The Summer Everything Changed

by Holly Chamberlin

  Gwen gave her the look Isobel had come to recognize as the “are you kidding me?” look, with the emphasis on the first syllable of “kidding.”

  “Don’t you think you and your mom should at least watch that show, whatever it’s called?”

  “Why?” Isobel asked.

  “To get some sense of the happy couple?”

  “But the characters probably have nothing to do with the actors.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. From what I’ve heard—and seen—a lot of times an actor takes on the personality of his character and has trouble shaking it off. You should hear the stories my parents tell.”

  “But they’re talking about stage actors, right?” Isobel said. “Aren’t theater people notoriously different from film and television people? Quirkier or more superstitious or something?”

  Gwen shrugged. “Whatever. I just think it would be smart—at least that it couldn’t hurt—if you watched the bride and groom at their day job. Actors come to believe their own publicity machines, you know.”

  “I guess.”

  “I suppose it’s inevitable when you’ve got a camera trained on you every single moment of the day,” Gwen went on. “I mean, these people can’t even run out for a quart of milk without someone snapping a shot and publishing it with some awful heading about how limp their hair looks or how their pants don’t fit right. What a weird way to live. After a while you must want to be the characters you play. At least a character is something to hide behind.”

  “Yeah. Like how a voice on the page, a narrative voice, is also something you can hide behind. Or something you can use to fool people, if that’s your thing.”

  Gwen nodded. “The unreliable narrator. So I guess there are going to be a lot of paparazzi types at this shindig. And maybe a horde of fans, too, waving autograph books.”

  “Or body parts. I read somewhere that some people like their favorite celebrities to sign a body part.”

  “That’s beyond pathetic,” Gwen announced. “No wonder the really big celebrity types have so much disdain for the public.”

  “Disdain is never really justified,” Isobel argued. “At least, I don’t think it should be. People should really try to be understanding of each other.”

  Gwen laughed. “Isobel, you really are kind of naïve, you know that? I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it. Frankly, I find it refreshing. It’s so easy to be cynical and suspicious. I think it takes more courage to be—well, nice and kind.”

  Isobel shrugged. “Well, I’m not trying to be anything in particular.”

  “I know. You were just born that way. And I was born—not that way.”

  “You’re nice and kind!”

  “Maybe. I certainly want to be nice and kind. But I’m not very positive by nature. I can put up a good show, but my default mode is caution and cynicism and suspicion.”

  “Well, I like you just the way you are. If it matters.”

  Gwen smiled. “It matters,” she said.

  Chapter 5

  “So, that’s that,” Louise said. “The wedding of the century—in the minds of the bride and groom, anyway—is going to take place on my front lawn.”

  James whistled. “Wow. That is big news.”

  James Chappell and his longtime partner, Jim Goldman, were sitting at the kitchen table with Louise. A half-empty coffee cup stood before each of the men. Louise had come to realize that she seemed to attract people who liked coffee as much as she did. Take Catherine, for example. And James and Jim, already each on his third cup of the day; Jim took his coffee with two sugars and cream; James took only a splash of low-fat milk.

  The couple had been visiting Ogunquit and the Blueberry Bay Inn every summer for the past fifteen years. Although the first summer Louise had run the inn things were not perfect—Louise had never been a landlord, and in spite of months of research she found herself taken by surprise almost daily by unexpected domestic crises of the plumbing and mechanical variety, and by the sometimes frighteningly odd demands of guests—the men didn’t complain, and they had come back this summer for another three-month stay in the large guest room on the second floor. Sure, they could rent a house for the months or even buy one, but the inn lifestyle suited them just fine. Who wanted, they said, to be responsible for the bills when the plumbing went haywire? They had enough responsibility with the, as James called it, “gargantuan pile” they owned back in New York’s Hudson Valley.

  “I’m not sure I’ve got what it takes to pull this off,” Louise admitted now, draining the last of her coffee and getting up to bring the French press pot to the table.

