The Summer Everything Changed

by Holly Chamberlin

  Isobel opened the laptop again and checked Vicky’s Facebook page; she checked it regularly now, even though it was like poking an open wound. It was studded with pictures of her father with Vicky and the girls in a variety of locations— at the beach, on someone’s huge boat, at a lake. Some pictures looked suspiciously like they had been taken in Newport. (For all Isobel knew, her father had told Vicky that she was the one who had cancelled out on the visit to Newport.) In the most recent photos you could see that Vicky was pregnant.

  Isobel closed the laptop again. It was ridiculous, this situation with her dad. Like, the fact that they hadn’t Skyped since just before that disappointing afternoon they had spent together in Boston back in March. Sure, she could suggest a video chat but she didn’t feel up to being rejected. And even if her father did agree to a video chat there was no guarantee he would pay attention to their conversation. The last time he had been totally distracted. The girls kept interrupting (he hadn’t asked them to stop), his cell phone kept ringing (he hadn’t turned off the ringer), and when she had asked him if he had read her blog recently he had said, “What blog?” and then, “Oh, oh right, jeez, sorry, honey. No, I haven’t been keeping up with it.”

  She had felt annoyed and humiliated.

  Suddenly, sitting there at her desk, Isobel felt an intense surge of anger. Her cheeks, she realized, were ablaze. Why had it never occurred to her to wonder what her mother thought of her father’s neglect? Had her mother even noticed that her father had gone missing? Had she tried to persuade or force him to be a better correspondent? What kind of mother was she if she didn’t even . . .

  Isobel put her hands to her face. Her cheeks were still hot. No. It was wrong to be upset with her mother. Of course her mother loved and supported her. If her mother wasn’t on her side, then who was on her side? Nobody, that’s who.

  Not even Jeff?

  Her phone alerted her to a text. It was from him.

  WE R TAKING DRIVE, it said.

  She forced herself to stand, to go into the bathroom and wash her face, to put on a clean T-shirt. Maybe a change of scenery and some fresh air were what she needed. Her life at the inn had become claustrophobic and unhappy. Just that morning she had come close to snapping at a very nice woman who was staying with them for a week. All the woman had done was say hello and ask if Isobel liked living in Ogunquit year-round. Harmless.

  And how long had it been since she had eaten anything? Isobel wondered as she closed her bedroom door behind her. Maybe she would ask Jeff if they could stop and get something to eat . . .

  She did ask but they didn’t stop for lunch until they were in a tiny little town somewhere in New Hampshire. They sat at a booth in the town’s only restaurant, a diner half the size of Bessie’s in Ogunquit. It was close to two o’clock and they were the only customers.

  They had been seated for less than two minutes when a skinny, acne-ridden boy who looked no older than Isobel came to take their order.

  “It’s about time,” Jeff snapped. “You blind or something? We’ve been sitting here for almost fifteen minutes.”

  The boy’s face turned scarlet, emphasizing his terrible acne. Isobel’s heart bled but she said nothing in protest of Jeff’s rude behavior.

  “Sorry,” the boy mumbled.

  Jeff sniggered. “You should be. I could get you fired for letting customers sit here waiting around while you, what, played with yourself in the bathroom?”

  Isobel flinched. Still, she said nothing. Neither did the boy.

  “Get me a burger, medium, and a tuna salad sandwich for her,” Jeff ordered, tossing the menus up at the boy. He caught one. The other fell to the floor.

  “Moron,” Jeff said.

  Isobel realized that her hands were trembling. She put them in her lap. Jeff busied himself with his iPhone. When her sandwich came she just looked at it.

  “Why aren’t you eating?” Jeff demanded. “Is there something wrong with the sandwich? That idiot waiter probably—”

  “No, no, please, Jeff,” she begged, finally finding her voice, “there’s nothing wrong with the sandwich. Please.” She forced herself to take a bite and swallow, and then another, before she put the sandwich down on the plate.

  Jeff devoured his hamburger and fries. When he had finished, he said, “I see you haven’t posted anything new on the blog in the last few days.”

