“No one likes her privacy violated. Especially not teenaged girls.”
“I know. But still, she was so angry . . .”
“Do you think Jeff could be pushing her to get a tattoo?” Catherine asked suddenly.
“Jeff? I don’t know. He doesn’t strike me as the tattoo sort. Then again, everyone’s the tattoo sort these days. They’ve become so mainstream.”
“I have one,” Catherine said. “Don’t look so shocked. Even corporate types let loose sometimes. At least, that’s what I told myself when I made the decision to get inked.”
“Just tell me it’s not a skull and crossbones.”
“Nope. I have nothing against contemplating a skull as a memento mori. But I draw the line at using them for decoration. Same thing with crosses.”
“Mmm. Have you noticed how Isobel’s been dressing in the past few weeks?” Louise asked.
“Yeah. How could I not? But maybe she just got tired of being flamboyant and innovative. It’s a lot easier to dress like everybody else is dressing. Being yourself takes a lot of work. Unless, of course, yourself is like everybody else’s self . . .”
“But Isobel, tired of quirky style? It seems so unlikely.”
“Jeff again?” Catherine suggested.
Louise shook her head. “I don’t know. I hope not . . .”
“I think we might be looking for trouble where none exists. I’m not saying we shouldn’t keep our ears and eyes open, but . . .”
“You’re right.” Louise sighed. “I’ve been letting this wedding make mush out of what I have in place of a brain.”
Catherine, usually not the most demonstrative of women, leaned over and put her arm around her friend and squeezed. “You’re doing a great job all around, Louise,” she said. “Stop beating yourself up or you’ll be no good to anyone. I mean it.”
“Yeah,” Louise said. “You’re right. You always are.”
Chapter 46
Isobel sat slumped on the edge of her bed. She felt like a failure. She felt as if she had an illness, something shameful, something she had to hide from sight or be punished for it, something for which she should be ostracized from the community of normal girls who didn’t let boys treat them like dirt.
There was simply no more denying the truth. She was dating an abuser. She was dating a bully.
And the fact that her mother had always been so open about her own past with an abusive man, the fact that her mother had always taught her to tell someone about abuse immediately, made the situation that much more awful. How could she disappoint her mother? How could she tell her that the education she had given her daughter had somehow failed, that her child had become a victim?
She had defended Jeff so fiercely against her mother’s accusation that he had spoken cruelly about Catherine. What she should have done—if she could have done it—was cry out to her mother for help. Instead, because she had never known what to do with her anger, she had turned it against her mother, the one person who might have saved her . . .
Isobel looked at the bracelet Jeff had given her and shuddered. She saw it now as a shackle, not as a symbol of love or affection. She saw physical evidence of a purchase—her trust, bought with money—not evidence of an act of generosity. The bracelet and all it represented repulsed her. But she was afraid to take it off, to throw it away. If Jeff saw her without the bracelet, what might he do to her?
She saw clearly now all the disturbing incidents she had excused or rationalized. Jeff had probably even lied about volunteering at the retirement home. Could he have lied about working for his father?
Gwen had been right when she had accused Jeff of wanting her to be someone else—his toy or his puppet. His possession. His emotional prisoner.
As if in a trance, without conscious will, Isobel left her room. She walked back to the kitchen though she wasn’t hungry and she didn’t want to see her mother, who so often could be found there. But she did want to see her mother. To be sure she was safe.
Her mother was unloading the dishwasher. “Hey,” she said.
Isobel managed a smile. “Hi.”
Louise closed the door of the dishwasher with a sigh. “Why is it that I hate this stupid chore so much?” she said. “It’s not disgusting, like cleaning toilets. It’s not even difficult, like vacuuming corners.”
Isobel shrugged.
“Well, whatever. Hey, I haven’t seen Gwen around much lately,” her mother said, as she reached for a cup from the dish drainer. “Is she okay?”
“Yeah,” Isobel said, as casually as she could manage. “She’s fine. She’s just busy.”
Busy avoiding me, Isobel thought. Because now she was certain that those threatening texts Gwen had received had come from Jeff. She wished she knew the nature of the harm they had threatened. Stay away from Isobel or I’ll—what? Hurt you? Hurt your family? And for all she knew Jeff might still be cyber-harassing Gwen . . . or worse.
Her mother poured coffee into her cup. “You two haven’t been updating the blog as regularly.”
“Yeah, we got a bit . . . It was a lot of work . . .”
“Oh.” Her mother frowned. “That’s too bad. I mean, it’s too bad that the work wasn’t enjoyable anymore. That’s what you meant, right?”
“Yeah. Well, maybe someday I’ll get back into it . . .”
“Oh. Well, I’m glad Gwen is okay. I miss hearing the laughter between you two.”
“I didn’t think you noticed me anymore,” Isobel said with a shaky laugh, hating herself for sounding so pathetic. Don’t let anything show, she demanded of herself. Keep it hidden! Keep this madness far away. What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.
“What?” Her mother frowned. “Now, that’s unfair. I know I’ve been crazy busy with this awful wedding, but that doesn’t mean I don’t pay attention to your life.”
