Isobel didn’t need to call someone for a ride. As luck would have it, Flynn Moore was in town and spotted her on the corner before she had a chance to decide whom to call.
“My friend had an emergency at work,” she told him, climbing in to his immaculately clean pickup truck. “I told him I’d be fine getting home on my own.”
“Then it’s a good thing I happened by,” Flynn said with a smile.
As they drove, Isobel snuck surreptitious looks at Flynn. His hair was thick and silvery, what you could call a “mane” of hair, swept back off his forehead. His eyes were very bright blue, like the blue of a Paraíba tourmaline. (Isobel had seen pictures of the stone, though none in person. The blue was so intense it was almost disturbing, in the way extreme beauty could be disturbing.) There were deep wrinkles around his eyes when he smiled, which was often. She thought they added to Flynn’s physical charm.
Isobel’s mother had told her that Flynn was sixty. Though he looked to be in great shape, he walked with a bit of a limp. Its cause was a mystery to Isobel. Maybe he had arthritis. Maybe he needed or had had a hip replacement. Maybe he had been in a skiing accident a long time ago . . .
Isobel wondered if Flynn had children or nieces and nephews or even grandchildren. Gosh, she didn’t even know if Flynn had ever been married! It was odd how things worked in a small town. On the one hand, everyone knew everyone else’s business, or seemed to know. On the other hand, some lives managed to remain mysteriously private. She suddenly wondered if she would ever possess the key to the mystery of Flynn Moore.
Flynn dropped her off at the inn with greetings to her mother. Once inside, Isobel grabbed something to eat (one of Bella’s scones left over from breakfast, and a carton of red raspberry yogurt, did the trick) and then ran up to her room, where she flopped down on the unmade bed. She had a lot to think about.
The knowledge that Jeff worked with the elderly made her appreciate his attentions even more than she already did. Once she got her license she could volunteer somewhere, too, a nursing home or maybe she could work at a shelter for battered women. Her mother would be especially proud of her for choosing that avenue.
Isobel turned onto her side. She wanted to be wise. She knew that wisdom was something, a quality, maybe a gift or even a talent, that was supposed to come only with age. But she hoped she would be wise, at least a little bit, before her hair was gray and her back stooped. What was the point of achieving wisdom if, by the time you achieved it, you were too old to actually put it into practice?
And what was the point of having wisdom if you were too old to command anyone’s attention so that you could share it? Because did young people ever listen to old people? Not people her mother’s age, but really old people. Young people should, of course, listen to those older, but Isobel was pretty sure, at least from what she had witnessed, that they didn’t.
Isobel sighed. She wished she had known her grandparents. She had brought that photo of her grandmother in the wild paisley dress up to her room and put it in a frame on the dresser. Maybe her grandmother had harbored a secret desire to be other than she was, which, according to Louise, was a timid and retiring woman. The dress certainly seemed to be a clue, unless, like Louise guessed, it was a purchase made under pressure from a friend. Hmm. A friend who sensed that Nancy Jones had an inner spirit aching to be set free? It was too bad that Isobel would never know.
Suddenly, Isobel knew what she would buy with the gift certificate Catherine had given her for her birthday—a copy of Ari Seth Cohen’s book, Advanced Style. It was chock-full of photographs of stylish women in their sixties, seventies, eighties, and for all Isobel knew, even their nineties. That was one of the good things about being interested in style. It was a passion that could last throughout a lifetime.
Isobel glanced at the old-fashioned windup alarm clock on her desk. It was already three thirty. She hoped that everything was okay with Jeff. He had looked pretty concerned or distracted when that call had come in and he’d had to hurry off. She guessed he must feel an awful lot of pressure working for a father who was so high-powered and influential. She had never felt pressure from either of her parents to succeed in any particular way. But maybe that had more to do with her than with her parents’ being cool. Isobel liked to think of herself as someone who didn’t easily succumb to the standards of other people, even people she loved or admired. She liked to think of herself as someone who consciously chose to march to the beat of her own drum.
