The Summer Everything Changed

by Holly Chamberlin

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

In this touching novel, a Boston divorcée buys a Maine B&B where she juggles the demands of a celebrity wedding with being a single mother.

When Louise Bessire was living in Boston, she dreamed of another way of life, far from the phony smiles and small-talk of corporate dinners. Now she’s got what she wanted—though not exactly in the way she hoped. Blindsided by her husband’s affair, Louise has used her divorce settlement to buy Blueberry Bay, a picturesque bed and breakfast in Ogunquit. And with a celebrity wedding taking place on the premises this summer, business is looking up.

While Louise deals with paparazzi and wedding planners, her sixteen-year-old daughter, Isobel, is falling hard for local boy Jeff Otten. Being singled out by Jeff—nineteen, handsome, and from a wealthy family—almost makes up for her father’s increasing neglect. Yet even in the glow of golden beach days there are sudden, heart-wrenching revelations for both Louise and Isobel. It will be a summer that tests their strength and courage and proves that through every changing season, nothing is as steadfast as a mother’s love . . .

Release date: July 1, 2013

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

It was a typically beautiful afternoon in early June when the call came in.

Afterward, Louise liked to refer to it as “the fateful call.” Her daughter, Isobel, chose to refer to it as “the call that changed everything.” Either phrase was appropriate, because with absolutely no warning or preparation, Louise Bessire, owner of the Blueberry Bay Inn in Ogunquit, Maine, found herself deep in a mostly one-sided discussion with a wedding planner to the stars.

“Yes, yes,” she said. “I see.” She did not see, not at all. She could hardly believe what she was hearing from this person calling herself Flora Michaels. “How many guests did you say? That many?”

Louise leaned against the kitchen sink and put her hand to her head, where she suspected there would be a big pain very soon. At forty-two Louise still had the slim, lithe figure she had had at twenty-two. Mostly, that was due to genetics and next, to nervous energy. She was five feet eight inches tall, with thick blond hair, darker now than it had been when she was younger. Usually, she wore it hanging straight to her shoulders or up in a messy bun; today, she had gone for the bun. At the moment she was dressed in one version of what had become her summer uniform—a pair of white jeans, a fitted T-shirt, and comfortable wedge sandals. Another version might have substituted capri pants for the jeans and flat sandals for the wedges. These days, Louise didn’t have much time to spend on worrying about her wardrobe.

The inn’s kitchen was located at the back of the house, and during the busy season it served as home base for the Bessire women. The walls were painted a cheery yellow. The floors, originally pine, had been replaced with good ceramic tile some years back. Windows all along the back wall, against which stood the sink and a long working counter, let in plenty of natural light. The backsplash tile was a springy green that worked nicely with the yellow of the walls. A big round clock—black-rimmed, white-faced, black-numbered—hung over the kitchen door, which opened out onto a small, semi-enclosed space for storage of gardening equipment, and then onto the backyard.

Though the room was off-limits to guests, it was still a bit of a showcase and, of course, spotlessly clean. The appliances were restaurant grade, as the inn served breakfast from seven until nine o’clock and in mid-afternoon provided tea, coffee, and homemade pastries in the parlor.

The meals were thanks to Bella Frank, a sixty-five-year-old local woman who had trained in her youth as a chef. After a lifetime of supporting her children by doing the books for her husband’s hardware store and taking odd jobs when they presented themselves, she welcomed the opportunity to practice her passion. Louise felt beyond lucky to have Bella as an employee. Before buying the inn, she had had absolutely no experience in any area of the hospitality industry; she had never even waited tables, let alone cooked for potentially fussy strangers.

The table in the center of the pleasant room was an old, scrubbed-pine piece; it was the first bit of furniture Louise had bought for the inn. It was here that Louise and her fifteen-year-old daughter, Isobel, ate their meals together. It was where Isobel was sitting at that very moment, watching her mother intently. Louise felt a bit like a slow-moving bird being eyed by a hungry cat. Occasionally, Isobel mouthed a questioning word that Louise thought might be “what” or maybe “who,” and her right hand was making a spasmodic gesture Louise interpreted as “hurry!” Isobel wasn’t known for her patience. She was the kid who had to give you the birthday present she had bought you as soon as she got it home, even if your birthday was weeks away, just because she couldn’t wait to see your pleased reaction. She was also the kid who routinely burned her mouth on cookies fresh out of the oven because she simply couldn’t wait until they had cooled off.

