The Summer Everything Changed

by Holly Chamberlin

  “Even in Ogunquit.” His tone was stern. Isobel fought the urge to laugh again, this time more loudly.

  “Well,” she said, “it’s not like I’d go up to some drunk guy or some lunatic raving on about the end of the world at the top of his lungs.”

  “Make sure you don’t. You really thought that brooch was beautiful?”

  “Oh yes. And it’s one of a kind. That’s part of the appeal. Why? Didn’t you like it?”

  “I thought it was hideous. Frankly, I think you would look horrible wearing something like that. You’re much too delicate. It was—grotesque.”

  “Oh.” Isobel wasn’t quite sure how to process this—comment? This criticism? Maybe Jeff was just one of those guys with traditional notions about jewelry. Her own father could never understand why her mother would choose to wear a crystal quartz point on a rough leather cord when she had a platinum and diamond necklace in her jewelry box.

  “No,” Jeff was saying, “I see you in something sparkly and feminine, like diamonds.”

  Isobel laughed. “Well, sure, diamonds are great, too! They’re a girl’s best friend, after all. Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask if you want to go to the Barn Gallery to see a show that’s opening Wednesday night. I think the party is from five to seven.”

  Jeff shrugged. “Art’s not really my thing.”

  Isobel didn’t know quite what to say to that, either. (Jeff really spoke his mind, just like she did!) How could art not be someone’s “thing”? She could see how a specific genre or style might not be to someone’s taste. For example, she wasn’t crazy about Surrealism. But art, in general? Art was—well, it was huge! Jeff must have meant that the sort of art the Barn Gallery usually displayed didn’t impress him. Maybe he didn’t care for seascapes or still lifes.

  “Well,” she said, “I could go with Gwen and her family. They all love art. Even Ricky.”

  “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we go to see Die Again Now?”

  “I’m not really into action movies,” Isobel said. “They’re so violent. They upset me for days afterward.”

  “Oh, come on, it’ll be fun. Look, I’ll order the tickets online right now.”

  Jeff took his iPhone out of his pocket before Isobel could protest.

  Oh well, she thought. I can see the show at another time. Though it’s too bad I’ll miss the opening. Openings are fun. You get to meet the artists and there are usually some yummy miniature quiches or bacon-wrapped shrimp being passed around . . .

  “Done,” Jeff announced. “Two tickets for the five-thirty show.”

  Isobel smiled. “Okay,” she said.

  Who knows? she thought. Maybe the movie would change her mind about action flicks. Anything could happen if you just gave it a chance and kept an open mind!

  Chapter 25

  Catherine’s house, on Ledge View Road, had been built in the early 1980s by a middle-aged couple that had peacefully grown old inside its walls. When Catherine bought the house a little less than two years earlier, it was in as pristine condition as when it had been built, thanks to its conscientious owners, now passed.

  The walls and pine floors of each room on the first floor were painted white; the effect was of whitewashing, cool, crisp, and clean. All of the windows, on both floors, were large, some even appearing to be oversized, making the house bright with natural light. Even on a rainy day the house avoided being gloomy. Catherine boasted that her electric bill had never been lower.

  The living room was inarguably oversized. A few throw rugs provided splashes of color underfoot while paintings in a variety of styles and media covered a good deal of the walls. There was a series of tiny oil paintings, still lifes, set in large ornate frames and hung in a horizontal row. A triptych—an abstract image of sand dunes—dominated an entire wall. And since moving to Ogunquit, Catherine had fallen in love with the work of local (though Midwestern-born) painter Judy Sowa. She owned several works, including a very large piece—an image of the Muse of History from a work by Vermeer—that hung over the fireplace in the living room. Louise’s favorite of Catherine’s collection of Judy Sowa’s work was a smaller work, a copy of a Bronzino portrait of Laura Battiferri, a sixteenth-century gentlewoman and poet, originally painted around 1555–1560.

  The furniture was minimal but comfortable—a love seat, two armchairs, and an ottoman for each chair, upholstered in a pale tan—with a liberal sprinkling of chocolate lab hair. A low coffee table set before the love seat completed the room’s uncluttered décor.

