The Summer Everything Changed

by Holly Chamberlin

  “He’s just being supportive,” Isobel said to Gwen, finally.

  Gwen glanced at Jeff, who was standing a few yards away, arms folded across his chest, yawning. “I guess,” she mumbled. “But I wish he didn’t have to lurk like that.”

  Isobel laughed. “He’s not lurking. Come on, Gwen!”

  “Well, if he has to be here maybe he could actually help us. Not that we need help, but he could offer to be useful. Carry my tripod or something.”

  “You don’t have your tripod today,” Isobel pointed out.

  “Whatever.”

  “He offered to drive us wherever we wanted to go. You were the one who insisted on driving your car.”

  “I didn’t insist. I prefer to drive myself. Us. Besides, he drives too fast.”

  “He does not! Only sometimes.”

  “Once is all it takes,” Gwen said in an ominous tone.

  Isobel turned toward a circular rack of dresses. Gwen could be so dramatic! Why did she have to make her question Jeff’s being with them as anything other than, well, normal? She took a deep breath. They were having a nice time. There was no need for drama, even if Gwen thought there was.

  Her eye stopped on a dress and she carefully removed it from the rack.

  “What did you find?” Gwen asked, joining her.

  Isobel studied the dress for a moment before answering, “The seams are in good shape, it’s got all its buttons, which are very cute—see? They’ve got a tiny running horse stamped in—and the length is just right. I adore the V-neck. It’s not too low, but it would really frame the right necklace. What do you think, Gwen?”

  “I think it’s cool,” Gwen said. “The color is so unusual. Like a cross between watermelon and, I don’t know, Orangina. It’s definitely a summer statement. Is there a brand name?”

  “The label is cut out. I’m guessing maybe a Forma, about ten, twelve years ago.”

  “Good call.”

  “Jeff?”

  Isobel turned to Jeff, and held the dress up against her.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  Jeff raised his eyebrows in an expression of disbelief. Or was it puzzlement?

  “What?” she said. “You don’t like it?”

  For answer Jeff turned away and idly began to flip through a rack of plaid work shirts.

  “Good thing he doesn’t have to wear it,” Gwen muttered. “So, are you getting it?”

  Isobel hesitated. “Well,” she said, “maybe not . . .” She returned the dress to the rack. She wasn’t sure it was a great idea to purposely choose to wear something your boyfriend didn’t like. If it were an accident, then no worries. But it could be kind of insulting to be all, hey, I know you loathe and despise this dress but I’m wearing it anyway. Wouldn’t it? She wasn’t so sure she would do that to her mother, either, or to Gwen . . . But would her mother or Gwen even care what she wore as long as Isobel herself liked it?

  “It would look great on you,” Gwen said, emphatically.

  Isobel shrugged. “I’ll think about it. It’s not like I need another dress right now . . .”

  “Since when is need the issue?” Gwen sighed. “Whatever. If we’re not going to buy anything, let’s get going. Are you coming with me?”

  Isobel didn’t answer immediately. She really didn’t want to abandon Jeff; he had driven his own car and could take off whenever he wanted to, but . . . Poor guy, she thought. He was probably bored beyond belief. As a rule men didn’t like to shop. Everyone knew that. It really had been nice of him to offer to come along. “You go on,” she said finally to Gwen. “I think I’ll hang out with Jeff.”

  Gwen shrugged. “If he exceeds the speed limit, tell him to slow down. ’Bye, Jeff,” she called out.

  Jeff didn’t react. “He must not have heard you,” Isobel said. “I’ll tell him you said good-bye.”

  “No worries. Have fun,” she said, and headed out of the store.

  Jeff was at Isobel’s side the moment Gwen was gone. “I thought she would never leave. Now we can be alone.”

  “Didn’t you hear her call out good-bye?” Isobel asked.

  “No,” Jeff said. “Did she?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.”

  “So, you really don’t like that dress? Gwen thought it would look good on me.”

  Jeff laughed and drew her into his arms. “Izzy,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head, “what am I going to do with you?”

