fried chicken (it was hilarious). She had even got to cuddle with one of the pudgy pugs!

Yeah, the verdict was in. She was happy with her life here in Maine. So what if her family wasn't perfect. Whose was? Anyway, it wasn't as if her parents were criminals. Her mom was great (her biggest failing seemed to be a tendency to worry too easily, which wasn't exactly a sin) and her dad had his moments. (He probably was really busy with work.) Isobel knew she had things a whole lot better than a whole lot of other kids.

She had, for another thing, a truly amazing best friend. She turned to Gwen and smiled. Gwen smiled back.

Yeah, it was all good.

Really.

Louise rubbed her forehead and hoped that the ibuprofen she had taken a few minutes earlier would kick in soon. Stress-induced headaches were becoming annoyingly frequent. She was not amused.

Louise sat up straight in her chair; slumping never helped anything, certainly not clear thinking. And she needed to think clearly if she was going to solve the latest supremely annoying request made by Flora Michaels. Hand-embroidered hankies for each of the wedding guests? Really? And even if such things could be found in this machine-dominated age, why should it be Louise's responsibility to provide them? It should not be her responsibility. Her contract said nothing about such duties. So then why hadn't she come right out and told Flora Michaels to go to Hades, instead of hemming and hawing her way out of the phone conversation?

And then, just to make matters a little more interesting and a lot more frightening, there was the question of the electrician's bill. It was way higher than Louise had estimated—how had she made such a mistake?—and she was worried she might not be able to pay it all on time. She had plenty of experience balancing a budget through her volunteer work, but for some reason she really couldn't explain, working carefully with someone else's money was a whole lot easier than working with her own. No doubt a therapist could help her root out the answer to that provocative dilemma.

In short, Louise Bessire, sitting (slumped again) at her kitchen table, was suffering a very grave case of self-doubt.

Vicky Bessire could pull off this whole inn thing, she thought morosely, as well as the celebrity wedding, with her eyes closed, her hands tied behind her back, and her ears stuffed with cotton. Unlike Louise, Vicky was very close to perfect.

Consider her career. Vicky had been some sort of bigwig on Wall Street. Even after she had married Dan and moved to Boston she had kept her hand in it, commuting to New York several times a month. She had retired after the birth of her first child; after the birth of her second, she had established a home-based company called Bumblestiltskin. It sold expensive, handmade baby and toddler clothing to women who could pay a hundred bucks for a onesie. It was, as far as Louise knew, a great success. No doubt Vicky's children were geniuses, too.

Grr. Louise got herself a cup of coffee; what was that, her fourth one today? Maybe her fifth. So her stomach would rot out. Louise almost laughed as the thought of a sick stomach led her to a mental picture of Vicky's first husband. Dan Holmes was one of those all-too-common insufferably smug corporate lawyers who condescended to everyone he met as a matter of course. When he learned that Louise wasn't gainfully employed, his attitude toward her became that of a patronizing older uncle toward a sweet but not very bright niece. It had infuriated Louise, but at the same time she knew there was little she could do about the situation. Nothing she said or did would budge this man's opinion of himself as an exalted being.

Back then, before all the craziness had happened, Louise had thought that Vicky was nice enough, if a bit of an odd choice for Dan's wife. She had imagined him with that sweet-but-not-very-bright-child sort, and Vicky was anything but. She was fast-talking and intelligent, well-educated and witty. She was also exceptionally pretty, in that heart-shaped face, perky little nose, and big blue eyes way so many men—and the camera—seemed to love. She was like Kelly Ripa with an MBA—a deadly combination.

Not that Louise and Vicky were ever likely to be friends. In college, Louise had majored in European literature and art history. Vicky had majored in economics and political science. Louise wasn't religious. Vicky was very involved in her church. Louise was a bit of a loner. Vicky admitted to a very active social life that included vacations with her women friends (what happened in Vegas stayed in Vegas?).