  Catherine’s study, in contrast to the living room, was a smallish room stuffed with furniture, including a monstrously large maroon velvet armchair, two ladder-back chairs, and a low table with an elaborately carved wood base and a green marble top. The floor was mostly covered by an old but still vibrantly colored Oriental rug. Built-in shelves on two walls were crammed with books, an eclectic group that included novels by long-dead as well as contemporary authors, a collection of Restoration plays, the ubiquitous Riverside Shakespeare, biographies of men and women of European and American fame, and a hefty collection of good-quality art books. Another Judy Sowa painting hung next to a painting by another local artist, Michael Palmer. A sleek laptop sat on an old oak desk that was way too large for the space it occupied. Next to the computer were stacks of magazines (everything from Time to Rolling Stone) and newspapers (Catherine had the New York Times Sunday edition delivered, and she kept up with all of the local papers, including those out of Portland and Portsmouth).

  The kitchen was state-of-the-art, and, in Catherine’s opinion, totally wasted on her. She had never had time to cook much—too often on the road, too many late nights at the office—and now that she did have time, she had discovered she didn’t care for it. Hence the stack of take-out menus on the bar top and the fridge bare of all but a few essentials—a carton of low-fat milk, a half a pound of butter, several jars of jellies and preserves from Stonewall Kitchen, a jar of pickles, and in the freezer, a few packs of frozen shrimp, easy enough to toss on the indoor grill.

  The powder room was decorated in peach and pale green, and there was the ubiquitous shallow bowl of white seashells, along with a similar bowl of green and blue and amber pieces of sea glass. Sea glass was something guests liked to steal even more than seashells, which was why Louise kept her own collection tucked away in her room.

  The second floor consisted of Catherine’s bedroom, a small guest room, and a large bathroom. Louise had seen the bedroom only once, and that on her initial tour of the house; Catherine took her private space quite seriously, as did both Louise and Isobel.

  There was always music playing from the stereo system in the living room, not too loudly but not too softly, either. At the moment Madeleine Peyroux was crooning her version of an old Patsy Cline hit.

  Charlie was asleep on a braided rug in front of the fireplace. Every once in a while a paw would twitch. Louise wondered if human beings would ever know for sure what went on in the minds and hearts of four-legged animals. More was the pity if they didn’t.

  The women settled on the love seat, each with a cup of coffee.

  “Did Isobel tell you I ran into her and Jeff in town the other day?” Catherine asked.

  Louise shook her head. “No. At least, I don’t think that she did. I’ve been so preoccupied lately what with this wedding and the usual assortment of fussy guests . . .”

  “Well, I did run into them. And I have to tell you that Charlie had a very unusual reaction to Jeff. In short, she tried to bite his head off.”

  Louise looked quickly to the sleeping dog; at that moment she was the epitome of peaceful laziness. “What?” she said. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe it. She barked at him, growled, snarled, the whole bit. I had trouble holding on to her. Seriously, I thought she was going to break free and knock him down. I’ve never seen her take against someone so completely, especially not within a few seconds of meeting him. I have to say, it made me wonder about Jeff’s charact
er. You know what they say about animals having a better sense for character than we dumb humans.”

  Louise glanced again at the slumbering lump of fur. “I’m shocked,” she said. “Jeff is such a nice young man. I don’t think you should read too much into Charlie’s behavior. Jeff’s done nothing but treat Isobel with respect and kindness.”

  “I’m not saying he’s a criminal,” Catherine pointed out. “I’m just saying that Charlie’s reaction was odd.”

  “Charlie probably smelled something on him she didn’t like. Maybe he was wearing cologne. Some dogs don’t like those artificially sweet smells. Come to think of it, I might bark if a guy wearing too much cologne got too close to me.”

  “Maybe,” Catherine conceded. “Anyway, I thought you should know, but maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  Louise shrugged. “Oh, it’s all right. Well, I’ve got to get going. Duty calls.”

