The Summer Everything Changed

by Holly Chamberlin

  Her mom had seemed pleased that Jeff had come to her with reassurances, and of course she had assumed that Isobel wanted to go to the party. Isobel hadn’t had the heart to tell her mother the truth.

  Sigh. She had had the worst time choosing an outfit. She had never been told to dress “appropriately” for an event before; it was a lot of pressure! Finally, she had settled on an A-line skirt that came to just below her knee, in a summery plaid of pale blues, greens, and yellows; a pale yellow shirt; and low wedge sandals. Sandals and bag were the color of heavy cream. She kept her jewelry simple—gold-tone hoop earrings; three gold-tone bangle bracelets; and a blue topaz and silver ring that her father had given her for her twelfth birthday. (She might be displeased with her father, but that didn’t mean she had to be displeased with a perfectly innocent piece of jewelry!)

  When Jeff had come to pick her up, he hadn’t commented on her outfit. She took his silence on the subject as approval. Still, when she got into the car he was frowning.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, wondering if bare legs were somehow not exactly “the thing” for a party at the Blackmores’.

  “That guy.” He jerked his head in the direction of the driver’s side window. Isobel leaned forward and looked past him.

  “Oh, Quentin.”

  “I know who he is. What’s he doing here?”

  Isobel had giggled. “Don’t the hedge clippers give it away? He works for us! He’s sort of a handyman, jack-of-all-trades. It’s pretty amazing, all the things he can do.”

  Jeff had not replied. He drove them swiftly off, with another frowning look in Quentin’s direction.

  Once parked in the long drive of the Blackmore estate, Jeff took Isobel by the elbow and they joined the other party-goers on a spacious lawn. Isobel glanced around at the other guests and had trouble discerning a dress code. There were women in shorts and T-shirts, in linen pants and silky blouses; there were women in maxi-dresses and there were women (some of the younger ones) in miniskirts. With few exceptions, the men wore chinos with white or blue oxford shirts, sleeves folded up to mid-forearm, and natty European-style loafers. Jeff was one of the exceptions. His jeans were on trend—dark and slouchy—his shirt was taupe linen (Isobel thought he must have an entire closet full of linen shirts), and he wore it buttoned at the collar and sleeves. His low-heeled boots were artfully scraped and bruised. Isobel thought he was easily the best-looking and the best-dressed man at the party.

  The house was enormous, one of the largest Isobel had seen, and she had seen a heck of a lot of impressive piles both back in Massachusetts and here in Maine. In spite of its romantic if somewhat grand name—Eagle’s Eye Ridge—she found herself forced to describe it (silently, as she didn’t want to insult anyone’s taste) as a McMansion, more bland bulk than interesting style, more hotel chain than personalized home.

  The hosts—and Jeff had not introduced her to them; for a while Isobel wasn’t even sure who they were among the crowd—had erected a tent under which had been placed about twenty small round tables with chairs. There was a live band set up at one end, playing a selection of jazz and blues and classic rock, and waiters circulated the lawn with trays of appetizers. A bar served beer, wine, and a limited range of exotic cocktails, none of which were at all familiar to Isobel. There were no dogs and no children. In fact, Isobel thought she was probably the youngest person at the party by several years.

  This shindig, Isobel thought, made the Ryan-Roberts party look amateur in comparison—if you cared about comparing such things. Isobel found herself longing for shouting boys with massive water pistols, and pudgy pugs underfoot.

  They had been there no more than ten minutes when Jeff turned to her and announced that he had to “do the rounds.”

  “It’s my social duty when I represent my family,” he explained.

  “Okay,” Isobel said. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No.” His reply was emphatic. “Why don’t you get something to drink?”

  She watched him walk off and join a small group of guys about his age. They all shook hands. Jeff must have said something funny because all three of the guys suddenly laughed. One glanced in her direction, and Isobel immediately felt embarrassed. Of course she hadn’t been the object of a joke, especially not one told by Jeff. Wow, I am being beyond silly today, she scolded herself.