Isobel, on the cusp of sixteen, was tiny, about five feet two inches tall, and her complexion was much darker than her mother’s, closer to that of her father’s side of the family. Her hair, too, was darker than Louise’s, more of a golden brown than blond. Her eyes were a very deep blue—in contrast to her mother’s light blue eyes—but like the Jones side of the family, she was very slim. At the moment she was dressed in—well, not a version of a uniform, because every day Isobel emerged from her bedroom in an entirely new and unpredictable outfit. Today that outfit consisted of a pair of bright green Converse sneakers; a tan crocheted skirt (with a silk lining) that came to mid-calf; and a man’s blue oxford button-down shirt tied up at the waist. In her ears she wore hoops studded with turquoise stones; both wrists sported an assortment of bangles and rope bracelets; on her right hand she wore a massive faux gold ring set with a triangular bit of pyrite; and on her left hand she wore a Lucite ring in pink and orange. The Lucite ring had belonged to Louise when she was a child.

“But I don’t—” Louise was interrupted, again, by Flora Michaels. “Well, yes, that’s possible, I guess, but—” And again.

Isobel rolled her eyes, and her leg bounced with curiosity.

Louise turned away. Isobel’s excitement was making her nervous. Well, more nervous than she already was and had been since buying Blueberry Bay Inn a little over two years earlier, just after her divorce from Isobel’s father had been finalized. The purchase had been partly whim, and partly dream; she had presented a tiny bit of a plan, and had taken a hell of a lot of a risk. Louise still wondered if she had been entirely in her right mind when she signed all those papers at the closing.

Still, there were aspects of her life as an innkeeper she enjoyed, and she downright loved the inn itself. The house had been built around 1880 and had remained in the possession of the Burke family for generations. Around 1993 the last of the Burkes sold it for far less than it might have been worth if failing fortunes hadn’t rendered it almost uninhabitable. The new owners restored it from the near wreck it had become over time and converted it to an inn they called Blueberry Hill. Somewhere in the early 2000s the name was changed to Blueberry Bay. Louise wondered if the association with the famous 1950s Chuck Berry song had occasioned too many annoying questions like, “So, did Chuck Berry ever stay here, or what?”

The last owner had painted the big old building white, and the doors and window shutters a dark green. On the first floor, to the left of the entrance, was a parlor for the convenience of guests on a rainy afternoon or evening. It had a working fireplace, several large and comfortable high-backed armchairs, a couch that was just the right degree of saggy (that, according to Isobel), and a scattering of small antique occasional tables.

A smaller room across from the parlor, now called the library, housed the reception desk, a rack of tourist guides, stacks of local magazines and newspapers, and a collection of books amassed haphazardly over the years by the various owners of the inn. There was also a big supply of paperbacks abandoned by summer visitors. Those with steamy covers Louise had stuck up on the higher shelves. The inn did not allow children, but still, Blueberry Bay did have a certain reputation to maintain. That, or Louise was becoming prudish in her early middle age.

The breakfast room was beyond the parlor. There was a private table for every guest room, each one set with an eclectic assortment of old crockery, china, and silverware Louise and Isobel had scavenged from antique shops and flea markets. Each morning, Louise refreshed the tiny vase at the center of each table with offerings from the garden, a bit of Queen Anne’s lace or a single peony or, later in the season, a bloom of hydrangea.

A small powder room was tucked in under the stairs. It had been installed fairly recently, within the last ten or twelve years, and like all of the other bathrooms at the inn, it boasted modern facilities along with touches of New England charm, like the basket of whitened seashells that sat on a shelf over the toilet, and a print showing the crew of a lobster boat hauling in their catch. (Louise had to replenish the contents of the basket on a regular basis; guests seemed to feel a compulsive need to steal the shells.)