  So, he had been checking. Well, he had the right to read the blog. Anyone could read it. Or look to see if it was still there.

  “Yeah,” Isobel said, attempting a light, nonchalant tone. “I was getting kind of tired of it after all . . .”

  Jeff nodded. “Good. Really, Izzy, I felt like I was losing you to a computer. You were getting pretty obsessed with it all. Frankly, I was worried about you.”

  “Worried?”

  “Yeah. I was afraid you were losing touch with reality. You creative types are notorious for going a bit cuckoo.” Jeff grinned. “It’s part of your charm but only in small doses.”

  Isobel said nothing. She glanced to her right, out onto the main street of the tiny town. She wondered if there was any way she could get home on her own from here . . .

  “I like what you’re wearing,” Jeff said. “Not one of your goofier outfits. Seriously, I don’t know where you come up with some of your ideas about how to dress.”

  Isobel turned back. It was true. She had automatically put on what was probably the most ordinary pair of pants and the most conservative shirt she owned. Other than Jeff’s bracelet, she wore no jewelry. She just hadn’t had the energy or the interest to be creative. Did she really look goofy when she thought she was being innovative? Maybe Jeff wasn’t the only one who laughed at her. Could she have been an object of fun or ridicule all this time and not even known it?

  The waiter appeared again (he was brave, Isobel thought, but of course it was also his job; he had no choice but to be attentive) and asked if Isobel wanted to take what was left of her sandwich with her.

  “No,” Jeff said shortly. “She doesn’t.” When he had gone off, Jeff looked at her with a squint. “It’s probably better you didn’t finish,” he said. “You don’t want to get fat. Do you know my mother wears the same size she wore back in high school? That’s discipline. I respect that in a woman.”

  Isobel said, “Mmm.”

  Jeff took out his wallet and threw just enough cash on the table to cover their meal. He left nothing for the waiter.

  “But we can’t just leave—” Isobel began. The look on Jeff’s face stopped her.

  “He’s not getting what he doesn’t deserve. Come on.”

  Jeff grabbed her hand and half-hauled her out of the diner. Isobel, mortified, prayed the waiter or the manager wouldn’t come running after them. She didn’t know what Jeff would do to them . . .

  Once they were back on the road, a horrible thought came to Isobel. Could Jeff have taken her so far away for lunch because no one knew him at that little hole-in-the-wall diner? It was a safe place to humiliate a stranger without witnesses . . .

  Isobel glanced over at Jeff, at his straight profile, his perfectly groomed hair, his manicured hands on the steering wheel. It was a disloyal thought, despicable really, but she couldn’t come up with any other reason for their being so far from home, and that was a failure not only of her imagination but also of her usually kind and generous spirit.

  Isobel looked back to the road ahead of them. Sometimes she wondered what Jeff saw in her, a ditzy, naïve, and possibly undisciplined girl.

  Jeff leaned on the horn and shouted, “Stupid motherfucker!”

  Isobel flinched. She knew the words weren’t meant for her, but words hurt, even those overheard, even those shouted at a stranger, a middle-aged woman behind the wheel of a Jeep. As far as Isobel could tell, the woman had done nothing wrong.

  “She could have killed us!” Jeff ranted, slapping the steering wheel with his palm. “People are idiots. The road is a dangerous place, Izzy, especially for someone like you.
”

  “Like me?” she asked, her voice small. “What do you mean?”

  “Scattered. You know, like I said before, you’re one of those creative types. It’s better for you to be in the passenger seat than behind the wheel, trust me. If you had been driving a moment ago instead of me, we’d both be roadkill.”

  One of those creative types. Maybe she was, though she hadn’t been feeling very creative lately. But she was competent, wasn’t she? You could be a creative type and still be fully functional. She did well in school and she—“But I—” she began, not sure of what she would say.

  “Now, don’t argue, Izzy. You can’t even keep track of your phone. Not that I don’t find it all pretty cute, the absentmindedness, the forgetfulness. And come on—your jewelry talks to you, tells you it wants to come out of its box for the night? Sheesh, Isobel. If I didn’t know you so well, I’d think you were certifiable.”

