The Summer Everything Changed Page 2

  Isobel jumped from her seat. Louise was surprised she had kept still this long.

  “Mom, this is amazing,” she cried, pacing excitedly. “This could really be fantastic for us. For the inn, I mean. Imagine the publicity!”

  “Yeah. Fantastic, if I don’t totally mess up and wind up losing the business.” How Andrew would gloat, she thought, if I had to declare bankruptcy. But maybe that was being unfair to her ex-husband. He wasn’t a gloater. He would simply shake his head, lips compressed, and say something on the order of: “I told you a country inn was a bad idea.” In Andrew’s opinion, Andrew was always right. Annoyingly, as the opinion of much of the world proved, he was, indeed, most often right.

  “Mom, come on,” Isobel was saying, her hands on her hips, “how hard can it be to throw a wedding? You’ve been to dozens of weddings, I’m sure. So buy a few magazines, get some cute ideas, and voilà.”

  Louise stared. Isobel’s general optimism and enthusiasm really could be viewed as an astounding naïveté. She decided not to comment on her daughter’s personality quirks. “We’re not throwing anything,” she corrected. “We’re—hosting, I guess would be the right word. We’re hosting a wedding for a minor celebrity couple. Oh, it sounds awful! What am I thinking? I can’t pull this off!”

  “Mom, don’t be a Gloomy Gus. How did they find out about us, anyway?”

  “Online. Where everyone finds out about everything. Oh Lord, I must be out of my mind. I’ll call the wedding planner right back and say that something came up and—”

  Louise made to rise, but Isobel gently pushed her mother back into the seat. “Mom,” she said, leaning down and looking her squarely in the eye, “you’ll do no such thing. Come on, where’s that fighting spirit, that gung ho attitude? Where’s that devil-may-care woman I know so well?”

  “Gung ho?” Louise couldn’t help but smile. “Devil-may-care? Are you feeling all right?”

  “Of course. I’m just trying to encourage you. And I’ll be here to help every step of the way, don’t forget that.”

  And she would, Louise thought. Isobel was a person of her word. “Are you sure I turned lavender? Not sickly mint or icky puce? Not disgusting pea soup?”

  “You like pea soup,” Isobel pointed out. “Especially when it has ham in it.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Periwinkle!” Isobel cried. “That’s the word I was looking for. You turned periwinkle.”

  “Periwinkle?” Louise felt her stomach drop heavily into her lower intestines. “Crap,” she said. “What disaster did I get us into?”

  Isobel squeezed her mother’s shoulders. “It’ll all be okay, Mom. I have a feeling our lives are about to change in ways we never even dreamed possible. Isn’t it exciting!”

  Louise managed a pathetic smile. “That’s one word for it,” she said.

  Chapter 2

  CITYMOUSE

  Greetings, Dear Readers!

  Gwen, my sidekick extraordinaire, my partner in daily adventure of the most varied kind, was extra Gwentastic yesterday when she unearthed a treasure beyond compare at the very bottom of a lopsided cardboard box stuffed under a shelf at Say It Again, one of our favorite hunting grounds, on Route 1 in Wells. With her usual (careful) vigor she rooted through layers of old and delicate lace, some of which threatened to fall apart in her hands, to finally uncover a sterling silver, monogrammed calling card case!! It’s even got a silver mesh chain on one end so you could carry it around your wrist when you went a-calling.

  Here’s a picture of her find. And, well, the owner of the shop admitted he hadn’t even known it was there, at the bottom of that old box. Desperately afraid we wouldn’t be able to afford to buy the case, Gwen and I held our breaths, but in the end Mr. Green was molto generoso and sold it to us for a very reasonable price indeed. It now resides with its rescuer, Gwen, who likes to imagine the full name of whoever sported the initials A. C. P. Allison Catherine Peterson. Or maybe Ann Carol Paulson. We’ll never know the truth—A. C. P. will remain for us a missing person—and there’s something really poignant about that.