An unexpected ray of sunshine penetrated the room, illuminating Isobel’s bracelet. She held out her arm and admired it once again. She felt warm and happy and drowsy. Before long, she had drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 31
Mother and daughter were in the kitchen the following morning. The breakfast room had been cleared and the tables reset for the next day. Bella had gone home, and the housekeeping staff was hard at work in the guest rooms, hallways, parlor, and library.
Louise was ironing napkins; it was one of those domestic chores she had always found unaccountably soothing. Isobel sat at the table flipping through a fashion magazine, her empty cereal bowl still beside her. Louise could see a few splashes of pink-tinted milk and grimaced. She wished she could get Isobel, usually pretty health-conscious, to give up eating Franken Berry cereal, but the girl refused. Honestly, it didn’t seem to be doing her any harm, though what havoc they would find at her next dentist appointment was anyone’s guess.
Sunlight streamed through the windows. It was going to be a scorcher, Louise noted. If she was lucky, she might be able to snatch some time that afternoon to escape to the beach and cool her feet in the Atlantic.
Suddenly, she noticed a sparkle flashing from Isobel’s left wrist as she turned a page of the magazine.
“Where did you get that bracelet?” she asked, carefully placing the iron in its stand.
Isobel looked up from her magazine and laughed. “Oh, I wondered when you’d notice! I’ve been wearing it for days. Jeff gave it to me.”
“Jeez, this wedding has me totally distracted. What was the occasion?”
“No occasion. He just gave it to me.”
Louise felt a twinge of discomfort. “It looks pretty expensive, especially for a no-occasion gift,” she said.
Isobel shrugged. “His family has a lot of money. And Jeff works for his dad so he probably has cash of his own. Anyway, you know I don’t care about how much things cost.”
No, Louise thought, but he might. Maybe that was an unfair leap to make, assuming Jeff would want payment of some sort for the gift . . . She had no reason to think ill of Jeff Otten and every reason to think well of the family in which he had been raised. And there was no way the bracelet was anything but silver and crystals. It couldn’t have cost so terribly much, even with the price of silver still being pretty high and crystals enjoying another moment of popularity. Still . . .
“Still,” she said, “it seems a bit odd that he would give you such a big gift so soon after you two started dating.” Andrew, she thought, hadn’t given her an important (his term for expensive) gift until they had been dating a year.
Isobel grinned. “Are you saying I’m not worth it?”
“Of course that’s not what I’m saying. You’re worth the heavens and all beneath them.”
“Ha!”
“Just promise me you’ll let me know if he gives you another extravagant gift, okay?”
Isobel shrugged again. “Sure, whatever.”
Louise was not thrilled about that answer—it sounded vaguely insincere—but she had no choice but to believe in and trust her daughter’s words. Right?
Isobel left the kitchen soon, after being reminded to put her bowl in the dishwasher. Louise went back to her ironing.
Later in the day, Louise sat at the kitchen table with a cup of iced coffee. It had been a busy day of troubleshooting at the inn (Mr. and Mrs. Daley reported a clogged toilet and later, a clogged sink) and putting out fires relating to the wedding from
hell (the bride, Morocco or Jamaica, had blown up at her fiancé and called off the wedding; an hour later, everything was back on, leaving both Flora Michaels and Louise recovering from minor heart attacks). She never did have the time to escape to the beach.
Now that she had a spare moment to think about something other than the problems of strangers, Louise’s mind turned again to the bracelet Jeff had given Isobel. Really, it was odd that Isobel hadn’t shown her the bracelet right away. Isobel was usually so impatient, exuberant, and open.