  She tried to laugh but what came out was a bit of a cough. “But what if I need to get somewhere?” she said. “I mean, it’s not like there’s any public transportation available where we live, unless you count the summer trolleys.”

  “I’ll drive you anywhere you need to go,” he told her.

  “But what about when you go back to school in September?”

  Jeff glanced at her. “Why would you want to be going anywhere if I’m not with you?” His tone made the question rhetorical.

  They continued the drive in silence. Isobel stared blindly out the passenger’s window. She told herself that Jeff’s offer to drive her wherever she needed to go was a gesture of love and service. And then she remembered how he had abandoned her in town that time he got a text that demanded his attention. And then she remembered that he didn’t want her to go to Portland without him . . .

  My God, if Jeff had his way she would wind up becoming a recluse! Stop it, Isobel, she scolded silently. Stop being so dramatic. Stop being so much of a creative type.

  And then Jeff was pulling the car to a stop in front of Blueberry Bay Inn.

  “I wish I could stay around,” he said, “but I promised my dad I’d go with him to a business dinner at Arrow’s. You’re staying in tonight, right?”

  “Of course.” Where could I go? Isobel thought. I don’t have a license and my best friend is mad at me . . .

  “Good. I’ll check in as often as I can. These guys we’re meeting can be pretty intense, but don’t worry—I won’t forget about you.”

  Isobel smiled but it felt forced. “Okay,” she said.

  She found both her mother and Catherine in the kitchen, drinking coffee.

  “There you are,” her mother said. “I was wondering where you’d gone off to.”

  Isobel shrugged. “Well, here I am.”

  “Do you want something to eat?”

  “No, that’s okay. I had a big lunch,” she lied.

  “So, where were you? Were you out with Jeff?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How is he doing?” Catherine asked.

  “Fine.”

  Isobel wished she hadn’t come into the kitchen She felt trapped, like a prisoner being questioned by her captors.

  “Oh, by the way,” she blurted, completely without intention, “I’ve decided I’m not going to take my driver’s permit test next week.”

  “But why?” her mother asked. “Haven’t you been studying?”

  Isobel shrugged. “Oh, I memorized the entire book. It’s not that. I just don’t feel the need to drive yet, that’s all.”

  Her mother looked seriously puzzled. “But Isobel, it’s impossible to get around without a car. How many times have you reminded me of that? And you’ve asked me, about a bazillion times I might add, if you could get a car of your own for your next birthday.”

  Isobel didn’t reply. Sometimes, she thought, silence is really the best policy. Especially when you were lying.

  Catherine cleared her throat. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping my bounds, Isobel, but are you scared of driving? It can seem pretty daunting when you’re starting out.”

  “Oh no,” she said quickly. “That’s not it.”

  “Well,” her mother said, with a shrug, “I can’t force you. But I also can’t be your chauffeur forever.”

  “I know,” Isobel said. “It’s no big deal.”

  Isobel hurriedly left the kitchen before she could dig herself any deeper into a pile of lies and stupidity. She was at the foot of the stairs when the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” she called back to the kitchen. The front door was always unlocked during the day. The guests should know that, but maybe it was someone inquiring about the inn’s rates . . .

  Isobel pulled open the door to find Gwen standing there. It was the first time since they had become friends that she hadn’t just walked in.

  “Oh,” Isobel said. “Hi.”

  “I can’t stay,” Gwen said, remaining where she was, on the threshold. “I just thought you should know that someone has been sending me threatening texts.”

  Isobel felt her shoulders twitch. “Since . . . Since when?” she asked.

  “Two days ago.”

  Isobel saw now that her friend’s eyes looked haunted, wary. “That’s awful, Gwen,” she said, her voice catching. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But I don’t understand. Why did you think I should I know?”

  “Because we’re friends.”

  Isobel flushed. “Well, that, of course, but—”

  “You don’t get it, Isobel.” Gwen’s voice had risen sharply. “The texts could be from someone who knows the both of us.”