  But, in other news, LouLou and I are celebrating our two-year anniversary in Ogunquit and at the Blueberry Bay Inn, and the almost-two-year anniversary of CityMouse. Time flies when you’re having fun, doesn’t it? (Does anybody know who first said that? Truer words were never spoken!)

  How deluded I was when first I came to what I truly thought to be the wilds of Maine! I’ve seen the wilds now—our first summer here, LouLou and I ventured north one weekend (before our lovely inn got underway) and spent a few days in Greenville at a teeny, family-run motel on Moosehead Lake, and that, my friends, is splendidly rural and wild and supposedly chock-full of moose though we didn’t see a-one—and let me be clear that Southern Maine is not wild nor is it unkempt or in any way messy. It only goes to show that so much of what we think we know we don’t know at all—it’s all so much misinformation and bad marketing and prejudice. So the lesson here is not to make snap judgments and to keep your mind open until you can make an informed decision all on your own.

  But one thing I learned in these past two years is that it’s not what is around you but what you carry inside of you that makes you happy in one place or another, that makes life here or there merely bearable or actually, in fact, happy.

  And one of the things I found that I do carry inside of me is style and the love of fashion for the FUN of it, so that even if most of my local pals don’t share this quirk of mine, YOU do, everyone who reads this blog and everyone who is HERE with me so that I never feel alone!

  To all you style gals back home, it’s CityMouse signing off for now with moose hugs (eergh!) and lobster kisses (ow!) from Maine.

  Isobel posted the blog and closed her laptop. It was true, she thought. So much had happened since her father had left the family and her mother had decided to move north to Maine.

  She had been sad to leave her friends, some of whom she had known since kindergarten, and her school, where she was a top student and popular without trying to be. And for about a moment she had grumbled mightily about moving to what she had thought of as a hick town where she was convinced no one had ever heard of fashion, let alone the concept of style. But grumbling did not sit well with Isobel. She was not negative by nature or given to self-pity. It wasn’t too long before her spirits rallied and she began to look forward to the move with excitement.

  Besides, she had been eager to get far away from her father and all he represented—their former so-called perfect family life.

  The first few weeks in their new home had been really tough. School was out for the summer, so there was no convenient way for Isobel to meet people her own age. So when she wasn’t helping her mom with Blueberry Bay Inn stuff, she found herself spending an awful lot of time online, reading through style and fashion blogs (Tavi Gevinson was her heroine, though she admitted to being a lot less ambitious than Tavi seemed to be), idly wish-shopping for vintage on eBay, and scrolling through QVC’s website for stuff she couldn’t afford and didn’t need. In short, she was busy being generally unproductive.

  And then, because Isobel Amelia Bessire was not happy being unhappy and unproductive, one day it had occurred to her that she could stop wasting precious time and pour her energy into writing a blog of her own. After all, she thought that someday she might want to become a writer, or maybe a stylist or a buyer. This venture could be practice for her career !

  It hadn’t been difficult to come up with a tagline—“You can’t take the city out of this girl! ”—or a mission statement—“To find and cultivate style even in the wilds of Maine.” She had altered that statement a bit now to something less bellicose and challenging—“Style is where you make it.”

  The blog allowed her to keep in touch with at least some of her friends from at home in Massachusetts, though she had to keep reminding herself that this was now home, Ogunquit, Maine, and that the sooner she accepted that fact, the better her life would be. She would
re-achieve the peace of mind and contentment and all that other good stuff she had once possessed.

  And she was well on the way! For example, she had totally lucked out in meeting Gwen Ryan-Roberts. They had run into each other on the grounds of the Ogunquit Museum of American Art. Gwen was there taking pictures of the giant wooden sculptures by Bernard Langlais. Isobel and her mother were strolling the lovely gardens out back. The three had struck up a conversation, and the rest, as it was said, was history.

  Gwen had a real gift for photography (she was currently obsessed with the urban street photos of Scott Schuman, known as The Sartorialist), and she drove her own car, which was lucky for Isobel because without a car, you were virtually a prisoner in your home.

  Together the girls spent hours hunting out local thrift, resale, and antique shops, buying what they could afford, and taking pictures of anything that struck their creative fancy.

