The Summer Everything Changed by Holly Chamberlin Read Free Book Online Page A

fashion industry marketing types!—doesn’t mean you have to buy it and wear it! Let’s face it, kiddos—not every head looks good under a porkpie hat! Not every pair of legs looks fantastic in jeggings or coated jeans or hot pink tights!
    And then just when I think I’m going to die (not literally) of boredom or frustration (I wonder if you can be both bored and frustrated by something at the same time; I think so!), one amazing boy or one wonderfull girl pops right out at you and everything about him or her says, “Hey. I’m just me. And me is fantastic,” and hope springs again in my breast, and, but I’m guessing here, in LouLou’s breast, too.
    So, here’s a photo of this guy we saw outside of Space Gallery on Congress Street. We snapped it with his permission of course—to do otherwise would be rude. And it all works, from the very seventies mustache (which somehow avoids looking cheesy) to the dress shirt buttoned right to the starched collar, from the flared, cuffed dress flannels to the pink leather brogues on his feet.
    Pink leather brogues!
    Remember: Chacun a son gout!
    CityMouse is signing off.

    Isobel closed her laptop. Well, she thought, I really spoke my mind this time! She smiled as she remembered one of her first conversations with The Jimmies. The three of them were in the kitchen; the men were the only guests allowed into that inner Bessire sanctum.
    â€œSo, you’re both named Jim,” she had said.
    â€œYup,” blond Jim in the plaid shirt said. “Officially, James.”
    â€œSo, when someone calls out, ‘Hey, Jim,’ do you both, like, turn?”
    â€œSometimes,” brunette Jim in the striped shirt said.
    â€œWell, doesn’t it kind of drive you nuts?”
    â€œIt used to,” both said at once. “But not anymore.”
    â€œWhat can be annoying,” blond Jim in the plaid shirt added, “is when people decide to differentiate us by calling us Jim One and Jim Two.”
    â€œOr Blond Jim and Brunette Jim,” brunette Jim in the striped shirt said.
    â€œOr Big Jim and Little Jim. Please!”
    â€œWait a minute,” Isobel had said, literally snapping her fingers. “Why doesn’t one of you go by your middle name?”
    Both men had laughed. “Because,” blond Jim in the plaid shirt explained, “we have the same middle name, too. Martin.”
    â€œWhat are the odds!”
    â€œIn fact, I now go by James,” said brunette Jim in the striped shirt. “It helps.”
    â€œIsobel!”
    That was a voice from the present; it was her mother, calling from the first floor.
    â€œI’m coming!” Isobel shouted, and proceeded to tear down the stairs.

Chapter 7
    The parking lot was full, jam-packed with cars from as far north as Canada and as far south as Connecticut. Finally, after three turns around the perimeter of the lot, Louise found a space, narrowly beating out another driver who was too busy poking at her phone with her thumb to realize not only that she was passing an open spot but that Louise was easing her own car into it.
    Louise chuckled to herself. You snooze, she thought, and you lose. Or, you text and you—You what? Someone with more imagination than she had would have to come up with a new word that rhymed with text (the verb) so she could complete that sentence. You texted—and you wound up vexed? Nope. That wouldn’t do.
    Louise got out of the car and immediately began to sweat. It was one of those sultry days southern Maine could be plagued with, the air heavy with humidity and absolutely motionless. Louise fanned her face with her hand—a ridiculously futile gesture—and headed toward the pedestrian walkway.
    First stop, the party store for anything swan-related she could find. Flora Michaels had asked (demanded) she supply representations of the bride’s mother’s favorite animal. Catherine had argued that