The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society Part 2

"Brady is three." Frances points toward the garage. "GO."

Noah trudges out the door with Brady on his heels. Frances stares at the destruction in their wake. She loves her sons, but this supposedly typical-boy behavior is too much. She sees Mei Ling's picture in a frame on the boys' dresser, and feels herself soften once again. Already Frances feels back in balance, no longer outnumbered by all the testosterone in the house.

"You and me," she says, rubbing her foot. She touches the frame gently. "Tea parties and dress-up. We'll show these boys how it's done."

Chapter 3.

Connie checks the kitchen clock, then quickly unties her ap.r.o.n and washes her hands. She has a few minutes before their day officially starts and she's done as much as she can for now.

She hurries upstairs, then quietly opens the door to her bedroom and slips inside. Before Madeline bought the tea salon, it had been a B&B so Connie's room is more of a suite than a room, with a small sitting area and a nicely appointed private bath. It's included in her pay, which is more than she received at the laundromat where she was an attendant for almost five years. There's a tiny window alcove where Connie curls up every morning to write in her journal. Sometimes she'll go out on the small balcony and sit in one of the wrought iron chairs and gaze at the backyard where they've renovated the gardens and added outdoor seating.

But now she kneels on the floor by her bed and lifts the bed skirt. She reaches underneath until her fingers curl around a handle. She pulls out a suitcase, old and battered. She presses b.u.t.tons on either side of the handle and the latches pop free.

Inside is the familiar musty smell of mothb.a.l.l.s and time. It's mostly empty since Connie has moved her clothes into the armoire and antique dresser, her belongings having found a place in this s.p.a.ce Connie gets to call her own. All of her belongings, that is, except this. A plastic folder that's cracked along the seam and held together with a thick rubber band. Connie pulls off the elastic, snapping herself in the process. Her wrist is stinging as she opens the folder and pulls out a series of photographs.

Connie at four, Connie at eight. Connie at the state fair with blue cotton candy stuck in her hair. Connie selling Girl Scout cookies. Connie with her father at the swimming pool, water streaming down her face as she grins atop her father's shoulders. She was ten there. A year later he would die of a heart attack, slumped over his desk at home, the ink from his fountain pen smeared across a sheet of paper.

There is only one picture left. Connie at thirteen. She's at a petting zoo, flanked on one side by a small herd of Boer goats, and on the other, her mother.

Connie touches the photo, runs her fingertips along the goats, the outline of her mother's face. Connie looks for a hint, for a sign of whatever her mother must have been thinking. In the picture her hands are on Connie's shoulders. They're both wearing Bermuda shorts and sandals, sleeveless s.h.i.+rts, broad sun visors, a smile for the camera. Connie had no idea what was going to happen next, a mere few days after their return home. She found the empty bottles of sleeping pills first. An accidental overdose, they said.

Connie was put with one foster family after the next. None of the families she stayed with were all that terrible, but they weren't that wonderful, either. The first family ignored her mostly, and Connie probably would have stayed there if they hadn't been arrested for lottery mail fraud. The husband in the next family was a chain smoker and Connie would feign lying on the floor, her hands around her neck, pretending to choke. "Get this d.a.m.n girl out of here!" he'd bellow to his wife. Connie didn't last there long. The next family had other children who treated Connie like dirt but Connie didn't care anymore. They didn't know her, didn't have any idea what was going on inside of her. When she made honor roll for the school year, they left her alone, dubbing her as both weird and geeky, someone not worth their time at all.

By the time she was sixteen Connie figured out that if she could prove to the judge that she was one-hundred-percent self-supporting, she could be legally emanc.i.p.ated before the age of eighteen. She found a part-time job, a cheap place to stay above the Pizza Shack. She was able to juggle school easily enough, and when her foster family announced that they were moving, the judge looked at all her paperwork, at the thick file showing her foster-care history, the glowing recommendations from her teachers, the absence of any living relatives. A swipe of a pen and she was free.

Connie puts the pictures back into the folder, stretches the rubber band around it once again. She hasn't shown these pictures to anyone, not even Madeline. She might one day, but for now it feels safest like this, a small dose that reminds her of who she is and what she had. Once upon a time, she was part of a family. And once upon a time, she was loved.

"Connie!" Madeline calls up the stairs. Connie quickly begins putting everything away. "Connie, we have more goat drama!"