  Over time the blog had become a lifeline for Isobel, especially as her mother had become increasingly busy with the running of Blueberry Bay. And as her father, almost imperceptibly at first but more obviously over time, had become less and less of a presence in their lives. It was to be expected. He was remarried. He had two little stepdaughters. He had his big career, as he always had. He had his life.

  And Isobel had hers, complete with CityMouse. Sometimes she wondered if she came across as kind of hyper on the blog, but the thing was that the writing just seemed to come out the way it came out and she didn’t want to censor that or edit herself the way she did for a paper at school or even an e-mail to a friend. Except, of course, that she would never allow herself to say mean or nasty stuff about anyone on the blog, not that that was a struggle, as Isobel liked to think (and she was right) that she didn’t have a mean or nasty bone in her body. Maybe an impatient bone or a moody bone (or two), and maybe even on occasion a pissy bone, but not a mean or a nasty one.

  Yeah, it was all good. Isobel looked around her room and smiled. The walls were painted a bright, deep pink (her mother had once called them magenta but Isobel thought that raspberry was more accurate) and hung with framed posters of European capitols and famous works of art. To the right of the room’s narrow closet hung a small oil painting Isobel had removed from the breakfast room because she loved it so much and wanted to be able to look at it whenever she wanted. It was by a local painter named Julia Einstein, and it showed a view of a garden from an upstairs window. The colors were bright and happy, the image bold and confident. The painting energized Isobel. Not that she needed much outside help in the energizing department.

  The furniture consisted of a jumble of pieces she had wanted to salvage from their house in Massachusetts, in spite of her mother’s assurance that the Blueberry Bay Inn came already largely furnished. That didn’t matter to Isobel. Some of the pieces she had shipped north hadn’t been meant for use in a bedroom but that didn’t matter, either, like the old book-stand, the kind that you found in private libraries and museums. Lacking a gorgeously illuminated medieval text to display on it, Isobel piled on the latest editions of InStyle and Vogue.

  The rest of her book collection was stacked every which way on shelves Isobel herself had nailed into the walls (with some later corrective help from Quentin Hollander, the seventeen-year-old local guy who worked at the inn full-time during the summers and part-time off-season). Isobel liked to read almost as much as she liked to write. In addition to a good old-fashioned (but recent edition) dictionary, there was her mother’s battered college copy of The Riverside Shakespeare, a complete hardcover collection of the Harry Potter series, paperback copies of the Hunger Games series, a book about the life and career of Coco Chanel, and a very expensive book about El Greco, who was one of her favorite painters. That had been a Christmas present from her father a few years back; the quality of the colored plates was outstanding. The rest was an eclectic mix, from a secondhand copy of a book about birds of the Northeast, a coverless copy of Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, a first edition of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca, and a book about jewelry written in England in the 1940s. That she had found in Yes!, a cool secondhand bookstore on Congress Street up in Portland.

  The bed was the same one she had been sleeping in since she was first out of a crib. The current bedspread was a paisley print that Louise found riotous; Isobel thought it was restful.

  On the floor (under piles of magazines and clothing, the latter clean but often rumpled) was an old wool carpet her parents had bought on a trip to Paris when Isobel was small. She had always loved it, and rather than leave it behind in Massachusetts, as her mother was inclined to do, the carpet, with its intricate design worked in maroon, goldenrod, and deep green, had journeyed north.

  All in all, the room was what some people, the kinder ones, would call an organized mess, and what other people, the less kind, would call a train wreck. Yes, the room was cluttered; Isobel was a collector by nature, not a minimalist. A “pack rat,” Mrs. Brown, the housekeeper back in Massachusetts, had called her before she had refused to attempt to clean under the piles of clothes and magazines and books heaped on the bed and littered across the floor.

  The inn had a small staff of housekeepers, three teenaged girls from Macedonia, none of whom were allowed into Isobel’s room. It was her haven; it was sacrosanct. And what looked like junk to some people, was considered treasure by others.

  Isobel leapt from the desk chair. Speaking of treasures, she had promised Gwen she would call her when the latest post was complete. There were endless whimsical baubles and fantastic oddities still to find!