  She turned away and walked to the bar, where she asked for a seltzer with a slice of lime (she usually asked for lemon, but maybe it was time to be wild and crazy!), and while she sipped it, she couldn’t help but overhear a conversation between two very well-dressed middle-aged women. They were talking about Jeff’s older brother, Michael. The brother Jeff hadn’t yet mentioned to her.

  Flynn had told her mother that Michael Otten was an impressive person, and had been even as a kid. The women’s conversation revealed more of the same. Something about an award he had won for some research . . . Isobel didn’t want to linger in the hopes of catching details and risk being caught eavesdropping on a private conversation—especially a private conversation among people who—if their clothes and jewelry were any indication—were very probably “important.”

  Isobel moved off. She remembered that her mother had mentioned that Michael Otten worked for a big pharmaceutical company and that he was based somewhere in Switzerland. She would like to go to Switzerland someday. In fact—

  Her thoughts about travel scattered when she spotted Jeff a few yards off, chatting with another girl. She looked about Jeff’s age or maybe, Isobel thought, even a bit older, twenty-one or twenty-two. She was dressed in a skintight short skirt and an equally skintight T-shirt with spaghetti straps, and on her feet were a pair of wedges that had to be at least five inches high. Her hair was sleek and black and very long; her eyes were hidden behind enormous black sunglasses. For the first time in her entire life, Isobel felt a twinge of doubt about her appearance. She felt juvenile and even a bit—dowdy.

  Jeff leaned down and whispered something in the girl’s ear. Whatever he said made her smile and touch his arm. And then he came strolling toward her, a smile on his face that Isobel could only call secretive.

  “Hey, there you are,” he said. “I was looking all over for you.”

  You weren’t looking very hard, Isobel answered silently. “Who was that girl?” she asked.

  “What? That girl I was just talking to?” He shrugged. “Just some girl.”

  Isobel struggled to keep her voice even. “Do you know her?” she asked. “I mean, did you know her before today, or did you just meet her?”

  Jeff’s expression stiffened, and he took a step closer to her. “What’s up with the third degree?” he demanded.

  “Nothing.” Isobel hesitated. She felt a bit intimidated with him looming over her. She took a tiny step backward. “It’s just that it looked like you were—like you were flirting with her. It was . . . it was kind of embarrassing for me.” And hurtful, she added silently. And humiliating. And utterly shocking.

  Jeff sneered. “You have some nerve yelling at me. I saw you with that guy before, over by the band. You were totally coming on to him.”

  Isobel felt her stomach lurch with the absurdity of Jeff’s proclamation. “I wasn’t yelling at you, and I was not coming on to him,” she protested. “He said hello to me and I said hello back. That was all. How could you accuse me of . . . of doing something so awful?”

  Jeff grunted and shook his head. “You’re such a child, Izzy. You have no idea what you’re doing, do you? Look, just don’t talk to anyone for the rest of the party, okay? These people are my friends. I don’t need the embarrassment.”

  He turned away and then, spun around and pointed a finger at her.

  “And by the way,” he said, “I saw that photo of you on your blog, the one where you’re wearing that skimpy bathing suit. I also don’t need people seeing my girlfriend half-naked. I’m an Otten. Remember that. We have a reputation to uphold.”

  And then he stalked off.
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  Isobel opened her mouth, as if to respond to Jeff’s latest criticism, but even if he had still been there to hear her, she had no idea what she would—or could—say to him.

  She closed her mouth. She had never felt so utterly embarrassed. She wondered if anyone had heard their confrontation, but she couldn’t bring herself to glance around for witnesses. What would she do if someone caught her eye?

  Isobel spent the rest of the party on her own, afraid that another guy would try to talk to her, or that she would catch Jeff with another girl. More than once she found herself fighting back tears. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Jeff rejoined her and announced that they were leaving. Without another word they walked to his car and got in. Jeff was silent on the ride home. It wasn’t usual for him. Or was it? Was what she had witnessed today par for Jeff’s course? Was this sort of thing what routinely went on between boyfriend and girlfriend?

  Isobel just didn’t know. She had been out of her league, spending an afternoon with people who were so much older, people with more experience dating and flirting. People who were drinking. Not that anyone had acted drunk, but even one glass of wine or one bottle of beer could have an effect on someone’s behavior . . .