The couple had been in Louise's home only once, but the memory of that evening still rankled. The four of them had been at one of those boring command-performance corporate parties when Dan and Andrew got the brilliant idea of skipping out. They had gone back to the Bessires' house, where Louise had served Vicky a drink, had listened to Vicky compliment the living room's décor (her comments had seemed genuine), had admired her children (Vicky had a phone loaded with photos), and had even (God, how embarrassing in retrospect) given Vicky her recipe for banana spice bread. Did a woman like Vicky have time to bake? Yeah, she probably did. A woman like Vicky made time for everything she wanted to do, and more.

Andrew's betrayal, when it came, had seemed that much more painful because Louise had shared a pleasant evening with her rival. If Andrew had revealed an affair with some—to Louise—anonymous, unknown woman, the pain might have been a bit more manageable. And the men . . . Though they had never been close, there was the unsavory element of poaching in Andrew's choosing to run off with Dan's wife.

Louise shuddered at the thought. She got up from the table and put the empty coffee cup in the dishwasher. She spotted a glass on the sideboard. It was one of the more expensive ones she and Isobel had bought when they had first come to the inn, a red cut-glass goblet dating from around 1930. She wondered what it was doing out of the cupboard. She reached for it and it slipped from her grasp, shattering into thousands of tiny pieces.

“Damn!” she cried. Vicky, she thought, wouldn't have been so careless with such a valuable piece. Louise carefully swept the shards of the glass into a dustpan and then more carefully spilled them into a paper bag, which she placed in the trash.

There was no way Andrew could help but compare his first wife to his second, Louise thought now. And he would find Louise lacking—in business experience and savvy, in looks (if only because Vicky was almost ten years younger than Louise), and most definitely in ambition.

Louise slumped down at the table with yet another cup of coffee. How had she gotten on to this upsetting (and pointless) train of thought? No use fighting it now; she knew it was here to stay. In fact, might as well indulge the trip down memory lane . . .

Louise had begun to suspect something was wrong in her marriage almost in spite of herself. The clues were subtle; it was months before she identified them as worrisome. Andrew was coming home from the office later and later, though he never mentioned the trouble that demanded his attention. He was increasingly distant, yet increasingly pleasant in a bland, polite way. He bought several new suits, though the ones he owned were barely a year old and in fine condition. When she asked him if he was okay—“You seem a little bit, I don't know, distracted lately”—he smiled and replied, “I'm fine.” He didn't tease her about her concern, which he would have done if everything had indeed been okay with him.

By then, Louise had felt that she had no choice but to launch an investigation. She felt dirty spying on Andrew; after all, he was her best friend, and all she had to go on were vague suspicions. But she went ahead and read his e-mails; she checked through his Internet history; she went through his wallet looking for receipts that didn't make sense and even inspected the contents of his briefcase and the pockets of his clothing. She did everything but break into his office and hack his computer there (not that she knew how to do such a thing), but found nothing at all suspicious.

But rather than admit she must have been wrong to think Andrew's eye had been wandering, she took one last desperate step. She hired a private investigator. Within three days he had brought her photographs of Andrew leaving a hot-sheets motel in a neighboring town. There were also several shots, taken only moments after the ones of her husband, in which a woman (wearing a printed silk scarf around her head and large dark sunglasses) was seen emerging from the same motel room. Coincidence? A legitimate, though unorthodox business transaction? Unlikely.

Louise, deeply shocked, had considered keeping silent about what she knew. If Andrew were just having a fling, then it would most likely end when the novelty wore off, and things between husband and wife could resume their normal pattern. But the not knowing became a nightmare and by week's end Louise had confronted Andrew.

Again, she was deeply shocked when he immediately admitted that the relationship with Vicky Holmes (Vicky Holmes!) had been going on for close to a year. He told her that he and Vicky wanted to marry. He had, he swore, planned on telling Louise soon. He and Vicky were tired of the sneaking around. How noble of them, Louise had thought. How absolutely freakin' noble.

