“Really? You don’t think Isobel and I are too close? Sometimes I wonder if I’ve smothered her or if I interfere too heavily in her life.”
“About that you’re asking the wrong person,” Catherine admitted. “I look at your relationship with Isobel with something between admiration and raging envy.”
“Oh. Thanks, I guess. You know, Isobel and her father used to be so close. I can’t help but wonder if she’s really as all right with things as she seems to be.”
“Do you think she’s pretending she’s over the pain?” Catherine asked.
“No,” Louise said, “not pretending. Not really. But I worry that maybe she decided she just doesn’t want to deal with any more bad feelings. She can be terribly impatient . . .”
“Don’t assume trouble. If there’s no smoke, there’s probably no fire.”
“True. But if you don’t properly grieve it all comes sneaking back at some point, the pain, the anger, and it can be that much more intense.”
“Yes,” Catherine said. “But maybe Isobel is simply one of those ridiculously resilient people. They do exist, though I suspect they’re a rare breed.”
Louise remembered finishing her second glass of wine and wondering if she should have a third. “There’s one more thing I feel I should confess,” she had said, still considering the important question of more wine, “if you don’t mind being my confessor.”
“Confess away. Though I have no official power to absolve.”
“You know, Andrew made no attempt to introduce Isobel to Vicky before the wedding last December. He had a million reasons why he wanted to keep them apart—some downright cowardly, other reasons having to do with Vicky’s messy divorce—and so I dropped the issue.”
“You feel guilty for not forcing your daughter to meet the woman who had an affair with her father?”
“Well, yeah,” Louise said. “I mean, my motives were entirely selfish. In the interest of peace I probably should have pushed Andrew to—”
“No,” Catherine interrupted, “you probably should have done just what you did. Let Andrew handle the introduction. Really, Louise, his behavior, good or bad, is not your responsibility. You might have thought that it was when you were married—it seems to me, and maybe I’m wrong, that a lot of wives feel responsible for their husband’s actions—but no more.”
“Innkeep! Innkeep!”
Louise came back to the moment with a start. Thank God Mr. Peters, a pompous little pastry shop owner from Connecticut, who declared Bella’s baking skills sub-par, was only staying for one more night. He treated her as little more than a slave. Louise went out to the front hall to deal with his latest urgent and no doubt utterly ridiculous demand.
Chapter 14
CITYMOUSE
Happy birthday to the United States of America! Mountains of thanks to the Founding Fathers who did the arguing and the thinking and the writing, and mountains of thanks, too, to the Founding Mothers who kept them fed and clothed while acting as sounding boards through the grueling process of framing the constitution. I am forever grateful.
Today I’m posting a photo taken by my father of LouLou and me on the Fourth of July, back when I was two days away from my fifth birthday. How cute is the little outfit LouLou has me wearing, a matching shorts and T-shirt, pale blue and sprinkled with a pattern of little flowers. And how sophisticated is LouLou’s nautical-themed ensemble—the navy and white striped boat-neck shirt, navy shorts, and white boat sneakers. We both look very happy and relaxed. Well, I suppose it’s pretty normal for an almost-five-year-old to look happy and relaxed. What troubles did I have back then? Nothing that I can recall, except maybe not being allowed to have three scoops of ice cream for dessert. Sigh. I’ve always had a weakness for dairy (calcium is good for you!) . . . Maybe I’ll stop at the ice cream shop in the Cove and get a scoop of maple walnut and maybe one of butternut crunch, too, just for the heck of it . . .
Here’s a fun quote to keep in your head as you munch on hot dogs and slurp down pink lemonade and make party chitchat with your friends and neighbors. The always-stimulating Coco Chanel is quoted as saying:
“You live but once. You might as well be amusing.”
Though CityMouse would add: but not at the expense of others.
So, happy Independence Day to all and everyone—and please be safe when on the road and handling fireworks!
“Heads up!”
Isobel ducked, narrowly avoiding being hit by a wildly thrown Frisbee. The Ryan-Roberts party was in full swing. She had felt bad about leaving her mother to the wolves, as it were, and had offered to stay at the inn to help troubleshoot any crisis that might arise, but her mother had pointed out that Quentin was there and he was a big help, more like three people than one. Then Isobel had felt bad about Quentin not getting a day off, but there was nothing she could do about that except bring home some cupcakes or brownies from the party and hope he was still around to enjoy them.