  Finally—the ride had seemed interminable to Isobel—they pulled up outside the inn.

  “Good-bye, Jeff,” Isobel said, her voice soft.

  He grunted, and didn’t look over at her.

  Isobel got her courage in hand. “Thanks for taking me to the party.”

  This time, he didn’t even bother to grunt.

  He made no attempt to kiss her. She was very grateful but also very disappointed. Isobel got out of the car and he pulled off immediately.

  Isobel felt chastened. Jeff always waited to be sure she got inside safely. But it was still light out and they had had a fight, their first fight . . .

  The sound of typing on a keyboard led Isobel back to the kitchen. Her mother was at the table, engaged in Blueberry Bay work, no doubt. She looked up briefly at Isobel, and then looked back to the computer.

  “How was the party?” she asked. “Did you have a nice time?”

  “Yeah,” Isobel said. “But I’m really tired. The sun was super-hot . . . I’m going to go upstairs and read for a while before bed.”

  “Did you get enough to eat?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  Without looking up from the computer again, her mother said, “Okay, good night.”

  Isobel escaped to her room. It had never felt as much like a safe haven until now. Still, she lay awake for hours, her mind racing and turning back on itself. Mostly, she felt guilty about what had happened at the party.

  Maybe, she thought, watching the light fade from the sky through the window, she just wasn’t ready to date; maybe she should let Jeff go before she did something to really embarrass him. He hadn’t even introduced her to the hosts, the Blackmores. He had probably been afraid she would say or do something stupid or immature.

  Still, Isobel felt that Jeff shouldn’t have been flirting so openly with that girl. But she was a fair-minded person, wasn’t she? She and Jeff had never been at a party together before today. Maybe Jeff was just a flirty guy. Some people were and they didn’t mean anything serious by it. It was a personality type, really, like the way some people were cutups and others were wallflowers.

  Isobel tossed the covers off and minutes later, pulled them back up. She plumped the pillows. She got up and paced. She realized that as bad as the night was, she dreaded the morning more, when she would have to do something, take a step, make a decision . . .

  Finally, surprisingly, she slept, and dreamed of nothing she could remember.

  Once again, Jeff made the decision for her. He sent her a text at 6 a.m. to ask if he could come by the inn later that morning. Isobel said that he could.

  At ten he arrived.

  Isobel’s mother had gone to Wells to get a haircut. Bella was cleaning up in the kitchen, soon to leave for the day, and the housekeeping staff was busy putting the guest rooms back in order. Isobel met Jeff on the front porch. She realized she had absolutely no idea what to expect from their meeting. She felt more awkward than she had ever felt in her entire life.

  “Thanks for letting me come by,” Jeff said. His tone was apologetic. At least, Isobel thought it was. At the moment, she didn’t feel sure of very much. Her stomach was one big, uncomfortable knot; she hadn’t been able to eat a bite of Bella’s beautifully prepared breakfast.

  Isobel found that the only reply she could give was a nod.

  “I guess I had a little too much to drink at the party yesterday,” Jeff went on. “I’m so sorry, Isobel. I swear I’ll never let anything like that happen again. Please, believe me.”

  “Okay,” she said, though she still wasn’t at all sure she believed him. She wondered if it would be fair to take that “okay” back . . .

  “You didn’t say anything to your mother, did you?” Jeff asked.

  Isobel shook her head. “No.”

  “Good.” He put his hand over his heart, as if in relief. “I wouldn’t want to worry her over nothing. So, do you forgive me?”

  He looked so sad and so serious. The only person Isobel had ever had trouble giving a second chance was her dad—and that was only since he had left them for Vicky.

  “Of course I forgive you,” she said, and now, she was sure that she meant it.

  “Thanks. I mean it.” Jeff grinned. “Really, Izzy, the whole thing is kind of your fault. You’re so pretty, you make me crazy with jealousy. The only reason I was talking to that other girl was because I had seen you talking to that guy, and, well, I . . . I guess I kind of flipped out. I’ve never felt about anyone else the way I feel about you.”

