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?
Chapter 16
CITYMOUSE
Howdy, Style Wranglers!
Wranglers? Now where did that come from?
Come to think of it, I dreamed last night of being on a ranch that was scary-beautiful in its isolation and harsh, stark landscape—the jagged outlines of a mountain range in the distance, miles of nearly naked land, mini dust storms and tumbleweeds skipping devilishly along the dirt. Still, at one point I remember feeling so dream-frustrated that there were no places to shop or even to browse within walking distance and no cars on the ranch and so the only way to get to the stores was to ride there on a horse but I was dream-terrified of getting up on one of those huge, albeit gorgeous and noble beasts . . .
I guess that all means that in waking life I can’t wait to get my driver’s license so I can zoom up (okay, LouLou, within the speed limit) to Portland whenever I can to shop the fantastic stores. Not that I don’t love shopping with LouLou—I do, I do!!!—but sometimes, well, lately it’s more often than not, LouLou is super busy tending to the Blueberry Bay Inn guests (whom we love, one and all) and simply can’t be forced behind the wheel of our Beloved Family Vehicle and pointed north. And though Gwentastic Gwen is always willing to chauffeur yours truly, why shouldn’t she get to be the passenger once in a while and relax and enjoy the scenery?
Anyway, Portland is simply packed with fun shops like Encore and Material Objects and Find and Second Time Around and the Flea-for-All (not a shop really, and open only on the weekends but worth a visit; it’s a combination flea market, antique show, and crafts fair) and Little Ghost (my favorite store name ever). Oh, and not to mention Stones ’n Stuff and Se Vende and . . . Well, I could go on and on.
And since these style seekers are on a budget (wah, but who isn’t?) and can’t afford to purchase every single gorgeous item we covet/desire/crave, we are super grateful to the shop owners who allow us to photograph these items (without, of course, leaving anything sticky or icky on said items) and share them with our readers.
So, here for your enjoyment are a few photos of items Gwen and I did not purchase (for a variety of reasons) but were allowed to share with you via CityMouse. They are, from top to bottom:
*A plastic change purse in the shape and image of a doll in the traditional dress of Holland; the zipper runs along the bottom of the full skirt; circa 1970;
*A tiny Wedgwood plate in the classic (soothing) blue with white figures; said figures are dressed in Classical garb and seem to be performing a dance while waving garlands overhead;
*A very heavy statue of the Egyptian goddess Bastet, or, as I’m told, also known as Bast; as you can see, Bastet is an extremely elegant feline. (Hint to self: I think Gwen would like this statue or one like it for her birthday next April . . .)
Now, on another note altogether . . .
Some people say that becoming sixteen is a landmark of sorts, a big deal, a turning point, the stuff of angst-ridden novels. But others, well, others say—or I think they say because I don’t know; all I have to go on is their actions and you know what is said about actions in relation to words! Anyway, some people say that a sixteenth birthday is just like any other birthday, no great shakes, no big whoop, nothing to write home about, not even worthy of a phone call or a card with a personal note.
But whatever the truth about the Big One Six, I want to offer many and heartfelt thanks to those who tried and succeeded to make my sixteenth birthday a really special day. Love and hugs and kisses to them, especially LouLou, Gwen, Miss Kit-a-Kat, Blue-Bella, and The Jimmies.
Remember, Dear Readers, life is good!
Isobel finished posting the entry and closed her laptop. Life really was pretty good. Big deal, so her father had let her down. The other important people in her life certainly had not. The night of her birthday there had been a small and very lovely party in the kitchen with Isobel and her mother; Catherine and Princess Charlene; Gwen; and James and Jim.
Bella had made a scrumptious cake, with hazelnut cream between the vanilla cake layers and mocha-flavored icing on the top and sides. Everyone clamored for seconds, and thanks to Bella’s generous notion of large, there was plenty to go around. They had shared a bottle of prosecco, with a small glass each for Isobel and Gwen, never to be mentioned outside of that room.
Gwen had given her a brooch made of brass and studded with colored glass stones. It had been part of a costume worn in a production of As You Like It that her father Curtis had directed years earlier in Boston.
James and Jim gave her another painting by Julia Einstein, this one depicting a glass jar, the kind used to put up preserves, standing on a rough wooden table, a spray of forsythia sprouting from the jar’s open mouth. No one had ever given her a work of art before, and it was a very special first occasion.
Catherine gave her a gift certificate to Longfellow Books in Portland, and a pretty generous one, too. Her mom, the promise of a day together in Portland still there, had handed her a package wrapped in shiny purple cellophane. “Just a token,” she said. “A little something to mark a big occasion.” Inside the package was a cotton scarf the exact same turquoise as the ceramic pie plate on which Louise made her famous apple pie. Isobel was ecstatic.
By the end of the night the absence and the neglect of her father had been long forgotten.
And by the next morning, when her mother had asked if she wanted to come along with her while she ran some errands, Isobel, wearing her new scarf and her new pin and feeling pretty spiffy (she loved that word!), had jumped at the chance to tool around town and people watch.
They were stopped at a light along Route 1 in Wells when she saw Jeff. He was stand
ing by his car, which was parked in the lot of a garage and repair shop. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, leaving his muscular forearms bare. He was wearing another pair of fantastic jeans that emphasized his slim hips and flat stomach . . .
Isobel was seized with the desire to touch him. She realized that her stomach was whirring and that she felt very close to passing out or to . . . She wondered if sexual attraction was always associated with nausea. She hoped not. That would be a sick joke on the part of the Universe or God or Odin or Xena, Warrior Princess or whoever had organized this whole thing called Life on Earth and tossed it into existence. Sheesh.
“Are you okay?” her mom had asked.
“Mmm, hmm.” Isobel hadn’t trusted herself to say more. Jeff was now leaning into the car’s open hood . . .
“What is taking so long for this light to turn?” Louise grumbled.
As far as Isobel was concerned, they could sit there all day, as long as she could continue to watch Jeff.
“Oh,” her mother said suddenly, “there’s that nice young man who came by the inn. Jeff Otten.”
“Oh?” Isobel asked, doing her best to feign nonchalance. “Where?”
“Over there in the gas station. Or garage or whatever it is. The guy leaning over that gorgeous car.”
“Oh. That’s him?”
The light turned green—“Finally!” Louise exclaimed—and they drove on. “Yeah, that’s him. He’s good-looking, don’t you think, in that Armie Hammer or Chris Hemsworth sort of way. Big and blond.”
The Summer Everything Changed Page 10