Jim and James were also missing from the celebrations; they had gone to a party at a friend’s in Booth Bay. Otherwise, it seemed as if a good number of the town’s year-round residents, as well as those who summered there regularly, made an appearance at some point.
Catherine had driven Isobel to the party. Flynn More was there, as were the town librarian, Nancy, and her partner Glenda. Most of the McQueen clan of the Larchmere Inn had made an appearance—Craig and his wife, Anna; Hannah McQueen and her wife, Susan, along with their two children; Tilda and her second husband; and the estimable Aunt Ruth, with her longtime and, at first glance, unlikely companion, Bobby, a retired lobsterman. (Ruth McQueen had been a corporate bigwig for a large part of her life.)
There was also a bunch of people Isobel didn’t know by name, only by sight, like the two guys who came to town each summer from Los Angeles to perform at the Ogunquit Playhouse, and the older woman who volunteered at the Ogunquit Museum of American Art. She was probably, Isobel guessed, in her late eighties and was wearing what Isobel called Ladies’ Attire. The woman’s dress was modest in the extreme, complete with white lace collar and cuffs. It was made of two different materials—a sheer top layer over a denser bottom layer in a very pretty peach color. In the crook of her elbow hung a cream-colored framed purse with delicate silver hardware. Her jewelry consisted of a string of pearls around her neck, a pair of clip-on pearl earrings, and a narrow wedding band on her left hand. To Isobel, the woman seemed a figure from another, more gracious time. She doubted the woman even felt the heat in that restricting dress—and if she did, she certainly wouldn’t admit it!
Jeff’s family, however, was not in attendance (Gwen confirmed that), and Isobel had no idea if they had been asked or not. She thought it might be inappropriate to question the guest list. Besides, for all she knew the Ottens moved in a much more rarified circle than Gwen’s family. There was still an awful lot about her new home she didn’t know or understand. The intricacies of small-town living were not to be learned and absorbed in a hurry. And information was doled out in dribs and drabs, only when a newbie was deemed worthy of receiving the information. It would probably take years before Isobel and her mom were in possession of half of what the longtime residents knew.
The party was a great success. There were horseshoes and badminton for the adults, though after a few games early in the afternoon, these activities were mostly abandoned in favor of eating and drinking and chatting. An inflatable kiddie pool, meant, of course, for the few babies and toddlers at the party, was rapidly taken over by two ten-year-old girls who spent the rest of the day in the pool (legs hanging over the side), applying handfuls of sunblock, posing for their camera phones, and giggling maniacally.
“Teenage disasters waiting to happen,” Gwen noted darkly.
Isobel was compelled to agree. “Girls gone wild, in training.”
Gwen’s father Curtis had cued up hours of music featuring the work of some local musicians like Eric Bettencourt, singer and songwriter out of Portland; Joyce Andersen, a
n amazing local fiddle player; the Lex and Joe blues and jazz duo out of Ogunquit and Kennebunk; and Lady Zen, also out of Portland. Curtis had also cued up some classic favorites guaranteed to get people into a festive mood—songs by The Beatles (everyone, even the ten-year-old girls, seemed to know the lyrics to at least a few of the songs) and Bon Jovi and even The Clash (that surprised Isobel).
The food had been provided by a small but popular local catering company owned and operated by a husband-and-wife team who worked out of their home in Yorktide. There was everything from corn on the cob to lobster rolls, from clam chowder to green salads, from strawberry shortcakes to brownies (several of which Isobel snatched for Quentin, whose sweet tooth was well known). For the adults there was beer and wine, and for the kids and whoever wasn’t drinking alcohol, there was bottled water, diet soda (under protest as neither Will nor Curtis were fans of soda or junk food), and juices.
Ricky spent most of the afternoon playing war with some friends. The boys were each equipped with huge water shooting assault rifles, and in spite of stern warnings from parents, a fair number of guests found themselves “accidentally” sprayed. Boys, Isobel thought. What was it about violence that seemed to attract them? Something on a hormonal level, no doubt. It was not her immediate concern.