Connie slides the suitcase under the bed and blows out her breath. Serena was eating her way through Madeline's garden so Connie put up a makes.h.i.+ft fence. Serena has been bleating her protest ever since, making life unbearable for everyone within earshot.

Madeline is anxious for her to find Serena's owners, but Connie can't bring herself to do it. As good as Madeline is to her and as much as they talk, Madeline has a whole other life and set of friends, family. Connie has herself, Madeline, and now, Serena. She just wants a little more time with her, that's all. Besides, there must have been a reason Serena chewed through that rope, right? And who knows what her previous owners were like? Connie can't send Serena back home without doing a little research first and knowing she'll be okay.

There's a knock on the door. "Are you in there?"

"I'm here." Connie opens the door, brushes a lock of hair from her face.

"Serena's found her way into Walter La.s.siter's garden again," Madeline informs her. "And I believe he has the water hose out."

"Oh!" Connie hurries past her and clambers down the stairs. "I was planning on reinforcing the fence tonight. I'll do it now."

"We have those quiches that need to go in the oven soon," Madeline reminds her.

"Quiches! Right!" Connie hollers over her shoulder, almost tripping. "I'm on it!"

She emerges from the back door in time to see Walter aiming the hose at Serena. "That'll show you to get into my petunias!" he hollers. A spray of water hits Serena's back and she startles, then dodges unsuccessfully as Walter sprays her again. Connie watches, horrified, unsure of what to do. Madeline has come up behind her.

And then Connie sees it, a gleam in Serena's eye.

"Serena, no!" Connie shouts, but it's too late.

Serena has her head down and she's charging Walter La.s.siter. Walter drops the hose and runs for the house. "Dolores! Help!" He's almost to their back door when Serena b.u.mps into his b.u.t.t, pus.h.i.+ng him off balance enough to fall into the lilac bushes by his house.

"Oh dear," Madeline murmurs, her hand covering her mouth, stifling a laugh. "This isn't good."

Serena is trotting back toward them, smugly satisfied, and heads toward the fenced area of the property. She nudges the gate open and slips inside.

Walter La.s.siter is upright now, brus.h.i.+ng the dirt off his pants. "I'm calling animal control!" he yells at them before storming into the house. Dolores is standing on the steps with a helpless look on her face. She lifts her shoulders in an apologetic shrug.

Connie looks at Serena, who's back in her pen and munching on gra.s.s, oblivious. Connie clears her throat. "I think I'll put those quiches in now," she says. Madeline just nods her a.s.sent, and the two women go inside.

Max waves the paper in front of Ava's face, tugs on the frayed hem of her skirt. "Mommy, look."

"Hold on, Max." Ava squeezes one more lemon into the water, then gives the solution a stir, the bottle caps tapping gently against one another. She'll soak them overnight to remove any rust, then take a soft toothbrush and work the groove of each cap with soapy water, making sure to remove any remaining debris. She'll finish with a layer of clear lacquer and then, once they're dry, she'll be able to start working on them.

He tugs again. "I drew free people. You, me, and Daddy."

"Three," Ava corrects automatically as she throws away the discarded lemons. "Th-th-th. Three."

"Free," Max repeats solemnly. "F-f-f. Free."

Ava sighs. She hopes it's baby talk that Max will grow out of some day, that a speech impediment won't be one more thing he has to deal with.

She wipes her hands and turns to her son. "Okay, let me see."

Max beams and holds up his picture. Sure enough, there are three figures. No distinguishable body parts, just round blobs with dots for eyes and a nose, a squiggly mouth, varying in size from small to big.

"Wow, Max, that's wonderful." Ava kisses the top of his head, sweaty from a full day at preschool. It's the second week and she still hasn't gotten into a routine with bath and bedtime, two things she'd been casual about in the past, but she doesn't want him tired in the morning. Or hungry, which means she needs to do some meal planning, too.

The tuition was a stretch, but she couldn't do it anymore, the 24/7 with no breaks, no backup. The school offered financial aid, which helped, but still it's a big bite out of their budget, right after rent. Max cried every morning last week (as did Ava, the minute she was out of sight of the school) but now he's either resolved to being there or likes it. Last week she'd been stunned with the sheer quiet of their small house and didn't quite know what to do, her long to-do list evaporating into thin air as she sat and sat, her mind a blissful blank. But this week she's back on track. She's been doing legal transcription work at home and while the pay is good, the work is inconsistent and there aren't any benefits. She can't go back to doing what she used to do and her jewelry will hopefully supplement their income, but Ava knows it won't be much. No, she needs to find a full-time job now that Max is in school.