  Once back at the inn, Louise opened her laptop and went to Isobel’s blog. She read the latest post and smiled. Isobel seemed to have so much fun writing CityMouse. And there were so many comments from Isobel’s fans. Louise noted several recent messages from a girl who had been a friend of Isobel’s back in Massachusetts. Huh, Louise thought. She hadn’t heard Isobel mention Maureen in over a year . . .

  That was one of the things Louise thought she might not have fully considered before uprooting her daughter and transplanting her to Maine—the friendships she would have to leave behind. But Isobel had offered very little resistance to leaving Massachusetts, aside from some initial grumbling about moving to a backwater. It was almost as if she couldn’t wait to get far away from her father and the life she had known with him.

  Louise had felt much the same way. Moving north to Maine had been like running away, and running away was rarely a good thing in the end—unless, of course, you were running away to save your life and there were simply no other viable options. But in Louise’s case there had been other options, of course there had been. She could have stayed put, either in the house she and Andrew had owned together or in another house, one without the memories. She could have gotten a job with regular hours and far less risk to her (and Isobel’s) financial future and to her sanity.

  Louise exited CityMouse and closed her laptop. She wondered if Isobel had told any of her old friends back in Massachusetts that she had a boyfriend. She realized she had no idea of the nature of Isobel’s relationships with anyone other than Gwen. Maybe there were no more real friends from “back home.”

  And maybe Gwen was enough. Gwen and me, Louise thought. Because, of course, Isobel has me—i f no longer her father.

  Andrew and Isobel. There had been times throughout the years when Louise had felt downright jealous of the relationship they shared. She remembered now how once a month they had gone on a breakfast date to the local diner for French toast and sausage. Isobel probably never knew that her father paid for that indulgence with an extra-rigorous session at the gym later that afternoon. His usual breakfast was a bowl of high protein cereal with nonfat yogurt and sliced fruit. Andrew had always taken his health seriously; both of his parents had died of heart-related disease before reaching sixty. There was that—and there was Andrew’s aforementioned vanity.

  Even in the final months before the big reveal, when Andrew must have been almost wholly occupied with how to extricate himself from his marriage, he had never missed a breakfast date. “But while we were eating our French toast,” Isobel had remarked later, after the divorce, “and talking about the new bird feeder we were going to put up in the backyard, all he was thinking about was when he was next going to see Vicky. I feel like such an idiot. I feel like I was being used.”

  Well, what could Louise say to that? She, too, felt that she and her daughter had been duped, fooled, and mistreated by Andrew Bessire.

  Once Andrew had moved out of the house, Isobel had refused to see him. That last breakfast date had taken place well over two years ago. Louise wondered if Isobel ever thought about those mornings, or if she had cut all emotional ties to the old rituals and habits. She hadn’t asked her daughter those questions, not directly. She didn’t know if they were the sort of questions she should be asking.

  Louise got up from the kitchen table. She thought about what Catherine had told her earlier. She had defended Jeff to Catherine so strongly, as if her faith in him was absolute. Why? Because she had to believe in him as a good and decent person. The idea that she had unwittingly allowed her daughter to date a jerk was deeply unacceptable; it was not a possibility she was willing or able to entertain.

  “I’m a good mother,” Louise told the kitchen. “I would never let anything bad happen to my daughter. Never.”

  Chapter 26

  CITYMOUSE

  Bonjour!

  Today I want to share with my Dear Readers some snaps Gwen and I took while at the beach yesterday. Ogunquit Beach (also called Main Beach; it stretches from Ogunquit on into Wells) is considered one of the most beautiful beaches in the world, and hey, I’m down with that! The Marginal Way, which starts in Perkins Cove and winds its way along the rocky coast and into town, isn’t technically part of the beach, but it’s definitely an essential part of the Ogunquit experience. The view from the cliff path is spectacular and dramatic—you’re looking out over the wild Atlantic Ocean!

  So, about Photo Number One. This family of five from Toronto is almost too cute to be real, but trust me, they are real and they were super-nice about letting us take their picture. Look at how the seven-year-old boy is hamming it up for the camera! Mom looked smashing in her neon pink two-piece and Dad’s sun hat is the hippest goofy sun hat I’ve ever seen. The twins—two years old in September, we learned—are named Sam (Samuel) and Pam (Pamela), and they love swimming in a pool but are still kind of afraid of the ocean. (I don’t blame them! Icky seaweed, jagged rocks, crashing waves, oh my!)

