The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society Part 11

"Yes, I have the address. I'll see you there." Yvonne hangs up the phone with an air of satisfaction, draws a smiley face on Hubert Hill's page. I knew it wasn't anything, she tells herself triumphantly as she brushes bits of puffed rice into the trash. But the smile falls from her face when she sees the balled-up sc.r.a.p of paper. She stares at it a moment, then lets the lid of the trash can slam shut.

Twenty-five minutes later she's standing on the doorstep of a handsome Queen Anne house a few minutes outside of Avalon. It had to be built around the turn of the century-the last century-and she wonders if they've had any issues other than a running toilet. The exterior is in pristine condition and painted a sunny yellow. She counts three floors and guesses that the first floor has at least nine-foot ceilings based on the location of the windows.

She rings the bell. A second later, the door opens and a huge yellow Lab bounds out, practically knocking her over.

"Whoa, there, boy!" she says as she ruffles his ears and the back of his neck. The dog nuzzles against her hand, panting happily.

"Sorry, he needs some manners. Toby, get back here." A hand reaches out to grab Toby's collar. Yvonne sees loafers and khaki pants out of the corner of her eye and quickly straightens up.

"A Lab with manners?" she says jokingly, then finds she's rooted on the spot. Because Hubert Hill is not what she expected.

Gorgeous brown eyes, that's the first thing she sees. Dark brown hair, a navy blue polo s.h.i.+rt opened at the neck, khaki pants, nice belt. But his arms-Hubert's arms are muscular, not bodybuilder muscular, but lean and toned, like an athlete. And his smile-Yvonne suspects he's won over quite a few women with that smile alone. He's her age, maybe a couple years older.

Yvonne finds that she's blus.h.i.+ng and quickly gets ahold of herself. "I'm Yvonne Tate."

"Yvonne Tate." Hubert says this slowly, staring at her. Toby is bucking against him, wanting to be set free so he can wreak havoc somewhere. "You're the plumber?"

Yvonne nods. It takes her a second to find her voice. "I'm the plumber."

Toby breaks free and tears down the porch, across the lawn. A squirrel, maybe, or a cat. Or quite possibly nothing at all.

"Um, right. Okay. Well, come on in. The culprit's upstairs. Master bath." Hubert steps aside and Yvonne steps in, a little too aware of how close he is when she pa.s.ses him. He smells clean, like soap.

Yvonne has two choices: melt into a puddle on the floor or keep it together, get the job done, and get out of there. No eye contact, that's the key. Her legs feel rubbery, unreliable. She tries to stop herself, but can't. Her eyes drift to his left hand, to his ring finger.

Empty.

Hubert whistles for Toby. His whistle is confident, commanding-he could stop traffic with that whistle. Even Yvonne finds herself standing at attention.

Toby bounds back inside, debating whether to follow them up the stairs. Yvonne looks at the lace doilies and silk flowers crammed into fluted porcelain vases, the faded oriental rugs lining the pink plank flooring. The walls have gla.s.s-front cabinets and beautiful woodwork. It's lovely, but a little old-fas.h.i.+oned for her taste, and it doesn't seem to fit Hubert at all. "You have a lovely home," she says politely.

Hubert makes a face as they walk up the stairs. He looks like he's about to tell her something but instead simply says, "Thanks."

"Have you had any other issues with the plumbing?"

Hubert shakes his head. "We gutted the place about ten years ago, did a complete renovation, refinished the floors, the works. We put in a new septic system and R/O system, upgraded the water tank and heater. Everything's been running well until, um, this."

In the bedroom, Yvonne tries not to notice the floral linens, the puffy pink duvet, the shelves lined with china figurines of children and cats. She sees pairs of men's shoes lined up next to the wardrobe. There's a stack of papers on the desk, the only messy area. Hubert grabs a cellphone sitting in a charging station and slips it into his back pocket.

So this must be his room. Huh.

The master bathroom is just as fluffy, with matching bathroom rugs, toilet seat covers, tissue box holders. A beautiful cast iron tub sits in the corner by a large window, overlooking the gardens.