"Okay, into the tub for you," she says, sticking the picture on the fridge with a magnet. Max's chest puffs out proudly and Ava is overwhelmed with love for her son. His eyes look large behind the thick gla.s.ses, a bright beautiful blue that reminds her of someone else she loves, too, and the heartache begins.

Max races off, struggling to take his s.h.i.+rt off, his skinny little legs carrying him as fast as they can. Ava prays he doesn't run into a wall. He doesn't.

"Bubbles?" he begs as he steps out of his pants.

"Not tonight-" she begins, because the bubble bath is reserved for special occasions and not regular school nights, at least that's what she tells him. The real reason is because it's expensive. Max has mild eczema and can't use the cheap stuff on the grocery store shelves.

She touches the picture on the fridge. Maybe Max said it right the first time.

Free. Ava wants to be free, wants the same for Max.

"Mommy?"

"Okay," she says. "Bubbles it is!" She rushes up after him, giving his naked torso a tickle as Max bursts into peals of delighted laughter.

Isabel lays on her back in the middle of the living room floor, staring up at the ceiling. The smell of fresh paint has yet to fade but Isabel doesn't mind-on the contrary, it reminds her that things are no longer the same. Her walls are so pristine that she's reluctant to put anything back on them. Calendars, pictures, paintings, it doesn't matter. She likes how spare everything feels. If anything, she should take more out. The furniture, the end tables, the floor lamps. Strip it all bare. Start from scratch.

Isabel laces her fingers together, rests them on her chest. For once her mind isn't with Bill or that homewrecker, but with the freshly painted walls, the past slowly being replaced by the present. What should she do next? Tackle the exterior? Wash the screened windows? So many choices. Isabel notices how pale her skin looks against her white blouse and the white cotton cuffs of her shorts, the only clean things in her closet. She hasn't had a tan in years.

Plain vanilla, she thinks. That's what Bill used to call her. He meant it affectionately because she was so fair, so even-keeled, so go-with-the-flow, but Isabel always felt struck by the comment, as if he were saying that she was boring. Colorless. When he left her for Ava that was the first thing to cross Isabel's mind. Ava, with her brightly colored dresses, her painted toenails. Ava, full of color, while Isabel was the sort of woman who blended in with the walls.

She hears the sound of someone walking up the steps to the porch. Then a crack, a splintering of wood. Isabel sits up, her ear trained to the door. There's muttering, then a knock.

"Isabel? I know you're in there. Open up."

Bettie Shelton. No surprise there. It's either her or the Jehovah's Witnesses as the rest of the neighborhood has taken to leaving Isabel alone.

"Isabel? I'll have you know I practically put my foot through a rotted board on your stairs. I could have fallen straight through! I'm not going to sue, but you're going to have to find somebody to fix that thing."

Yeah, that would have been Bill. The weekend he left her he was going through his list of honey-do's-cleaning the gutters, power was.h.i.+ng the windows. He was in the middle of mowing the lawn when he stopped. Just stopped. Isabel was in the kitchen, scrubbing out the oven, when he appeared in the doorway and told her he was leaving.

He seemed genuinely full of regret. He loved Isabel, but he loved Ava, too, and she was pregnant. He looked so sorrowful that Isabel almost felt sorry for him. Almost. He packed his things fast, as if he knew exactly what he was going to take and what he was going to leave behind. He left the lawn mower by the maple tree and it was a week before Bettie Shelton eventually rolled it into the garage.

The house is in sorry shape and Isabel knows this-she's let a lot of things go. It's not only the money but the time, the brain power needed to figure out what to fix and what to replace. She just doesn't have it. She's managed the past four years with things being the way they are, so what's a couple more?

Maybe the house will sell. She hasn't had any calls yet, not even a nibble, but she only needs one buyer, right? Maybe she'll downgrade to a condo somewhere. Clean and simple, no gutters to worry about, no rotting porches. Maybe she'll leave Avalon altogether and start over someplace new. It's a thought. There's nothing tying her down here, after all.

"Isabel?" There's a rap on her window. "I can see you lying on the floor. Are you going to answer the door or what?"

Isabel holds her breath, doesn't move.

"Isabel?"

Isabel wills Bettie to magically disappear.

