The Summer Everything Changed (7 page)

Louise grabbed her daughter's arm. “You don't think . . . Oh my God! Do you think there really are hidden cameras? You don't think that creature planted microphones in the ferns or behind the couch cushions? I saw her creepy assistant lingering over by the chaise in the parlor . . .”

Isobel rolled her eyes. “Mom, you need to relax. No, I don't think they hid any cameras or microphones. Besides, I think in reality shows the cameras are right out there. Everyone knows they're being filmed.”

Louise let go of her daughter. “Well, it's too late to back out now. We are well and truly committed to this disaster.”

Flynn cleared his throat. “You do realize that stick figure, Florabelle whatever her name is, needs this wedding to go off without a hitch as much as you do. She's a pain all right, but in the end, she's your ally. Keep that in mind and don't let her get to you.”

“He's right, Mrs. Bessire,” Quentin added. “Someone like that, her bark is way worse than her bite.”

The men's words made sense, but at that moment, Louise could take very little comfort in sense. “I think,” she said to the group, “that I need a drink.”

Isobel closed the laptop and sighed deeply. She felt tired and more than a wee bit grumpy. Faking exuberance wasn't as easy as some people made it out to be, even when you were faking it on paper—or a screen. Talk about being an unreliable narrator!

And her bad mood was all her father's fault. She had found the e-mail from him that morning; he had sent it in the middle of the night. With no warning, he had cancelled their vacation in Newport, Rhode Island. Isobel had been looking forward to touring those massive old mansions, and strolling the Cliff Walk, and shopping the boutique stores in town, hunting out little gifts for her mom and Gwen and Catherine, and finding something weird and wonderful that she could talk about on CityMouse.

True, Vicky and her daughters were to have been there, as well, but Isobel had even been looking forward to spending some time with her stepmother and stepsisters. Why not? They hadn't done anything mean to her, unless you could say that by having an affair with a married man Vicky had knowingly committed an act of meanness . . . Whatever. Isobel did not like to hold a grudge. She was the sort of person—and, according to her mother, always had been—who gave a person the benefit of the doubt not once but twice, and sometimes even three times.

Except, it seemed, when it came to her father.

Andrew Bessire had given no explanation for the cancellation other than “a pressing work matter.” Isobel had no real reason to doubt him, but at the same time she did doubt him, of course she did. And she wondered if he would send Vicky and the girls to Newport without him. Probably. But of course he couldn't send Isobel, as well. Her presence, without her father being there as a buffer, might not appeal to Vicky. Isobel had only met her stepmother once, and that was at the wedding just that past December. She had been perfectly pleasant to Isobel, but, as any bride, she hadn't had time to stop and exchange more than greetings with any of her guests.

To argue that she should have made time for her new stepdaughter, as Isobel's mother had argued—maybe a private breakfast that morning, before the ceremony—was futile now, after the fact. It was what it was. To argue that Vicky should have made an effort to meet Isobel long before the wedding was also moot. Besides, for all Isobel knew, her father was to blame for that, too. Maybe he hadn't wanted them to meet. Isobel could understand that. He probably had been afraid that she would lash out at Vicky. Not that she had ever been the type to lash out at anyone, for any reason. But given the fact that Isobel had outright refused to see or talk to her father for several months after his awkward, faltering explanation of why he was leaving his wife and child, Andrew Bessire might be excused for considering his own daughter an unknown quantity.

Isobel got up from the desk chair and wandered around her room, idly kicking aside whatever stuff her feet encountered. It didn't matter what disappointment she was feeling in her real, off-screen life; whatever it was she hid it from her readers. The blog was a determinedly happy place. She would never allow her own personal misery (or even just a bad mood) to leak into its domain. Okay, she had shouted-out to her father the other day . . . But that was the first and the last time she would let a bit of angst infect CityMouse.

Isobel stopped her wandering and flopped onto the unmade bed. She had told her mother about her father's e-mail over breakfast that morning. Her mother had dropped the piece of toast she was buttering and had then begun to apologize, almost as if it was her fault that Isobel's father was a jerk.

“I am so, so sorry, Isobel,” she had said, her eyes wide with concern and an emotion a little too close to pity. Somehow her mother's reaction, though there was nothing wrong about it, made Isobel even angrier with her father and a little bit angry with her mother, too, something she couldn't immediately understand.

Isobel shook her head as if to clear away the uncomfortable memories. She got up from the bed, closed her door firmly behind her, and went downstairs. Gwen was just pulling up to the inn. Her visit was unannounced and very welcome.

Isobel waited for her on the porch, under the huge hanging baskets of orange and yellow petunias. A variety of ornamental grasses were flourishing in the beds at the foot of the porch, along with a row of giant hosta plants that had fought the good fight against marauding deer. Quentin was to be thanked for that. He had spread some homemade concoction his family had used for generations around the plants, and whatever the magic ingredient, it had caused the deer to go off elsewhere to feast. The white wicker rocking chairs on the porch gleamed in the sun. Next to each one was a low table on which drinks and magazines and books or even feet might rest. At one end of the porch, a wooden love seat, painted white and amply cushioned, awaited tired guests.