Yvonne puts down her tools. So it's officially a bit weird, but whatever. Hubert is standing in the doorway, watching her.

She clears the top of the tank and lifts the lid, gives the toilet a flush. She watches the valve and sees that the ball and flapper aren't covering it completely. "It looks like you may need a new flapper," she says.

"What? No." Hubert frowns. "I had a guy here last week who replaced it."

"Last week? I don't think so." Yvonne peers into the tank. "I mean, you can see it's corroded around the edges. That's definitely not new."

Hubert looks into the tank. "d.a.m.n. I can't believe it."

"It's not as bad as you think," Yvonne says. "You should call this guy and have him come out again. He obviously didn't fix the problem. He should take care of this for free."

"Yeah, no kidding." He's shaking his head, disgusted, and Yvonne can tell that he's making some sort of mental note. "Anyway, I'd rather get this taken care of now. Can you do it?"

Yvonne fiddles with the chain, flushes the toilet one more time. "Sure. This shouldn't take me long. I'll remove the damaged part and take it with me to the hardware store so I can get the right fit. I should be done within the hour. Do you want me to do this now or do you have to get back to work?"

"No, now would be great. Yeah, definitely. I don't want to run the water bill."

Yvonne adjusts the float until she's satisfied with the water level in the tank, then turns off the water. She removes the flapper and dries her hand on the clean towel she has tucked into her belt. "All right. I'll be back soon."

They stand there for a moment, neither of them moving. What's happening? And then before she can help herself, the words slip out of her mouth.

"You're welcome to come with me if you want," she says offhandedly. "So you'll know what to do if this happens next time. You could probably fit it yourself. We can bring Toby, too. Take him for a little ride."

By the shocked look on his face, Yvonne can tell she's overstepped her bounds. What was she thinking? But then Hubert grins.

"Yeah, that'd be great-I should probably learn how to do this stuff someday. Let me grab Toby's leash and I'll meet you outside."

When Yvonne gets into her truck she furtively dials Isabel's number. When it directly goes to voice mail, she quickly taps out a text to Isabel.

MET THE MOST AMAZING GUY! BUT I THINK HE LIVES WITH HIS MOM. WEIRD?.

Hubert steps onto the porch, leash in hand. He shakes his keys and Toby bounds out. He gives Yvonne a wave. "I'll be there in a sec," he calls out.

Yvonne smiles brightly and furiously types another text.

ISABEL!! THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!! WE'RE GOING TO HARDWARE STORE NOW.

She's relieved when her phone pings back almost immediately.

HECK YEA IS WEIRD. DUMP HIM. IN MTG, TTYL.

Yvonne snaps her phone closed and sags against the seat. Great.

But when Toby and Hubert walk toward her, she can't help but smile. She's not marrying the guy, just going for a quick ride to the hardware store, and there's Toby to boot. She starts up the engine, then leans over and opens the door for them.

The next hour is arguably one of the best hours of Yvonne's life. Hubert is funny and smart, and of course there's Toby, who seems to know exactly what's going on between his owner and his new friend.

Yvonne wishes the job was more than a leaky toilet because it seems like only a matter of minutes before she's replacing the lid of the tank. "Well, you're all set." She takes her time putting her tools away.

Hubert gives the toilet one more flush. "You did it."

"It's not rocket science. And now you can do it, too, if it ever happens again." She hands him the old flapper in a Ziploc bag. "Though I'd try to get your money back from that guy if you can."

"Doubtful. The guy's a jerk." They both grin and then clear their throats, looking away, embarra.s.sed.

They walk downstairs to the first floor. Yvonne is startled to see an older woman standing at the base of the stairs, waiting for them, her face disapproving.

A light cardigan is wrapped around her shoulders, and she's dressed in a blouse and calf-length skirt. Her graying hair is short and styled, tan heels on her feet. Jeweled reading gla.s.ses are perched on the edge of her nose and she looks serious, reminding Yvonne of an accountant.

"Hubert?" she says, her voice carrying a hint of warning.

"Mother," he says. Yvonne waits for an introduction but there is none. "She was just leaving." He quickly ushers Yvonne out the door and walks her to her truck.