Charlie ran around off leash with the other dogs whose parents had been invited, including two chunky but hugely energetic pugs named Beatrice and Eugenie who were, beyond a doubt, the cutest little dogs Isobel thought she had ever seen.
“If I ever get a dog,” she told Gwen, “I’m getting a pug. They’re so velvety.”
“And they snore a lot. I’ll stick to my cats. By the way, have you seen Hamlet? He’s been harassing this one poor little cardinal that comes around even though I’ve asked him politely not to.”
“And cats always do what they’re told.”
Gwen shrugged. “I can try. And he listens when he’s in the mood. Hey, what’s with all these people naming dogs after European princesses?”
“What’s with you naming cats after Shakespeare’s characters? Hamlet. Laertes. Henry the Fifth?”
“Quoting or making reference to Shakespeare needs no excuse,” Gwen replied loftily. Isobel was forced to agree.
The afternoon passed quickly, as fun times mostly do. It was only after many hours, when a good deal of the food had been consumed and the younger set of guests had fallen asleep in the laps of parents, did Isobel experience a sudden pang of loss. She saw Gwen standing in between her parents, an arm around each dad’s middle. Curtis leaned down and kissed Gwen atop her hot pink head. Will smiled fondly at his daughter.
Isobel had to look away. She wasn’t jealous of Gwen. She couldn’t be jealous of someone she loved, even when that someone’s happiness highlighted her own unhappiness. Envy was the green-eyed monster (kind of unfair to green-eyed people, and wasn’t Shakespeare at least partially responsible for that slander?), and you didn’t want him hanging around. It was just that her birthday was in two days, and try as she might, she couldn’t seem to banish the memories of the fun birthday times she had shared with her mom and dad.
Though Isobel still wouldn’t admit it to anyone, her dad’s canceling the vacation had really hurt. And in spite of her denials she was angry, too. She had sent him an e-mail in reply to his. “I’m really disappointed, Dad,” she had written, plainly. “I was really looking forward to spending some time with you.”
His response was brief and almost lighthearted. “Really sorry, kiddo,” it had read. “Nothing I can do about it.” Disappointment had been heaped upon disappointment.
Still, Isobel really, really hated to feel angry with someone, even if it could be argued that that someone deserved her anger. She didn’t like displeasing anyone, and to be angry with someone made her feel somehow guilty or wrong. Isobel , she told herself—and quite sternly whenever she felt she was getting grumpy about someone—move on!
Isobel grabbed a lobster roll (her second) from one of the tables laden with food and gobbled it down. Food helped one’s mood, too, especially when it involved mayonnaise.
Her father, it had to be said, had sent a perfectly nice card from Hallmark. But it was too little too late. Isobel had barely glanced at it before stuffing it in a dresser drawer. There had been no personal note, and no present, and no phone call. Her father had expended the least amount of effort for her birthday. Maybe he had even asked Vicky to pick out the card; it seemed possible. Isobel couldn’t help but wonder what he had done for his stepdaughters’ birthdays earlier this year. Helped bake a seven-tiered cake? Dressed up as a clown and made balloon animals? Bought each of the girls a pretty little pony?
At least the signature on the card had been his. He had signed Vicky’s name, too. Isobel wondered if Vicky knew that he had. She suspected that Vicky didn’t care either way. Really, why would she? Isobel was out of sight, all the way up north in Maine. It must be easy to put her out of mind, as well.
Move on, Isobel had told herself. Don’t dwell on the negative! Besides, it wasn’t as if everyone in her life was ignoring her. Just the day before, she had received a birthday card from—of all people!—Jeff Otten.
Her immediate reaction had been one of intense excitement. It had taken a few minutes before she wondered how Jeff had known it was her birthday. There were lots of easy ways you could find information about people. Okay, sometimes maybe not ethical ways, but Jeff Otten hadn’t struck her as some sort of creepy stalker type. Not driving a car like he drove and being the son of a man who was pretty much a local celebrity.