Louise finished the reheated coffee and considered the wisdom of making another pot. An angry noise from her stomach convinced her to pass on that idea. Maybe a glass of milk instead, followed by a shot of Pepto-Bismol—because the trip down memory lane wasn't over.

Those first weeks after Andrew's defection had been horribly painful; her conflicted emotions were enough to drive her mad. Did she want Andrew to come back? Was she afraid of life without him? Did she still love him? Did she believe she could forgive him? None of the questions had easy answers. Yes, she wanted him back—until further thought revealed that no, she did not. No, she could never forgive him—until in a sentimental moment she knew that of course she could, and would, forgive him.

And then . . . A few weeks after the news broke, Dan had called Louise and asked if they could meet to commiserate. Slightly suspicious—did a man like Dan Holmes know how to commiserate, especially with a woman?—but not being in the strongest or most clear-thinking state of mind, Louise had agreed.

Before the appetizer had arrived, he had made a blatant pass at her, suggesting they finish the evening back at his place. Dan made other, more specific suggestions as to what might happen once at his place, one involving a restraining apparatus, but Louise had promptly blocked the suggestions from memory.

She had been disgusted. She doubted Dan was at all attracted to her; clearly his suggestion of a sexual romp was a crude attempt to get back at Andrew in the only way such men knew how—by stealing (or, in this case, borrowing; Louise was in no doubt this would be a one-night event) their property.

She had turned Dan away quite firmly, and though he was visibly annoyed by her rejection, he said no more on the subject, paid the check (bizarrely, they had finished their meal), and made sure she got safely into a cab at the end of the evening. There was something to be said for the courtesies.

The next morning, after a restless, almost sleepless night, Louise had been tempted to tell Andrew about Dan's proposal. It was doubtful he would be jealous. He might even laugh. And, he might tell Vicky, which would complete Louise's humiliation. Better, she had decided, to keep that little bit of scandal to herself. And it wasn't even scandal, was it? For all practical purposes, both she and Dan were single.

Fortunately, after that one night, Dan had let her be. Not long ago she had heard from an acquaintance back in Massachusetts that he was remarried, and that this wife, Dan's third as it happened, was not only younger than Vicky, she was far better-looking (if somewhat artificially enhanced) and dumber than a bucket of hair. No defying the powerful Dan Holmes for Wife Number Three. (What, Louise wondered, had happened to Wife Number One? Had she been a typical Starter Wife, unthreatening and well-behaved? Whatever she had been, Louise hoped that now she was kicking butt and causing trouble in a new and fantastic life.)

Absentmindedly, Louise wandered over to the sink, picked up a sponge, and began to wipe its already clean surface. She supposed Andrew had to deal with Dan on some level, what with his being the father of Vicky's daughters. Knowing for sure that Dan made life difficult for Andrew might bring a smile to her face . . . She wondered if she should send a casual inquiry to one of her old acquaintances back in Massachusetts, someone who might have some dirt on the Bessire-Holmes family dynamic. Dirt she could gloat over. Dirt to warm the cockles of her heart, whatever they were.

Nah. Louise was above that sort of thing. More was the pity. She sometimes found herself thinking that it would be fun not to care about things like decency and respect. But she was stuck being a decent and respectful person, thanks to nurture, nature, or a little bit of both.

Louise looked up from the sink and saw Isobel in the backyard, filling one of the bird feeders. Her mouth was moving; no doubt Isobel was talking to the birds. They didn't seem at all afraid of her, fluttering close to her head and darting into the feeder even as Isobel poured the seed. Isobel as a modern-day Saint Francis.

Louise smiled and felt happy tears prick her eyes. Happy tears, and tears of gratitude. Her daughter was a true joy in her life.

She tossed the sponge away. And if she, Louise Jones Bessire, had produced such a rare treasure of a human being, how could she fail to figure out how to pay a bill or host a stupid wedding?