"Thanks again," he says. "You did great work."

"You're welcome." Yvonne hands him a receipt and her card. She decides against saying anything about his mother-it's not her business and who knows if she'll ever see him again. But then she blurts out, "Feel free to call me if you have any other problems."

"I will." Hubert glances at the house before looking down at her card. "You know, you don't look like an Yvonne."

She smiles. "Well, you don't look like a Hubert."

"Fair enough. Family name, there was no way of getting around it. But n.o.body calls me Hubert except for my mom-I go by Hugh."

"Hugh." Yvonne likes this. She reluctantly slides into the driver's seat and slams the door.

Hugh leans against the open pa.s.senger window. "So can I call you if I don't have a plumbing-related problem?" Behind him, Yvonne sees a curtain move. "Like for dinner?" His voice is low, almost a whisper.

A small thrill runs through Yvonne but she forces herself to keep her composure. "Sure," she says. "I'd like that."

"Me too." He smiles, then steps away from the truck and gives her a wave.

Yvonne fumbles for her earpiece, then quickly dials Isabel's number. As expected, it rolls to voice mail, but Yvonne doesn't care.

"Isabel!" she breathes. "I think I have a date!"

Connie is peeling Granny Smith apples as she gazes out the window. It's still bright outside but their day is officially over, everything cleaned up, the next day's prep complete. It'll be a nice, quiet evening for her and Madeline, one that Connie is looking forward to.

Long strands of apple skins gather in a bucket at her feet. She'll take it to Serena later, a treat for good behavior. Serena's stayed out of trouble and been friendly to guests who wander into the backyard to see the garden. Even Madeline seems to enjoy having Serena around when she goes out to do a little weeding in the early morning.

Connie begins to core the apples. She's baking apple dumplings in an attempt to sharpen her kitchen skills. She's good at following directions and knows how to make everything on the tea salon menu, but she's not much of an innovator when it comes to food. She doesn't have the natural talent that Madeline or Hannah has, and even though she knows she can easily manage all the administrative aspects of her job, she wants to be more of an equal in these other areas, too.

Connie's okay with Hannah, but she can't help but feel a little left out whenever Hannah comes over. Hannah and Madeline have a friends.h.i.+p that goes beyond the tea salon, have an appreciation for music and the arts, something Connie doesn't know much about. They're both well traveled and will talk about places they've visited or things they've eaten, shows they've seen. They both speak a little French and will sometimes converse in short sentences, laughing as they do so. Connie finds it both intriguing and a little off-putting, too-they make it sound so easy, so everyday, so accessible. Connie doesn't have a pa.s.sport-she's never even left the state of Illinois.

The phone rings as Connie begins to work the dough.

"Stay there, I'll get it," Madeline says when Connie moves to wipe her hands. Madeline puts down the Avalon Gazette and pushes herself up from the table. Her eyes flicker to the bowl of apples dusted in sugar and cinnamon. "Mmm. We may have to forgo dinner tonight and go straight to dessert."

Connie smiles but she knows Madeline is being polite. She had shown Madeline the apple dumpling recipe and saw her arch an eyebrow when she came across the last ingredient: a bottle of soda pop, Mountain Dew to be specific. Not exactly a high-rolling gourmet ingredient, but it sounded like fun, so she wants to try it.

Connie rolls out the dough. It's so odd that she's here, acting a bit like Suzy Homemaker when it's so far from who she is. In a way she was better suited at the Avalon Wash and Dry-she blended in there, the girl with the jet-black hair and shabby clothes, a girl who was part of the background. At Madeline's Tea Salon, however, Connie is the anomaly, the piece that doesn't quite fit. She was known for the first couple of months as the Girl with the Spiky Hair, and now she knows people refer to her as the Girl with the Goat. It's just as well-Connie can't imagine her life without Serena. She doesn't want to.

Madeline hangs up the phone. "Connie, that was Bettie Shelton. She'd like to use the sitting room for her sc.r.a.pbooking meeting tonight. I told her I'd check the schedule and call her back."

Connie glances at the clock. "But it's already four o'clock!"