  Chapter 27

  Louise sat at the kitchen table, her laptop open in front of her. She had started out almost an hour and a half earlier browsing online for wedding inspiration. She yawned hugely and wondered where the time had gone.

  It was amazing what a time sink the Internet could be. You hunted down your information with very little fuss and then four hours later you raised your swollen eyes from the screen and didn’t know where the hell you were. Daily Mail UK Online? Why were you reading that trash? And how in God’s name had you gotten to a site about some new, supposedly fantastic handheld vacuum and from there, on to a site that promised to double your financial investments within a week? “And don’t get me started on all the websites about cats and their wacky antics,” Louise mumbled to the empty kitchen. They were more addictive than anything else, like the one about Maru, the Japanese Internet sensation who in one clip managed to stuff himself into a box about one-eighth of his bulk . . .

  Enough! Louise got up from the table and began the preparations for a press pot of coffee. She smiled a bit wickedly as she did. Flora Michaels had sent a panicky e-mail (odd, as her usual tone both on-screen and off was icy indifference) saying that the bride was rumored to be four months’ pregnant. Flora Michaels and Calvin Streep were on their way to her home in a desperate effort to convince her not to postpone the nuptials. A “bride with a bump” was chic nowadays, Flora Michaels stated, as if trying to convince Louise of this interesting fact. The bride must be made to understand this!

  Louise had no sympathy to offer the bride or the wedding planner; she thought the rituals surrounding celebrity pregnancy and motherhood were ridiculous. Consider the frantic rush to erase any trace of the pregnancy! It was pretty insulting to the baby, when you thought about it. Mummy loves you but Mummy doesn’t want anyone to know she gave birth to you. For her part, Louise had been thrilled by her child’s birth, and proud to bear the stretch marks.

  Louise poured a cup of fresh coffee and savored the first sip. Ah, she thought, here I am enjoying life’s simple pleasures when no doubt the celebrity couple’s agents are frantically selling print and online rights to magazines and newspapers and Internet venues. What a lot of fuss for what came down to just a party. You could get married in a courthouse or on a rowboat and save yourself the time and expense. What mattered were the vows, not the venue.

  Her own wedding had taken place in a Universalist Unitarian church, with only about twenty people in attendance. They had honeymooned in Italy, a week in Rome and another in Ravenna. And the early years of the marriage had been really wonderful, filled with laughter and joy and the sheer fun of a child in their midst.

  Where, when, why had it gone wrong?

  Andrew’s excuse for leaving her had been inarguable. He said that he had fallen out of love with her. What did that mean? Louise had wondered. Andrew couldn’t quite say. Clearly, he didn’t find her physically attractive any longer. They hadn’t had sex in almost eight or nine months, but that wasn’t terribly unusual for long-married couples, was it? Maybe he had become bored by her, by the meals she routinely cooked, by the TV shows she routinely watched, by the turns of phrase she routinely used, but she had become kind of bored by him, too. That was usual, also. Your spouse wasn’t supposed to entertain you every day of the year. That was what television and movies and books and music were for. And friends. And children. And big fat cats like Maru . . .

  Thankfully, James and Jim came into the kitchen just then, interrupting thoughts that threatened to become morbid and quickly.


  “We just thought we’d see if you wanted anything special from Portland,” James said. “We’re on our way up there now for lunch at our favorite Mexican restaurant.”

  “And you know we’re going to stop at Brown Trading while we’re there,” Jim added.

  Louise smiled. “How about you see what goody you can find me for twenty dollars,” she said. “I doubt it’s going to be caviar, but . . .”

  “Deal.”

  No sooner had the men gone out through the front door of the inn than Catherine, sans Charlie, came knocking at the back door.

  “Am I interrupting?” she asked.

  Louise smiled. “Yes, but nothing that can’t be interrupted. Slightly sad thoughts that were threatening to get very depressing very soon.”