  Chapter 3

  “Yes, yes, I heard you the first time, Ms. Michaels. Yes, I’ll be sure to get those measurements to you as soon as possible.”

  Flora Michaels sniffed loudly. “See that you do.” She ended the call without a good-bye.

  Louise fell back onto the bed, letting the phone drop at her side. God, she longed for a nap but she couldn’t justify one just yet, not when there was so much to do. There was a new guest checking in later that afternoon, and a professional painter was coming by to give an estimate for repainting the gazebo. And, of course, there were the measurements of every room on the ground floor of the inn (why?) to get to the wedding planner.

  Maybe if she just closed her eyes for five minutes . . . Nope. Wouldn’t work. Closed eyes led to serious snoozing. Louise sighed and sat back up against the pile of decorative pillows.

  As messy and disorganized as Isobel’s room was, Louise’s was neat and ordered. She had painted the walls a very soothing azure blue; the floorboards were wide pine painted white. Here and there, like at the foot of the bed, were scattered throw rugs in a dusty rose color. A comfortable armchair from their former house in Massachusetts, one of the few pieces she had brought along to this new life, was positioned to allow a view of the backyard and the grove of pine trees that marked its boundary. The chair was one of her favorite pieces, already on a third upholstering, this time in a pretty sea-foam green that contributed to the room’s cool and peaceful feel.

  There was a small, rather dainty desk in which she kept a box of old-fashioned writing paper, and a good Cross pen she had gotten as a thank-you gift for her work organizing a fund-raising event for a local charity back in Massachusetts. Two checkbooks, one for her personal account and one for the inn’s; a roll of stamps; and a stack of bookmarks Isobel had made one summer in day camp completed the stash. The bookmarks were cardboard strips (unevenly cut) on which Isobel had pressed Queen Anne’s lace under a layer of clear shelf paper.

  A hefty-sized bookcase was stocked with favorite titles Louise wanted at hand at bedtime, including a copy of every Elizabeth Peters and Barbara Michaels novel published to date. She had read each novel at least three times and would no doubt read each novel three additional times. In Louise’s opinion, you stuck with a good thing, especially when the good thing was a favorite author. Recently, she had succeeded in getting her friend Catherine hooked on Peters / Michaels, but Isobel was proving a t
ougher case. She was still favoring some of the older teen series, though recently Louise had seen her engrossed in a copy of The Great Gatsby. There was hope yet.

  The bed was new, one Andrew had never seen let alone slept in. (He had never visited his former wife and his always daughter in Ogunquit, and Louise suspected that he never would.) She had treated herself to high thread count sheets and an expensive down comforter covered in a luxurious silky fabric somewhere in shade between the azure walls and the sea-foam chair. If the room looked a bit like an underwater grotto, so be it.

  In addition to the window facing the backyard, there was one facing the narrow side yard. Louise had hung white sheer curtains for the warm months; in the fall and winter, she replaced these with curtains of heavier fabric. Though there was an air conditioner in the window facing the side yard, Louise rarely used it. The room was nicely cross-ventilated; only on those nasty humid days when temperatures crawled into the nineties (this was a common enough occurrence in Southern Maine) did she crank up the AC a few hours before bedtime.

  Louise sighed. She knew she would spend less and less time in this lovely haven as the busy season took hold, and she strongly suspected that this summer, what with the celebrity wedding looming, her sleep schedule would be pretty severely reduced. It worried her. She was already drinking way too much coffee just to keep awake past three in the afternoon, and if she weren’t careful to exercise some self-control, the one homemade pastry she snuck around ten each morning would turn into two pastries. What would happen from there was anyone’s nightmarish guess. Being active—supervising the housekeepers (who, being intelligent, energetic, and hardworking, didn’t need much supervision), or discussing a change to the breakfast menu with the cook, Bella Frank (who had her own firm ideas about what to serve the guests), or asking Quentin to take a look at the dishwasher or some other appliance (which, often enough, he had already earmarked for repair)—didn’t necessarily mean you were conscious while doing so.