"I know, but she seems to be in a pinch and we don't have anything going on tonight. She says the group usually does a potluck dinner, so they don't need anything other than the s.p.a.ce, though I'm happy to put out hot water and tea."

Connie grumbles as she starts to cut triangles in the dough. "She did this last month, too-tried to squeeze in at the last minute. And she'll want to come in for free, no doubt."

"Yes," Madeline admits. "But she did say the members would stay to help clean up afterward, and that she'll include two sc.r.a.pbooking starter kits and alb.u.ms, for us, for free. I have to admit I'm intrigued-I've been thinking about making a sc.r.a.pbook for Maggie. About Steven, her grandfather. I wish he were alive to see her-he'd be tickled by that sweet child." Maggie is Madeline's granddaughter, her stepson Ben's one-year-old daughter. Madeline and Ben had been estranged for years but reconnected this past December, and they've been in touch ever since. Connie knows it's a relations.h.i.+p that's precious to Madeline, but also fraught with old hurts and painful memories. She can also see that Madeline's already made up her mind, that Bettie and her friends will be descending upon the tea salon in a couple of hours.

The look on Madeline's face is both wistful and sad as she begins to wipe down the counters, fill the large hot water carafes, her nose wrinkling as it does whenever she's trying to keep herself from being overwhelmed by emotion. Connie sighs. Madeline is so good to her that she can put up with Bettie Shelton for one night.

"I'll make sure we have enough chairs in the sitting room," Connie says as she places an apple wedge in a dough triangle and pinches it closed. She places the dumpling in a baking dish and starts on another one. "And I guess I can put this on the buffet table for the ladies, too, if it turns out okay."

"Oh, Connie." Madeline offers an appreciative smile. "That's very generous of you."

"It's nothing," Connie says, already putting on her tea salon manager hat. "I can take care of everything if you want to go freshen up. At least we don't have to worry about dinner. Do I need to put out plates and utensils?"

Madeline shakes her head. "They'll bring paper products, so that will help tremendously with cleanup. Just the teacups, I think. They'll be needing the tables, too, so we'll let them sort themselves out between the sitting room and dining area. I'll give her a call back and let her know we'd be happy to host the group tonight." She hesitates for a moment. "I tried to speak to Bettie about the night we saw her in the backyard."

Connie nods, curious. "I mentioned it to her the day after but she didn't seem to know what I was talking about, or she was pretending not to."

Madeline nods. "That was the same response I got. I think old age may be catching up with us old ladies."

Connie finishes one baking dish and starts on another. "I don't think it's old age," she says after a moment. She isn't sure what it is, but there are plenty of women Bettie's age, Madeline included, who aren't running around in the middle of the night in their nightgown and slippers.

Madeline looks sad as she gazes out the window. "I know."

There's a bleat from the backyard. Madeline glances at the clock. "Sounds like your goat is ready for a walk. Or dinner."

"Both, probably. I'll take care of her in a sec."

"Have you talked to the vet or thought of putting up any signs?"

Darn. Things had been going so well that Connie was hoping that Madeline accepted the fact that they would be keeping Serena, no more questions asked.

Madeline waits but Connie doesn't say anything. What's there to say? Instead, Connie gets up and goes to the stove, busying herself as she turns the heat on low under the small saucepan holding b.u.t.ter, sugar, and cinnamon.

"Connie?"

"Um, I know, Madeline. I was going to work on it, but I haven't gotten around to it yet." Connie keeps her back to Madeline, relieved she can't see her face, which is flushed.

"I know we've been busy, Connie, but I can't help thinking that someone may be looking for her. It's September-it's been over a month already. And she can't stay here forever-the La.s.siters will make sure of that."

Connie nods, mute, stirring the melting b.u.t.ter with her wooden spoon.

"Would it be helpful if I called the vet?"

"No!" Connie spins around. "I mean, I'll take care of it, Madeline. I'd like to be the one to do it, if that's okay."

"Of course." Madeline studies her for a moment. "Are you all right?"

Connie takes a deep breath. "I'm fine. I'm just thinking about tonight and getting everything together before the meeting. That's all."