Anyway, she had kept the card from her mother (and from Gwen!), like she had kept the gift of the daylilies from her, and the fact that she had met Jeff in town, three acts of almost unprecedented secrecy. What was it about Jeff that made her want to hide him away and treasure his attentions in private? Or maybe it had nothing to do with Jeff at all. Maybe she was just growing up, needing her proverbial space.
Isobel stared off at the row of pine trees at the back of the yard. Whatever. She wasn’t really worried about what she had done, or had failed to do.
“There you are.” Isobel blinked; Gwen was standing directly in front of her. She hadn’t been aware of her at all.
“It’s almost time for fireworks,” Gwen went on. She held out her hand; Isobel grasped it, and they made their way to where Curtis and Will had arranged a small (and carefully controlled) fireworks display. When every party guest was gathered within a safe distance, Will lit the first fuse. There were cries of joy and excitement. The dogs barked. The ten-year-olds exclaimed, “Awesome!” The boys punched their fists into the air.
For her part, Isobel fought back tears. Ceremonies of any sort always made her cry. Parades were the worst. She hadn’t been able to attend Ogunquit’s Memorial Day Parade back in May; she had learned her lesson the year before when the trolley ferrying three ancient veterans from WWII came by. She had burst into tears and hadn’t been able to stop crying pitifully for almost a quarter of an hour. Sometimes, being a sensitive person could be a liability.
Now, Isobel looked around at the smiling group gathered in the Ryan-Roberts’s yard. It was a beautiful evening and it had been a really fun day. She had stuffed herself with yummy food and had tried her hand at badminton (she had been awful!) and had sung along with Gwen and her fathers to that song Lex and Joe played about Memphis women and fried chicken (it was hilarious). She had even got to cuddle with one of the pudgy pugs!
Yeah, the verdict was in. She was happy with her life here in Maine. So what if her family wasn’t perfect. Whose was? Anyway, it wasn’t as if her parents were criminals. Her mom was great (her biggest failing seemed to be a tendency to worry too easily, which wasn’t exactly a sin) and her dad had his moments. (He probably was really busy with work.) Isobel knew she had things a whole lot better than a whole lot of other kids.
She had, for another thing, a truly amazing best friend. She turned to Gwen and smiled. Gwen smiled back.
Yea
h, it was all good.
Really.
Chapter 15
Louise rubbed her forehead and hoped that the ibuprofen she had taken a few minutes earlier would kick in soon. Stress-induced headaches were becoming annoyingly frequent. She was not amused.
Louise sat up straight in her chair; slumping never helped anything, certainly not clear thinking. And she needed to think clearly if she was going to solve the latest supremely annoying request made by Flora Michaels. Hand-embroidered hankies for each of the wedding guests? Really? And even if such things could be found in this machine-dominated age, why should it be Louise’s responsibility to provide them? It should not be her responsibility. Her contract said nothing about such duties. So then why hadn’t she come right out and told Flora Michaels to go to Hades, instead of hemming and hawing her way out of the phone conversation?
And then, just to make matters a little more interesting and a lot more frightening, there was the question of the electrician’s bill. It was way higher than Louise had estimated—how had she made such a mistake?—and she was worried she might not be able to pay it all on time. She had plenty of experience balancing a budget through her volunteer work, but for some reason she really couldn’t explain, working carefully with someone else’s money was a whole lot easier than working with her own. No doubt a therapist could help her root out the answer to that provocative dilemma.
In short, Louise Bessire, sitting (slumped again) at her kitchen table, was suffering a very grave case of self-doubt.
Vicky Bessire could pull off this whole inn thing, she thought morosely, as well as the celebrity wedding, with her eyes closed, her hands tied behind her back, and her ears stuffed with cotton. Unlike Louise, Vicky was very close to perfect.
Consider her career. Vicky had been some sort of bigwig on Wall Street. Even after she had married Dan and moved to Boston she had kept her hand in it, commuting to New York several times a month. She had retired after the birth of her first child; after the birth of her second, she had established a home-based company called Bumblestiltskin. It sold expensive, handmade baby and toddler clothing to women who could pay a hundred bucks for a onesie. It was, as far as Louise knew, a great success. No doubt Vicky’s children were geniuses, too.
The Summer Everything Changed Page 9