  “Really?” Isobel felt a smile creep to her face.

  “Really. And then you were wearing that short skirt, and I swear every guy at the party was giving you the eye.”

  Short skirt? The skirt she had worn to the party came down to her knees. She remembered Jeff’s feelings about that cool orange dress in the resale shop. The dress wasn’t at all revealing, but he hadn’t liked that, either. And the vintage bathing suit . . . It provided more coverage than most modern one-piece bathing suits did. You could see more skin on Main Street any day in July or August—and you usually did!

  Could Jeff really be so conservative in his tastes . . . But if he was, why had he been flirting with a girl in such a tight and revealing outfit? Was his behavior, as he had confessed, all due to alcohol?

  Isobel felt a sense of uncertainty taking hold again. Nothing about the whole incident made much sense to her, but . . . Life was uncertain. Everything about it was always up in the air and unresolved. Things changed from moment to moment. Maturity meant learning to accept that.

  Jeff reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out a white box tied with a purple ribbon.

  “Here,” he said, holding the box out to her. “I got this for you the other day. I was going to save it for a while, but I think that now’s the right time. You deserve it.”

  Isobel stared at the box in Jeff’s hand.

  Jeff laughed. “Go ahead. It won’t bite.”

  With a nervous smile (it had to look nervous because she felt all tingly inside), she took the box from him and untied the ribbon (noting that it was a wonderful shade of purple, like the skin of a plum). Carefully, she opened the box. Inside, resting on a piece of what looked and felt like satin, was a slim bracelet, a bangle scattered with clear, sparkling stones. Isobel was speechless.

  “It’s white gold,” Jeff said.

  Jeff didn’t say anything about the stones in the piece, and Isobel didn’t dare ask. Probably, she thought, they’re crystals, maybe Swarovski. Wow.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, fighting the urge to cry with happiness. “I—Thank you.”

  Jeff put the bracelet on her wrist and squeezed her hand gently.

  “Better than that ugly brooch you were going on about,” he said.


  Jeff, of course, meant the Marena piece that woman in town had been wearing. “Well, this is prettier . . . in a more feminine way,” Isobel admitted.

  “So, are we good?”

  Isobel nodded.

  Jeff laughed. “I was really worried you were going to dump me. I swear, I didn’t sleep at all last night. I couldn’t believe I had been such a jerk.”

  “Me, too,” she said. “I mean, eventually I fell asleep but . . .”

  Jeff took her hand and pulled her down to sit next to him on the top step.

  “Well, everything is back to normal now,” he said. “It’s all good.”

  It was all good, Isobel thought. And she didn’t want to dwell for one more second on the past.

  “I keep meaning to ask you,” she said brightly. “Why haven’t you told me you have an older brother? I heard someone at the party talking about him.”

  Jeff frowned. “We’re not close. And I wouldn’t believe everything you hear about him.”

  “Why? It wasn’t anything bad. In fact—”

  “Isobel. Can we not talk about this please?”

  “Oh. Sure.”

  Jeff smiled and squeezed her hand. “Good. Let’s just be here together.”

  But that wasn’t meant to be. Just then a car pulled up the drive and came to a smooth stop. A woman slid out of the driver’s seat. It was one of the inn’s guests. She was tall and thin—she had not-so-casually mentioned to Isobel’s mother that she had worked as a model for some years before getting married—and was wearing a wraparound dress in cobalt blue with black platform/stiletto heels. It was an outfit meant to be noticed.

  “Who’s that?” Jeff asked.

  “That’s Mrs. White,” Isobel said. “Her husband goes off every morning to play golf and she goes off for a bout of retail therapy. I can’t say I blame her. Golf seems pretty boring, and shopping is so much fun!”

  Today Mrs. White had been to the outlets in Kittery. Isobel spotted a bag from Banana Republic, one from Coach, and another from a store she didn’t recognize. Idly, Isobel wondered what was inside the bags. Mrs. White’s style didn’t much interest her; Isobel called it “women on parade,” a slightly more sophisticated version of “girls on parade,” and you saw it all the time.