  Now, Photo Number Two. Here’s a couple Gwen and I have seen several times this summer and last. They were on their way back home after a morning of rest and relaxation before the hordes arrived and the sun hit its full height. I boldly asked them how long they had been married (I guessed, as both were wearing bands on the fourth fingers of their left hands), and they graciously told us that they had tied the proverbial knot six years ago, after the death of their respective spouses, to whom they had been married for a bazillion years or so. How lovely that these people—Martha and John—found each other in the golden years and were courageous enough to take another emotional leap of faith.

  Last but not least, Photo Number Three. Here are two BFFs—really! These two women told us they are fifty-eight years old and have been best friends since grammar school. Gwen and I were impressed and hope to be our own version of these ladies someday. The hat on Maryanne was a gift from Julianne; we love its impossibly wide brim. Julianne’s necklace was a gift from Maryanne; the beads are real lapis lazuli, a truly luxurious stone beloved by the ancient Egyptians, and we all know they could do no wrong in the style and taste department. Each woman is married (with kids, and Julianne has a grandson), but they don’t let that stop them from spending three or four days alone together in Ogunquit every summer. Here’s to friendship!

  Finally, when our work was done for the day, Gwen and I sank to the sand and grabbed a well-deserved rest, complete with ice cream cones, strawberry for Gwen, vanilla for me. For once I got behind the camera and took a photo of Gwen—here she is in a lovely cover-up in a flowy, chif-fony fabric. The green and tan print works perfectly with this week’s emerald hair. And here I am in a black retro one-piece; the woman who wore this back when it was new must now be une femme d’une certain age, as the French say. (The French really do have a way with words.) The suit is in near-perfect condition, so I’m guessing the original owner did not wear it to do daily laps in a chlorinated pool!

  All in all it was a wonderful day. There’s nothing like the beach for attracting all sorts of people in one happy, feel-good place.

  Ha
ve a sunny summer’s day, Everyone!

  “Um,” Gwen asked in a whisper, “why did he come with us on this excursion anyway?”

  Isobel, Gwen, and Jeff were in a vintage clothing shop called Good Old Days. It occupied most of the first floor of a big old Victorian farmhouse out on Springfield Road and had an eclectic selection of clothes and accessories from the 1920s through the 1990s.

  “Uh,” Isobel replied, also in a whisper, “he’s my boyfriend.” It was the first time she had ever said those words to anyone but herself. She hoped it was true, that Jeff really was her official boyfriend. How did you know about something like that? Did someone make an announcement? How, Isobel thought, can I be sixteen years old and not know this?

  “Well, I know he’s your boyfriend,” Gwen was saying, “but doesn’t he have better things to do, like, I don’t know, hang out with his guy friends? You can see he’s bored out of his mind. He should be in a sports bar, cheering on the Red Sox. Isn’t that what most straight guys do if they’re not actually playing sports? Eat nachos and watch sports?”

  Isobel started to respond with something like, “Yeah, but—” when she realized that she had no idea who Jeff’s friends were. She assumed he had friends—after all, he was so nice and good-looking!—though he hardly ever mentioned anyone, and the one or two times he had mentioned a name, it was that of a guy he knew from school in Vermont. Jeff had pointed out that this guy—Terry—was the son of someone rich and powerful, or maybe the son of someone nearly famous. She couldn’t remember, exactly. Did Jeff really have no other friends? She remembered how he had asked why she hadn’t invited him along to the beach the other day. He had seemed a bit put out, even a bit hurt. “It’s just that I’m crazy about you,” he had said. “If I could, I would spend every minute of my days and nights with you.”

  She had felt enormously flattered and then, a tiny bit worried. It was a big responsibility, meaning so much to someone that they wanted to spend all their time with you. But with her characteristic optimism, she had dismissed those tiny worries. Maybe Jeff was the proverbial Lone Wolf. Maybe he liked it that way. That was all right. Actually, it was kind of cool, being the One and Only for the Lone Wolf.