On the second floor, at the back of the house, were Louise’s bedroom, Isobel’s bedroom, and the bathroom they shared. At the front of the house, there was a large guest room with an alcove big enough to serve as a sitting area; this room offered a private bathroom. From the window you could see a bit of Perkins Cove—at least, you could make out a few roofs and beyond them, on a clear day, a bit of horizon.

There were three medium-sized guest rooms on the third floor. From the front room you could see a wide strip of the energetic Atlantic, silvery blue in a certain light, bright teal in another, and deep navy in yet another. There was one shared bathroom in the hall.

The attic, off-limits to guests as was the kitchen, might have been a treasure hunter’s paradise except that by the time Louise bought the Blueberry Bay Inn, all of the attic’s antique and vintage contents had long ago been dispersed. Now, the room contained remnants of her own past, including boxes of her childhood toys and report cards and even the dried and crumpled corsage she had worn to her high school junior prom; mementos of Isobel’s not-so-distant childhood; and things from the Massachusetts house Louise couldn’t bear to part with but couldn’t quite live with, either. Like the hideous oil painting her mother had given her one Christmas. It was one of those awful landscapes bought at a “starving artist sale” in some run-down office park. The trees didn’t look like any trees Louise had ever seen, and the lake resembled a pit of boiling oil. Still, her mother had meant well . . .

The basement, ugly, large, and utilitarian, was also off-limits to guests. It was home to the industrial-grade washing machine and dryer (Louise did the inn’s laundry herself, though Isobel thought she was nuts for bothering when there was an affordable local service that could handle the washing, drying, folding, and delivery), the boiler, and all those other loud and nasty-looking machines necessary for operating a building.

The inn’s front porch was, in Louise’s opinion, the building’s best feature—long, deep, and charming. There, one could practice the fine and almost lost art of “porch sitting.” A guest could daydream, doze, wave to people driving by in cars or cycling by on bikes or strolling by on foot, read, or sip a cool drink.

The front yard sloped gently from the base of the porch, and the landscaping was simple but pretty—no opulent water features or ugly garden gnomes or reproduction “wishing wells” for Louise Bessire.

The backyard was about half an acre of perfectly manicured grass, with a gazebo sprouting smack-dab in the center. No doubt the gazebo was a bit of an eyesore to those who didn’t care for excessive Victorian detailing such as its ornate tracery and vaguely grotesque sprouts of curlicues. Isobel thought it gorgeous; Louise tolerated its presence because guests seemed to find it something to ooh and aah over.

Overall, the Blueberry Bay Inn was the epitome of New England picturesque. If it lacked that “wishing well,” complete with pail and crank, you could find one down the road on the property of one of the kitsch-loving summer residents.

“Yes, that sounds—” Again, Flora Michaels interrupted. “Okay, I’ll expect—”

Louise finally managed to end the call with a series of thanks and assurances, neither of which she felt were particularly genuine. She put the phone beside the sink and turned back to her daughter.

“Violet,” Isobel said.

“What?”

“Your face is violet. No, wait”—Isobel squinted critically at her mother—“maybe lavender. Yeah, that’s more accurate. So, I’m dying already. What was that all about? Who’s getting married? Someone we know? Do I have an excuse to buy a new dress? Something awesome and vintage and maybe covered in lace? I don’t have anything covered in lace. Pink might be good, if it’s not too bubblegum. A pretty dusty rose might be a nice change for me. Or maybe buttercup yellow.”

“Uh, in a sense it’s someone we know,” Louise replied, as she sank into a chair at the table. “I don’t know if the occasion justifies a new dress, though . . .”

“Mom, come on! Tell me!”

“You know that television show, Tell Me You Didn’t Just Say That?”

Isobel shook her head. “No. I mean, I’ve heard of it—it’s a sitcom, right? But I’ve never watched it.”

“Well,” Louise went on, “that was a wedding planner. It seems that two of the stars, someone named Ashley Brooklyn or something like that, and a Jake or a Blake, I can’t remember exactly, want to get married at a traditional, charming New England inn. In short, they want to get married at the Blueberry Bay Inn.”

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.

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!

“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-fashion. . .