  “Oh good. I mean, good that I’m not interrupting happy thoughts. I guess. Anyway, I wanted to bring by that book I was telling you about.” She held out a fat trade-sized paperback for Louise to take. “The Historian. You’ll love it, trust me.”

  Louise glanced at the back cover and put the book next to the computer. “Thanks. Honestly, I’m not sure I’ll have time to read it until after the wedding from Hades has come and gone . . .”

  “No worries. Save it as a well-deserved treat.”

  “My list of literary treats is getting longer every day. I just bought a copy of Bring up the Bodies by Hilary Mantel. Of course, I’ll have to reread Wolf Hall first. My mind has become a sieve . . .”

  “Just wait until you hit the menopausal years. Or, as they are also known, the ‘mental pause’ years. You’ll think back upon your old self as a rocket scientist.”

  “Yikes. That bad, huh?”

  Catherine’s response—her open mouth indicated that she was about to say something—was interrupted by yet another visitor at the back door. This time, it was Jeff Otten.

  “I hope this isn’t a bad time?” he asked, smiling from Louise to Catherine.

  “No, no, come in,” Louise said.

  She would have to have been blind not to notice the massive bouquet of flowers cradled in the crook of his left arm. At first glance Louise could see that there were lush pink peonies and pale green bells of Ireland and quite a few white roses. It was a pastel symphony. The entire bundle was protected by shiny cellophane and tied with a pink satin ribbon.

  “These are for you,” Jeff said, offering the bouquet with a touching solemnity.

  Louise took it gently. “It’s gorgeous!” she exclaimed. “Catherine, look at this!”

  “It’s a stunning piece,” Catherine agreed.

  “I know the owner of the shop pretty well,” Jeff said, with modesty. “He owed me a favor actually, so . . .”

  “I have to put these in water immediately.” Louise went to a cupboard for a vase and busied herself filling it with water. The flowers, she thought, would look lovely in the parlor, but she was sorely tempted to take them up to her own bedroom. Guests didn’t have to share every aspect of her life!

  She turned the water off and became aware that Jeff was speaking to Catherine.

  “I’m glad to see you again, actually,” he was saying. “I felt so badly about what happened when we met the other day. Dogs usually love me. Anyway, I’m really sorry if I did something to upset Charlie. Maybe I made a sudden move or maybe it was the tone of my voice . . .”

  Catherine smiled. “I wondered if it was your cologne or aftershave that set her off.”

  Jeff looked stunned. “Wow,” he said. “I never thought about that possibility! Animals are super-sensitive to odors, way more than we are. Again, I apologize.”

  “No harm done. And thank God for that!”

  Jeff laughed. “Yeah. Charlie’s teeth looked in very sharp shape.” Jeff checked his watch. Louise noted that it was a Rolex. “Well,” he said, “I’ve got to run.”

  “Busy at work?” Louise asked.

  “Always. My dad is a tough taskmaster. But that’s one of the reasons he’s so successful. And speaking of Dad, I’d better hurry—he’s expecting me.”

  With a final wave Jeff scooted out of the room.

  “Thanks again for the flowers,” Louise called after him. “Sheesh,” she said, turning to her friend. “It’s been like Grand Central Station in here today. Not that I’m complaining. It’s nice to feel like you’re really part of the community.”

  Catherine was frowning a bit.

  “What?” Louise asked.

  “Nothing. It’s just that he’s actually pretty okay, isn’t he, the junior Mr. Otten.”

  “I told you. Maybe Charlie was having an off day when she tried to attack him. She’s entitled. The best of us get the grumpies.”

  “Yeah. He did seem pretty genuine just now, and sorry, though he had no reason to apologize. Maybe I was too quick to judge. It’s been known to happen. And I do feel a bit protective of Isobel. How can I not?”

  “And I appreciate that,” Louise said. “Believe me.”

  “Not that she’s the daughter I never had but . . . Well, in some way I guess she’s the daughter I wish I had had.”

  “We can share her friendship, to some extent.”

  Catherine smiled. “Thanks. But I’ll let you handle the college tuition.”