  “Don’t be so sure,” Jim said. “You know, the last owner of this place didn’t know anything about marketing. You’ve done so much better at getting the name out there in the two years you’ve owned the inn than he did in the twenty-some odd years he owned it.”

  “Yes, well, I can’t say that I’ve done anything so unique or innovative. I mean, it’s not like I’ve claimed to have discovered a dashing, sea captain ghost in the attic.”

  “Hmmm. As far as I know,” James said, “Ogunquit lacks a genuinely haunted inn. If only we could hold a séance, see what we can find . . . We could advertise on all the travel websites . . .”

  “Oh Lord,” Louise said, “that’s all that needs to get out! I could lose business if people think the inn is really haunted.”

  “Or you could reinvent your business,” James said. “You could cater to the ghoulish thrill seekers. But the truth is, Blueberry Bay Inn is not haunted. We would know. Jim is a sensitive. No need to hold a séance with him around. The specters would be flocking.”

  “Are you really a sensitive?” Louise asked Jim. “Wow. Were you ever menaced by an evil spirit? Did you ever feel a spirit touching you? Is what they say about cold spots being evidence of ghosts true? What about disembodied voices?”

  Jim put his hands to his temples in mock despair.

  “So you’re not totally opposed to ghosts, then?” James asked with a laugh.

  “Oh, I’m opposed,” Louise said emphatically. “Especially when they’re on my property. But I am interested.”

  “Well, this wedding should put you on the map, ghosts or no ghosts.”

  “Yeah, as a disaster zone.”

  “Louise,” Jim said firmly, “it’s time for an attitude adjustment.”

  “Yeah,” James added. “Don’t become a self-fulfilling prophecy. I think I will fail, therefore I will fail.”

  “It’s just that I’ve never done anything without a safety net,” Louise explained. “Either Andrew had my back or I was working as part of a team—you know, all those volunteer committees—where we all shared blame and responsibility and success. Frankly, I’m scared witless.”

  “Let me suggest that you use the energy the fear generates for a better purpose.”

  Louise looked at Jim as if his head had suddenly sprouted bean shoots. “Please,” she said, “give me something I can use.”

  “In other words, take hold of your fear and transform it into forward action.”

  “You got a how-to manual for that?” Louise laughed. “Sorry, Jim. I know you mean well and your advice is probably very good—for someone who knows how to accept it.”

  “So what outrageous demands has this Flora Michaels person made so far?” James asked.

  “Well, nothing terrible,” Louise admitted. “It all seems normal enough. Actually, the most unusual thing she’s asked for so far are detachable seat cushions for the folding chairs, and I’m pretty sure they won’t be too hard to find. You know something? You’re right. Maybe I am being a drama queen. Maybe everything will be okay, after all.”

  James stood from the table. “Now there’s the spirit. Let’s go, Jim. We’re going to miss prime people-watching time.”

  The men left for the beach, canvas bags over shoulders and ergonomic folding chairs under arms.

  Quentin came through the kitchen door then, a bandana around his head, his li
ght blue T-shirt stained with sweat, soil on the knees of his old jeans. “I’ve gotta run to the hardware store, Mrs. Bessire,” he said. “Can you think of anything you need while I’m out?”

  Louise thought about it for a moment. “Honestly, Quentin, I probably do need something, but for the life of me I can’t think what. Of course, the moment you drive away it will come to me.”

  Quentin grinned and went off. Louise knew she was lucky to have him working for her. From what she knew of Quentin’s home life—which admittedly wasn’t a lot, other than the fact that his father had passed away suddenly a few years back, leaving a wife and four children—he could use what money he could make. But Louise suspected that need alone wasn’t what made Quentin the dedicated, hardworking young man that he was. Quentin had character, which was saying an awful lot these days.

  No sooner had Quentin gone than Catherine made an appearance at the kitchen door, loaded with her painting gear—a portable easel slung over her shoulder, a camp chair, and an enormous satchel that held her paints, brushes, two small canvasses, and other miscellaneous but vital items an on-the-go artist needed.