“I know. I was only kidding.”
“And I’m sorry. I really will try to be more attentive. You’re what’s most important to me after all, not the business.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Isobel willed the incipient tears to go away.
Louise finished her coffee and took a set of keys from a hook on the wall by the back door. “I’ve got to run to the hardware store. Want to come with me?”
“No, that’s okay.”
Her mother left the kitchen, and a few moments later Isobel heard her drive away.
Lies upon lies upon lies, she thought. Who knew I’d become such a consummate liar? She hated herself for it.
Isobel listened closely for any sounds of life. There was nothing. She was alone in the inn. It wasn’t unusual for the guests to be out in the daytime, enjoying the beach or shopping or having drinks and a meal at a café on the water’s edge. But for the first time since she had lived at Blueberry Bay Inn, Isobel felt scared. Not so much of the emptiness but of the fact that she lived in what was essentially a public space. Just the other day she had come across a guest examining a cut-glass vase that stood on the mantel over the fireplace in the parlor. It was a vase her father had bought for her mother years earlier. Her mother loved that vase, and here was a total stranger handling it as if it were his own. She had to exert every ounce of self-control she could muster not to rush at the man and snatch the vase from his hands.
Her life was on exhibit.
She was entirely exposed. How could she ever successfully hide from Jeff? Guests—virtual strangers—were in and out all day. Any one of them could be a spy sent by Jeff Otten. Maybe that sort of thinking was paranoid, but maybe it wasn’t.
She just knew he had taken her phone the other day . . .
Isobel slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor. Only weeks ago she routinely raced up and down these very same stairs. Now, she couldn’t imagine ever having the energy for such exertion.
Slowly, carefully, she opened the door to her room. She stood at the threshold, hesitant to enter. The room was its characteristic mess, but she knew her room, her sanctuary. And she was sure—almost sure—
that someone had been in it. There was something out of place, there was something missing. If she looked hard enough she would find the disturbance, she would find the absence . . .
Slowly, carefully, she stepped inside. Yes, something was—wrong. She wondered if her mind was now playing tricks on her. But how would she know?
How could she ever be sure?
Chapter 47
The nightmare had come again, this time more awfully than ever before.
Louise sat on her bed, her knees drawn to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. Sweat trickled down her face. She felt sick to her stomach. Because this time, before she could struggle to wake, both she and her baby had died.
She had heard once that if you died in a dream, you had really died in waking life. How ridiculous. How could such a thing be proven? Anyway, here she was, very much alive in her bed at the Blueberry Bay Inn, while in that other, brutally vivid dream world she lay dead at the foot of a flight of stairs, arms and legs sprawled awkwardly, neck turned at an impossible angle, blood seeping from her mouth.
But there she had also stood, a terrorized figure, staring down at her own unmoving, bleeding self, until that figure had screamed Louise awake.
Louise listened for movement in the hall, but there was only silence and the loud beating of her heart. Hopefully Isobel hadn’t heard her scream. And James or Jim. The men had become friends, but they were also paying guests, and as such they didn’t need to be exposed to the landlady’s nightmares.
Thank God, she thought, stretching out her legs, which were beginning to cramp, for old, solidly built houses.
The two of them, mother and daughter, dead. Could the latest manifestation of the dream mean something new? Was her subconscious trying to tell her that there was something threatening the daughter who had survived to be born—and thereby threatening Louise?
No. She didn’t believe in dreams as premonitions or psychic messengers. Her therapist, the one she had seen after the fall and miscarriage, hadn’t believed that, either. He had emphasized that dreams were merely a rehashing of unresolved emotional issues. It was easier to believe that than to credit dreams with supernatural powers of a sort. But still . . .
Louise shuddered. The images had been so vivid this time, colors loud and vibrant, sounds—like her own scream—ear shattering.
She made a decision. In the late fall, after the inn had closed for the season, she would take Isobel away for a few days. Maybe they would go north to Montreal or south to New York. Any change of scenery would do them both good, and Isobel was such a good student she could afford to miss a day or two of school.
And who knew, but maybe a change of scenery would also reignite Isobel’s passion for CityMouse. New shops, new sights and sounds, new stimuli might be just what Isobel needed. It did seem odd—and very disappointing—that she had so thoroughly abandoned the blog after putting so much time and effort into it for two years . . .
The headache that inevitably followed the nightmare was making itself known. Quietly, Louise went out to the bathroom for a cool cloth. There was still no sound from either room. Good. Back in her bedroom she changed into a fresh, dry nightgown and sat back against the pillows, the cool cloth on her forehead.
Yes, she and Isobel needed to get far, far away. That much, Louise knew for certain.
Chapter 48
Everyone thinks my life is so perfect. I live in a pretty little town in a charming old house with a big shady porch and a gazebo out back and a white picket fence out front. I have a big allowance. I don’t have to work after school, and my grades are good enough so that I should get into any college I want. But what people see on the surface is almost never the true story. If people only knew that my life is really a hell. I don’t know how I got into this hell and I have no idea how to get out of it. I—
She deleted the words immediately. No one would read them. She would go to her grave with this secret.