  “Ha! How generous of you! Though actually, I’m hoping Isobel herself will cover a lot of the cost of college with academic scholarships. God knows, she’s no athlete.”

  “On that note, I should get going and leave you to the business of running this inn, just in case all those scholarships don’t materialize.”

  Catherine took her leave.

  Louise regarded the bouquet Jeff had brought her and inhaled its heady fragrance. She hadn’t seen anything quite so luscious in ages. It could easily be used as a bridal bouquet.

  And speaking of which . . . Louise grabbed her phone and placed a call to Flora Michaels, wedding planner to the earthbound stars.

  Chapter 28

  CITYMOUSE

  Greetings, All!

  On this lovely July morning I want to pay a long-overdue homage to the women of Se Vende, one of if not the most beautiful and welcoming and interesting stores in Portland.

  Sage and Olive are the coolest mother/ daughter team next to LouLou and me. They travel around the world choosing stuff for their excellent site on Exchange Street—all sorts of colorful pottery, beautifully crafted hammocks, mirrors in intricately carved frames, and—my favorite!—lots of unique and simply stunning jewelry from Mexico, Israel, Turkey, Vietnam, and other wonderful places I hope to visit someday! (See Gwen’s photos below.) And if you’re really lucky, Sage’s huge gray kitty will be hanging out with her! And maybe you’ll also get to meet their friend Cait, who is an artist and a professional belly dancer and a super-nice person, too!

  Pop in when you’re in Portland and tell them CityMouse (aka, me) sent you!

  Now, to mention the outstanding Diana Vreeland yet again . . . She was quoted as having this to say about fashion magazines (way back before blogs and websites, of course):

  “What these magazines gave was a point of view. Most people haven’t got a point of view; they need to have it given to them.”

  By the way, it was Ms. Vreeland who, in the opinion of those who know, pretty much invented the role of the powerful, all-knowing fashion editor.

  Now, my brief comments on the above: I’m not sure if I wholly agree with the statement I quoted. I like to give people the benefit of the doubt and think that everyone truly does have her own thoughts—not that some direction can’t be helpful in shaping a point of view!

  I have no desire to be an arbiter of style or fashion for others (hey, I think that’s the first time I’ve used that word—arbiter!). People who blog about fashion have become known as “style influencers,” and that’s a pretty big responsibility to bear.

  I’m too humble (yes, really) and too non-ambitious (ditto) to think that I have anything so vitally important to say that it would or should change someone’s mind or heart about something
as personal and individual (at least, it should be) as style.

  Well, CityMouse signing off for now before I talk/write myself into an even deeper mess!

  It had taken almost an hour to get to what Jeff had referred to as “the Blackmore estate.” When they pulled up into the ridiculously long driveway, it was already crowded with cars—nice ones, at that.

  Isobel took a deep breath. She felt nervous and hesitant and she had since Jeff had first told her about the party.

  “The Blackmores are important people,” he had informed her. “I hope you have something appropriate to wear.”

  “Oh,” she had said. “Well, what sort of . . . I mean, is it fancy dress?”

  Jeff had laughed. “Isobel, you’re too cute. I told you, it’s a lawn party. In the middle of the day.”

  “Oh. Okay. So, how do you know the Blackmores?”

  “They’re friends of the family. They’re good people.”

  That made sense. The rich and powerful were friends with the rich and powerful. The rich and powerful didn’t hang out at Arby’s or Walmart, meeting up with the poor and insignificant. It was the same reason rock stars married models and not the girls who worked at J. C. Penney or the nail salon.

  Still, Isobel had not been at all reassured. She had even thought for a brief moment of using her mother as an excuse, before realizing that a lie could get complicated very quickly. Besides, why in the world would her mother refuse to let Isobel attend a daytime party at the home of a respectable family?

  But Jeff had taken the decision out of her hands. He had called her mother to assure her that the people hosting the party were decent and that many of the guests were also friends of the Otten family, and that while there would be alcohol he would refrain from drinking, and that they would be home well before dark.