  “I’m just stopping by to say hello.” She held up a plastic to-go mug. “You wouldn’t happen to have any coffee going to waste, would you?”

  “You just missed James and Jim,” Louise said, taking the cup and filling it half with coffee and half with ice, the way Catherine liked it when she worked outside in the summer heat. “They were off to the beach.”

  “What is it they do for a living, exactly? Do you know?”

  “Not really. James told me once that they work for themselves. Whatever they do, it enables them to escape from the rat race for three months a year. I hardly ever see either one on a cell phone or using a computer.”

  “Maybe once they’re in their room at night they continue to build their empire.”

  Louise shrugged. “As long as they pay—and it’s always in advance, by the way—they could be Lex Luthor’s right-hand men for all I care.”

  Isobel came into the kitchen then. “What about Lex Luthor?” she asked, opening the fridge and peering inside.

  “No hello?”

  “Hey, guys.”

  “Hey,” Catherine said. “Well, I’m off to channel Woodbury or some other notable Maine artist. Wish me luck.”

  “You don’t need luck,” Louise told her. “You have talent and desire.”

  “Darling friend,” Catherine replied, her hand on the doorknob, “everyone needs luck.”

  “Everyone needs good luck,” Isobel amended, shutting the fridge.

  “I thought that went without saying. See you later, alligator.”

  Louise smiled. “See you in a while, crocodile.”

  “You guys should get married already,” Isobel said, when Catherine had gone. “You get along so well. It’s pretty cute.”

  “That’s exactly why we won’t marry,” Louise replied, laughing. “Not enough arguing to keep things interesting. Well, that and the fact that neither of us is gay.”

  “Yeah, but lots of women your age change teams,” Isobel pointed out. “Look at that woman who was on that old show you used to like. Family Ties. I heard that she’s with a woman now. And there’s the woman who played Miranda on Sex and the City. Cynthia Nixon. She’s legally married to a woman and they have a baby together.”

  “Well, that’s nice for them.”

  “Yeah. I think it’s hormonal. Or maybe it’s that a lot of women finally feel safe being who they really are. No more having to hide behind a person that someone else thought they should be. Whatever the reasons, it’s perfectly normal.”

  “Be that as it may,” Louise said, “what do you mean by ‘women my age’?”

  Isobel smirked and shrugged. “You know. Old.”

  Louise made a playful swipe with the dishrag she had been using to dry a mug. Isobel squealed and dashed out of the kitchen.

  Louise was aware that her mood had lightened considerably since only an hour ago. She wasn’t alone in this new life after all. Yeah, the business of the inn was her responsibility, but there were people who had her back. There were people who had faith in her abilities and who were sure she would succeed.

  In fact, she felt pretty good about her life right then. She mentally reviewed the afternoon thus far: the lively conversation with James and Jim, Quentin’s generous offer to stop at the store, Catherine’s unexpected friendship, her daughter’s unconditional love.

  Jake and Amber? Jordan and Montana? Now all she had to do was get the bride and groom’s names straight.

  Chapter 6

  CITYMOUSE

  Greetings and Salutations!

  Today, I would like to pay tribute to The Jimmies. (See Gwen’s portrait below. The Jimmies are sitting in the charming gazebo behind the inn, enjoying an early evening cocktail, or what they call a “liquid sociable.” Whatever it is, isn’t it a gorgeous shade of pink? And don’t you just love their full and beautifully kept beards??) Together and separately they have reinforced for me the commandment or rule or truism that style is all about being who you are, and if who you are is genuine, then you have great and ever-lasting style.

  But do you know how rare it is for people—okay, I’ll say it, especially girls! Especially teenaged girls! Don’t hate me!—to be comfortable in their own skin and to really know who they are and say “nope” to stuff that everyone else is wearing but that really isn’t true to themselves? (Wow. Did I get all twisted in theirs and themselves or what? Grammar can be brutal.) It’s rare. Really rare and sometimes it feels like it’s getting rarer, that everyone (exaggeration there) is copying everyone else (is that even possible?????) and that real, true, individual style is just not something you come across a lot.