A surge of anger rose in Isobel’s breast. This was her mother’s fault. It was her mother’s fault that she was trapped in this tiny town. If she still lived in Massachusetts, she could—what? Escape? Hide?
The anger died quickly, as it always did, to be replaced by a feeling of intense resignation.
With willpower she didn’t know she had, Isobel left her room and carefully, cautiously, left the inn. She was as sure as she could be that no one had seen her leave. At the road she turned toward town and the public library. Cars and pickup trucks and men and women on bikes passed her, but Isobel barely noticed the traffic.
The day before Jeff had accused her of flirting with Quentin. He had backed her against a wall, loomed over her in a sick reversal of protective intimacy.
She had denied the charge vehemently. “Besides,” she had added, “Quentin likes Gwen. He has no interest in me.”
“No guy could possibly like Gwen,” he had replied with an expression of revulsion. “Not even that loser Quentin. She’s fat and weird.”
Now Isobel was scared for Quentin, too. Quentin was strong but Jeff was big, and where Quentin would fight fair if forced to fight at all, Jeff would fight dirty. About that, she had no doubt at all.
Since the day he had left her prisoner in his home, Jeff’s bad behavior had escalated. Now there was no softening of the blows, no reversal of a harsh verdict like there had been earlier in the relationship. He spoke unapologetically now, and Isobel had come to realize that all those reversals and explanations he had offered had been sops, meant to fool her into believing that he was someone he was not. A normal person.
Twenty minutes after leaving the inn, Isobel turned onto the path before the charming stone building that now held no charm for her. She was pretty sure that Jeff never used the library. In the weeks she had known him, she had never seen him with a book or heard him mention one he was reading. Still, she glanced over her shoulder before entering the library, afraid that she had been followed, if not by Jeff himself then by one of the friends she had never met or heard of.
“Isobel, hello,” the librarian, Nancy, said, with a welcoming smile.
Isobel forced a smile to her own face. “Hi.”
“How’s your mother holding up with this big wedding looming? The whole town is talking about it.”
“Just fine, thank you.”
“That’s good news. Can I help you find a book?”
“No, thanks. I just need . . . I mean, I want to use a computer, if that’s okay.”
Nancy directed Isobel to a computer and went back to her desk. Isobel wondered if the librarian would trace her online history once she had gone. Maybe she was required to; Isobel just didn’t know. But the possibility frightened her. She debated abandoning her search for information that might help her out of the horrible situation in which she found herself. But somehow, she screwed up her courage and stayed. If someone confronted her about being where she was and doing what she was doing, she could always lie. She could say that she was researching information for a friend back in Massachusetts.
It took about thirty seconds for Isobel to realize that there were hundreds of websites devoted to domestic abuse in all of its forms. Where to begin? “At the beginning,” Isobel murmured, choosing the first site on the list.
Twenty minutes later, Isobel felt hot and dizzy. There was so much information. Some of it could be helpful, depending. Some of it was not helpful at all. Several of the websites she had already glanced at advised a victim—or a person who thought she might be a victim—to use her intuition. Isobel almost laughed out loud at that. She had ignored her intuition for so long that it had finally fled, abandoning her to a constant state of doubt and confusion.
Other websites advised a victim to tell a friend about the abuse. But that well-meaning bit of advice was also useless to Isobel. If she told a friend about Jeff’s behavior, then that friend—Gwen or Catherine, even Flynn or The Jimmies—might also become one of Jeff’s victims. He was a vindictive person, she knew that now, and emotionally unstable.
Isobel shut her eyes and tried to steady her breathing. There was no point in getting angry now . . . After a moment she opened her eyes and clicked on yet another website.
“A large portion of men and women who experience rape or physical violence first do so when they are between the ages of eleven and seventeen.”
Isobel read this statistic and felt the panic rise in her chest. Oh God, she thought. Was there a way for people like her to avoid the fate of being abused as an adult? There had to be. Her mother seemed to have avoided it but maybe her mother was hiding things from her, like she had been hiding things from her mother . . . Could her father have abused her mother, too, not just that long-ago boyfriend? No. Isobel couldn’t bear to think about it. If that were the truth, it would surely kill her.
With every ounce of will she possessed, she forced herself to read on.
The bad stuff, she discovered, was even closer than far-off adulthood. Victims of teen dating violence were more likely to do poorly in school; to binge drink; to attempt suicide. And—this was appalling—many of the victims grew up to act violently as adults.
Isobel felt sweat prickle under her arms. So, chances were good she might become a victim once again or, a fate even more awful to contemplate, become an abuser herself. Was her future preordained, all because she had accidentally bumped into this charming, deceptively powerful person . . .
Or had something in her past already sealed her fate, some fatal flaw of character with which she had come into this world? Did the fact that her mother had been abused by a boyfriend condemn Isobel to the same future?
The Summer Everything Changed Page 28