Louise wondered. Maybe Isobel was indeed uncomfortable about Jeff’s gift, but reluctant to admit it. Odd. She remembered now how Isobel hadn’t told her about the first time she had met Jeff . . . Was this new pattern of behavior something about which she should be concerned? Well, Louise thought, probably not. It was a good thing that Isobel was embracing independence. And the easiest way to alienate a young person was to breathe down her neck with questions.
Louise’s phone announced the virtual presence of Flora Michaels. She sighed. It was the fourteenth text of the day, and it wasn’t any friendlier than the first thirteen. The two women had been working together for weeks now and they were no more friendly than they had been during that first fateful phone conversation. With any other person Louise would have tried for some personal connection, but Flora Michaels, by every word and every gesture, discouraged—no, forbid!—friendship or, at the very least, amiable relations. So be it.
Still, Louise had a sudden desire to force-feed Flora Michaels a box of Franken Berry. It was probably the only thing sugary enough to sweeten her up.
Chapter 32
CITYMOUSE
Bonjour, My Friends!
I’m so excited to share with you all this outstanding hat Gwen and I found at a tiny little antique shop we’d never even noticed before. Just look!
It’s like a puffball made of white feathers—isn’t it hilarious?
But it’s also kind of fabulous and intensely glamorous. When LouLou saw it, she remembered seeing photographs of Princess Grace of Monaco wearing a hat just like it. We went online and found the occasion—Princess Grace and Prince Rainier were visiting President Kennedy, and oh boy, the look Grace was giving Jack in one of the pictures . . . All I can say is that if I had been Jackie (and LouLou agrees!), I would not have been pleased!!!! And I guess if I had been the prince I would not have been pleased, either. Well, people felt that JFK was a really good-looking guy, so I guess that sort of thing happened all the time. Even now you hear stories about his affairs and whatnot. Personally, he doesn’t do it for me and affairs are wrong, but . . .
Anyway, here’s another picture of the hat, this time on top of Gwen’s head! By the way, when we found the hat it was resting in its original cardboard box; if you look closely, you can see the box off to Gwen’s right, that black and white round thing.
I can’t imagine where one would have worn this hat—other than to meet the president! (And frankly, it seems an odd choice for meeting a head of state, but hey, what do I know about protocol among the rich and famous?) Maybe to a posh luncheon with one’s friends, at a high-end, very proper restaurant on New York’s Upper East Side, where everyone is dressed “à la mode” and “mauvais gout” is unheard of?
Sigh. How social and sartorial conventions have changed!
Now, let me end with some food for thought. I came across the following quote (online, of course) from Helen Gurley Brown (yes, another quote), and it got me thinking—as, I’m guessing, it was meant to do!
“Beauty can’t amuse you, but brain work—reading, writing, thinking—can.”
As I can’t really know what exactly Ms. Gurley Brown meant by this statement—and since I have no idea of the context in which she uttered it—it’s difficult to comment with any intelligence . . . But I’ll give it a try!!!
For me, thinking, reading, and writing ABOUT beauty is one of, if not the most, amusing things there is! Contemplating the very idea of aesthetics can occupy me happily for hours . . .
I love the poem by John Keats entitled “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” with those famous final lines that read:
Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
Now I know there’s debate about what, exactly, Keats meant by that (everything in the world of art is debatable, I guess) and about how those lines are really meant to be read, but if I think that if you take the lines at face value, the message—that Beauty and Truth are one—is of the greatest importance for our souls.
Well, I hope that amateurish foray into art or literary “criticism” (ha!) makes some sense to you, my Dear Readers. If it doesn’t—don’t tell me!
Au revoir, my fellow Style Seekers!
Later that day, Isobel and Jeff were sitting in the gazebo behind the inn. Isobel loved sitting there on almost any day of the year, even in winter; it was such a romantic setting, calling to mind long, flowing dresses, picture hats, and men in high white collars. Jeff, however, didn’t seem thrilled. His expression was flat; he sat stiffly, his hands on his knees.