  Like when LouLou and I take a road trip to Portland and walk down Congress Street and stroll down to Exchange Street and watch the boarders and art students and dropouts and guys and gals in their endless twenties, it’s like wading through a sea of sameness. How did it come to pass that hipness and hipsterism is now uniform? How did it come to pass that looking “cool” could be so deadly boring and repetitive? Sometimes I think that if I see one more porkpie hat I’ll start to scream and never ever stop! Just because something is declared “all the rage”—by some fashion industry marketing types!—doesn’t mean you have to buy it and wear it! Let’s face it, kiddos—not every head looks good under a porkpie hat! Not every pair of legs looks fantastic in jeggings or coated jeans or hot pink tights!

  And then just when I think I’m going to die (not literally) of boredom or frustration (I wonder if you can be both bored and frustrated by something at the same time; I think so!), one amazing boy or one wonderfull girl pops right out at you and everything about him or her says, “Hey. I’m just me. And me is fantastic,” and hope springs again in my breast, and, but I’m guessing here, in LouLou’s breast, too.

  So, here’s a photo of this guy we saw outside of Space Gallery on Congress Street. We snapped it with his permission of course—to do otherwise would be rude. And it all works, from the very seventies mustache (which somehow avoids looking cheesy) to the dress shirt buttoned right to the starched collar, from the flared, cuffed dress flannels to the pink leather brogues on his feet.

  Pink leather brogues!

  Remember: Chacun a son gout!

  CityMouse is signing off.

  Isobel closed her laptop. Well, she thought, I really spoke my mind this time! She smiled as she remembered one of her first conversations with The Jimmies. The three of them were in the kitchen; the men were the only guests allowed into that inner Bessire sanctum.

  “So, you’re both named Jim,” she had said.

  “Yup,” blond Jim in the plaid shirt said. “Officially, James.”

  “So, when someone calls out, ‘Hey, Jim,’ do you both, like, turn?”

  “Sometimes,” brunette Jim in the striped shirt said.

  “Well, doesn’t it kind of drive you nuts?”

  “It used
to,” both said at once. “But not anymore.”

  “What can be annoying,” blond Jim in the plaid shirt added, “is when people decide to differentiate us by calling us Jim One and Jim Two.”

  “Or Blond Jim and Brunette Jim,” brunette Jim in the striped shirt said.

  “Or Big Jim and Little Jim. Please!”

  “Wait a minute,” Isobel had said, literally snapping her fingers. “Why doesn’t one of you go by your middle name?”

  Both men had laughed. “Because,” blond Jim in the plaid shirt explained, “we have the same middle name, too. Martin.”

  “What are the odds!”

  “In fact, I now go by James,” said brunette Jim in the striped shirt. “It helps.”

  “Isobel!”

  That was a voice from the present; it was her mother, calling from the first floor.

  “I’m coming!” Isobel shouted, and proceeded to tear down the stairs.

  Chapter 7

  The parking lot was full, jam-packed with cars from as far north as Canada and as far south as Connecticut. Finally, after three turns around the perimeter of the lot, Louise found a space, narrowly beating out another driver who was too busy poking at her phone with her thumb to realize not only that she was passing an open spot but that Louise was easing her own car into it.

  Louise chuckled to herself. You snooze, she thought, and you lose. Or, you text and you—You what? Someone with more imagination than she had would have to come up with a new word that rhymed with text (the verb) so she could complete that sentence. You texted—and you wound up vexed? Nope. That wouldn’t do.

  Louise got out of the car and immediately began to sweat. It was one of those sultry days southern Maine could be plagued with, the air heavy with humidity and absolutely motionless. Louise fanned her face with her hand—a ridiculously futile gesture—and headed toward the pedestrian walkway.

  First stop, the party store for anything swan-related she could find. Flora Michaels had asked (demanded) she supply representations of the bride’s mother’s favorite animal. Catherine had argued that Louise should have refused this request (demand) as outside the parameters of her contract, but Louise had been feeling generous for some unidentifiable reason.