  “Oh.” The implication being that Isobel, too, might be his (or her) next victim. Was that what Gwen was saying? “What do the texts say?” she asked, though she really didn’t want to know.

  “I don’t want to repeat them. They’re—ugly.”

  “Who do you think they’re from?” Isobel asked. Her heart had started to beat furiously.

  “I don’t know for sure.”

  “Can you guess?”

  Gwen looked away.

  “Did you tell your parents?” Isobel asked, afraid to know the answer to this question, too.

  “No,” Gwen said. “Not yet.”

  Not so very long ago Isobel would have urged Gwen to go to her parents. But things were different now. She herself was keeping so much from her mother . . .

  “Just ignore the texts,” she said, with a lot more conviction than she felt. “It’s probably just a stupid joke, anyway.”

  “Yeah. Maybe. Still . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  “I gotta go.” Gwen turned and walked rapidly back out to her car.

  “Be careful,” Isobel called as she drove off, but Gwen’s windows were up and she doubted Gwen heard her.

  Isobel closed the door. She wanted to lock it, bar it, but it was still early and guests expected to find an open door and a welcome.

  “Please,” she whispered to no one. “Please don’t let it be him, please.”

  She thought of the waiter Jeff had tortured earlier, of the horrible name he had called that woman driver, of how he had accused her of flirting with someone at that awful party they had gone to, of the critical things he had said about Gwen and her family. There was violence in him, something more than just impatience or high spirits.

  Isobel took a few deep breaths and willed herself back to reason. Her suspicions were out of proportion; the scant evidence she had was faulty; the suspicions were totally groundless.

  They had to be.

  She heard Catherine taking her leave. She didn’t want to face anyone right now. She couldn’t. Catherine usually came and went through the back door but just in case . . . Isobel ran up the stairs and locked her bedroom door behind her.

  Chapter 43

  Louise was passing by the breakfast room when the sound of a familiar male voice stopped her. She knew that Isobel was in there, setting the tables for the next morning. She hadn’t known that Jeff had come by.<
br />
  No matter. She began to walk on when something Jeff was saying made her freeze. No, she thought, it couldn’t be. “Your mother’s friend, Catherine . . .” and then, “everyone in town knows she’s a whore . . .” finally, “I can prove it if I have to.”

  Isobel was speaking now. Louise listened hard but couldn’t make out her daughter’s murmured response.

  Shaken, she hurried on toward the library where she sank into a chair. Jeff was a nice guy. He had apologized to Catherine for the incident with Charlie. He had brought Louise flowers and candy. There was no way he could have spoken the words she thought she had heard. She had misheard, and badly. Louise felt ashamed of herself, not only for accusing Jeff without real proof but also because if indeed he hadn’t said those awful things she had heard—or thought she had heard—then the words had actually been a product of her own overworked mind.

  Still, she would have to confront Isobel. She had to know for sure if what she had thought she had heard was what had really been said. If it was, Isobel was sure to be horrified and angry. But would Isobel tell her the truth? She had lied about other things this summer . . .

  Louise waited in an agony of impatience for Jeff to leave, and as soon as he did, she went in search of her daughter. Isobel was in the kitchen. Louise noted that she was again wearing something ordinary, which was extraordinary for Isobel—a navy T-shirt and a pair of chinos Louise hadn’t even known Isobel owned. Still, it didn’t unduly concern her. Young people, especially creative, passionate people like Isobel, tended to adopt habits and trends and then drop them just as easily as they had acquired them.

  “Isobel,” she said, “I have to ask you a question.”

  Isobel shrugged. “Okay.”

  “When Jeff was here just now, did he say anything about Catherine? Anything—unpleasant?”

  There was a clatter as the spoon that Isobel had been holding dropped to the floor. “What?” she said.

  Louise bent down, picked up the spoon, and put it in the sink. “Well,” she went on, carefully, “I was in the hall just outside the breakfast room and I couldn’t help but overhear—”