“Oh wow, look at that huge dragonfly!” Isobel exclaimed. The insect was darting crazily just out of reach. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”
Jeff shrugged.
“You’re not a nature lover?”
“No.”
“You don’t have a favorite flower? Like, a petunia?” she teased. “Or maybe something more bold and masculine, like a sunflower?”
Jeff didn’t respond to her teasing questions. “I’ve been reading your blog,” he said.
“You have?” Isobel smiled. “You might be the only guy who does.”
“Why don’t you ever mention me on the blog?”
Isobel was caught short not only by his question but also by his tone, which was decidedly that of someone who felt very, very hurt. “I—”
He cut her off. “You mention every other person you know around here. I thought I was important to you.”
“Oh wow,” she said, reaching for his hand. He let her take it, but he didn’t squeeze back. “You are important to me. I just . . . I didn’t think you were all that interested in style and fashion. I mean, in women’s style and fashion, which is mostly what I write about.”
“Isobel, I’m interested in everything that interests you.”
“But you don’t have to be.”
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
Isobel laughed. “But I’m not interested in everything you are.”
“You should be. That’s what it means to be a couple.” Jeff pulled his hand away from hers and stood up. He ran a hand through his hair in a gesture of great frustration. “That’s what drove me crazy about my last two girlfriends,” he said. “They just didn’t understand. They were so wrapped up in their own lives they didn’t have any time for me. For us. I thought you and I were different.”
Isobel felt very confused. She was not so sure one person in a couple should be genuinely interested in every single thing that interested the other person in the couple. It sounded kind of stifling, not to mention improbable. Still, she didn’t want to be an ex-girlfriend anytime soon. And what did she really know about the whole relationship thing, after all? She had never even been in one before now!
She considered for a moment. What were Jeff’s interests, anyway? As far as she knew, he had none. Or for some reason he wasn’t sharing with her what he enjoyed doing in his spare time. Come to think of it, he had never even told her his major at school! She must have asked him—it was such a basic, common question—in fact, she knew that she had, so what had he answered? For the life of her, she couldn’t remember. She felt bad about that.
“Well, okay,” she said then. “So, tell me about something you like to do. Tell me about your hobbies. Tell me about your passions.”
Jeff made a rude, dismissive sound. “Why should I bother? You already said you don’t care about the stuff I care about.”
Isobel felt her stomach sink. “That’s not at all what I said!
Come on, Jeff. Tell me. Maybe I could be interested in your hobbies. It’s always good to learn about new things.”
“Forget it. I’m only the one who gave you a diamond bracelet. Why should I matter?”
“Jeff, no . . .”
“If you’d rather write about some dead guy than your boyfriend, I’m outta here.”
He turned and stalked off, leaving Isobel stunned and even more confused than she had been at the start of the disastrous conversation.
“Jeff, wait!” she called, but he didn’t turn back. A moment or two later she heard his car roaring off.
The day suddenly seemed less bright, the dragonflies less interesting, the flowers less colorful. Isobel wondered if maybe Jeff was right; maybe she wasn’t paying enough attention to him. Well, there was a way to show Jeff that she cared. She would add him to her next blog post!
But what to say? Maybe she could mention his earrings, but in and of themselves they were ordinary. Maybe she could write a brief history of men’s jewelry and the famous guys throughout history (maybe just the western world, to keep things in check) who wore jewelry. Shakespeare wore earrings, didn’t he? Lots of Elizabethan guys did.
No. No history lesson on CityMouse.
And the fact was that she would be embarrassed to tell her readers about the bracelet. She was afraid that to describe it precisely—and honestly—would sound like bragging and she was not a braggart.
Maybe if she let her mind wander a bit, inspiration would come. In the meantime, Isobel thought about those other girlfriends Jeff had mentioned. She didn’t want to think about them, but she couldn’t seem to help it. Had Jeff given those other girls expensive presents, too? Had he had sex with all of them?
The Summer Everything Changed Page 20