“My father cancelled our vacation,” Isobel said without preamble, perching on the railing. “Something came up at the office.”

Gwen sank into one of the rocking chairs. “That's too bad. You must be disappointed. And angry.”

“Oh, I'm not angry,” Isobel lied, wondering why she was lying. Who was she trying to impress with a show of noble maturity? “Really. What's the point of being angry?”

“I'd be angry in your situation,” Gwen said. “I think it would be normal to be angry. Not to say you're being abnormal . . .”

“Thanks. Personally, I think I am an eminently sane teenager. Which is saying a lot.”

The girls were silent for a time. Two massive blue jays were screeching at each other in an azalea bush, and an enormous local cat by the name of Ivan the Terrible was stretched out low to the ground, slowly and patiently but determinedly slinking his way toward the unsuspecting birds.

“My dad is such a cliché!”

Isobel's sudden exclamation caused Gwen, absorbed in the antics of the fauna, to jump in her seat and the blue jays to fly off and Ivan the Terrible to turn his massive gray head toward the girls and glare.

“I mean, midlife crisis much?” Isobel went on. “What did he do, read a how-to manual? Step One: Trade in the older wife for a younger model. And Mom heard that he upgraded his sports car again. I should have known something was up when he first bought the vintage Corvette. How boring! Next thing you know, he's going to get hair plugs. Maybe he's even wearing a man girdle!”

“His behavior is a tad clichéd,” Gwen agreed calmly. “Look, I'm not trying to defend your father—he did cheat on your mother—but are you sure that's all it was, a midlife crisis? Maybe he really wasn't happy with your mom. Maybe they were incompatible deep down.”

“Are you saying there's something wrong with my mom?” Isobel's voice squeaked in disbelief.

“Of course not. Your mom is fantastic. It's just that not everyone is meant to live happily ever after with a particular person. My dad Will was with someone for almost ten years before he met my dad Curtis. He totally thought he'd spend the rest of his life with that guy and then he was dumped. And then he met Curtis.”

“And happily ever after?”

Gwen shrugged. “So far.”

“Well, I still think that my dad was a weenie for what he did to my mom, and to me. He duped us. He made fools of us.”

“You are angry at him for canceling the trip. Admit it.”

“I admit nothing,” Isobel proclaimed. “It's no big deal. I mean, sure, I was looking forward to Newport, and he could have called me. Come on, an e-mail headed ‘sorry, kiddo'? ‘Maybe next year'?”

“An e-mail? That was pretty lame.”

“Well, maybe next year I won't be available. We'll see how he likes that!” Isobel shrugged and left the railing for the comfort of the rocker next to Gwen's. “Okay, that sounded pretty childish,” she admitted. “But I do have a life and I can't be expected to be at his beck and call, right?”

“Right.”

“I mean, Vicky isn't so bad. At least she's smart. She was a trader on Wall Street at one point so she has brains. Not that I understand anything about high finance, but it might have been nice to spend some time with her. And her kids are cute enough. They were adorable at the wedding. Matching green velvet dresses with a crown of ivy in their hair. Well-behaved, too.”

“Yeah.”

“At this point I wonder if they even remember me. I only met them at the wedding. Kallie and Karrie. I made a point of remembering who was who.
L
comes before
R,
Kallie comes before Karrie, meaning Kallie is older.”

“That was smart of you,” Gwen commented.

“Kids hate being called the wrong name. They understand the disrespect it implies.”

“You'd make a good big sister.”

Isobel huffed. “If I had the chance. But, whatever.”

“Yeah. Their loss.”

The girls were quiet for a time, during which Isobel was very stern with the resentful feelings that insisted on lingering in her heart. Or in her mind, wherever feelings really lingered. She did not like to feel bad or angry. She. Did. Not.

Gwen broke the silence between them. “Did you ever really mourn the loss—relatively speaking—of your father?” she asked.

Isobel laughed loudly and heartily. “Are you kidding me? I was an emotional wreck for weeks. Crying all the time, the whole thing. I wouldn't even talk to him for, like, three months or so.”

“Okay. But why did you stop crying and all that? I mean, were you really done with the grieving process or were you just bored with it?”

“What kind of question is that?” Isobel asked. “Really!”

Gwen raised an eyebrow at her friend. “Well, you know, patience isn't your strong suit. It's no surprise to anyone who knows you even a little that you like to keep moving, and fast.”

Isobel silently admitted the truth of that assessment. Look at what she had been doing mentally just a few moments ago—chasing away unpleasant thoughts. But before she could frame an answer to Gwen's uncomfortable questions, the sound of a motor and the appearance at the curve in the road of the car it belonged to intruded.

“Who's that?” Gwen said. “I don't recognize the car . . .”

“Oh my God,” Isobel whispered. “It's Jeff Otten.”

“How do you know Jeff Otten?” Gwen whispered back.

“Never mind now,” she said, wondering if she should stand or stay seated or just go ahead and pass out.

Jeff brought the car to a smooth stop in the drive and got out. “Hi,” he said, climbing the stairs to the porch and shifting his sunglasses to the top of his head.