"Isabel, I know where your spare key is." Bettie Shelton's head peeks through the side window.

d.a.m.n it all. Isabel sits up and glares at the door. "It's open!"

The doork.n.o.b turns and Bettie steps in. She's wearing a house dress and flip-flops, her silvery-blue hair fuzzy from the heat. She frowns when she sees Isabel sitting on the floor, then looks around. "You painted?"

Isabel manages a nod. She's never been particularly friendly with Bettie, who's a bit too sc.r.a.ppy for someone as plain vanilla as Isabel.

"Huh, you painted your walls white. All of them." Her eyes bug out when Isabel stands up. "And you match."

"I'm redecorating," Isabel says, hoping that will get Bettie off her back. "Getting the place ready for the new owners."

Bettie gives her a hard look. "Did you sell it?"

Isabel squirms. "Not yet, but I will."

"Well, you'd better fix that busted step," Bettie declares. "I could have killed myself, I'll have you know."

No such luck, Isabel wants to say, but instead she asks, "Is there something you need? Eggs? Flour? You know where everything is. Have at it." Isabel waves in the general direction of her kitchen. Last year when the town was baking Amish Friends.h.i.+p Bread, Bettie was coming in unannounced, borrowing ingredients at will. Isabel didn't notice at first, too mired in her own problems, until she found her flour container suddenly empty, the small jar of vanilla upended, grains of sugar crystals dotting the floor. Her supply of gallon-sized Ziploc bags was disappearing at an alarming rate. It wasn't until Bettie complained that Isabel was out of cinnamon that she finally figured it out.

Bettie surveys the living room critically. "I wanted to invite you to join our next meeting. Second Thursday of the month. No previous experience necessary."

"Previous experience for what?"

"Sc.r.a.pbooking." Bettie straightens up to her full height, 4'11". "I'm president and founder of the Avalon Ladies Sc.r.a.pbooking Society, in case you didn't know."

Isabel does know, as does half the town-Bettie won't let them forget it. Their street is clogged with cars whenever there's a meeting. "Thanks, but I have plans."

"What plans? You don't have any plans. You never leave this house, Isabel Kidd. I've been watching you." Bettie points two fingers to her eyes then points them at Isabel. "You don't go anywhere."

"Untrue. I go to work and last week I bought paint." Isabel studies the rug on the floor. G.o.d, how old is it? She and Bill had bought it together-it was one of the first purchases they made when they got married. There's history in this rug, history Isabel doesn't care to remember. She starts to push a couch against the wall, almost running over Bettie's toes.

Bettie frowns, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at Isabel. "I am even willing to waive the members.h.i.+p fee for the first month. It's normally fifteen dollars and includes a starter pack for the monthly theme. But, under no circ.u.mstances are you to tell anyone that I am doing such a thing. It would look like nepotism." She jumps out of the way as Isabel drags a coffee table across the floor.

"Like I said, I have plans." The furniture out of the way, Isabel crouches and tries to roll up the rug. It's long and wide, too heavy and unwieldy for one person. Isabel starts from the middle, the sides, the corners-none of it matters. The rug is stubborn and lies limp in her arms, unwilling to move.

Bettie is watching her. "Would you like some help?" she asks.

No, Isabel most definitely does not want help from Bettie. The thought of being indebted to this woman in any way is more than Isabel can bear.

"No," Isabel huffs, lifting an end and attempting to fold it over. "I got it." The rug rebels, heavy with dirt and memories. Isabel falls back in defeat.

"Oh, this is ridiculous." Bettie marches over and stands next to Isabel. "You roll from there, I'll roll from here. You just need to gain momentum, that's all. Let's go. One, two, three!"

Together they push and roll the rug until it's no more than a fat cylinder of fabric at the end of the living room. They stand up and Isabel looks at the l.u.s.trous hardwood floor that's been covered all these years. She suddenly feels buoyant, encouraged. She's going to call Goodwill to come and get the rug. She casts a look around. Maybe she'll give them the couch, too. Maybe she'll give them everything.

"Next meeting is tomorrow night, at my house, from six to nine. Bring your own refreshments and a pair of good scissors, if you have them." Bettie bats the dust away from her face. "Come five minutes early. If you don't like it, you don't have to come to another meeting. I'm all about one-hundred-percent customer satisfaction, and that includes Society members, too. See you at six!" And before Isabel can protest or argue, Bettie turns and walks out the door.

Enid Griffin, 56

Travel Agent, Avalon Travel