The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society Part 29

Isabel doesn't say anything, just gives a small, silent nod before returning to the kitchen.

Whatever unseen embargo had been on Yvonne is now lifted. It's been less than two weeks since the incident at Hugh's house, but news has a way of traveling fast in a small town. Yvonne's days are packed again and her client list has swelled. She's scheduling jobs out over the next month, unable to fit everyone in at once. She's even received a resume from another plumber new to town, a young guy still figuring out the ropes. He's interested in apprenticing with Yvonne until he can get his feet on the ground. Yvonne's never considered this, always content to work on her own, but if things continue like this some help might be nice.

One of her clients made a comment that she should teach cla.s.ses. Nothing too hard, the woman had quickly added, but a basic introductory cla.s.s.

"A do-it-yourself cla.s.s," her client had said. "It's empowering to know that we can do it ourselves. And we're women, to boot!"

Yvonne likes the idea, and maybe in the new year she'll look into it. She knows that there's a lot of talk right now because she stood up to the Hills.h.i.+re bullies, but she knows it might have gone differently if she hadn't been involved with Hugh. Maybe she would have filed a complaint or written a letter to the editor of the Gazette. A weak, most likely ineffective means to get her point across, to save her business. There was a chance that by the time everything got addressed and resolved, she'd be on her way to the next town, hoping it wouldn't happen again.

No, under the circ.u.mstances she'd acted just right. She didn't back down. The charges were dropped, though Yvonne doesn't know if it was Sergeant Overby or Hugh's influence over Joan Hill. Sergeant Overby, most likely. Hugh's not likely to stick his neck out for anyone, least of all Yvonne.

Yvonne wrinkles her nose as she drops her keys into the small bowl by her door. Talk about a coward. She can't believe she was so taken by him, and maybe that was the problem. She was so enamored by the possibilities that she couldn't see him for what he was. She saw only what she wanted to see-someone who might be able to step into her heart and be a part of her life.

Yvonne strips out of her work clothes and tosses them into the laundry, then goes to take a shower. When she emerges, fresh and clean, she walks to her jewelry box, drops her rings and earrings inside. She pauses when she sees the silver turquoise hearts resting on their sides, patient. Yvonne touches them, feels a rush of emotion.

Sam.

She never bothered to look for him, and she only heard about his marriage when Claire, her other sister, had called five years ago with the news that she was pregnant. It had been a subtle bomb, dropped at the precise moment when Yvonne thought that things might have changed enough for her to go home for Claire's baby shower.

"They were here visiting Sam's father," Claire reported, delighting in Yvonne's stunned silence.

Yvonne knew then that the call really wasn't an invitation to the shower, but an opportunity to make sure that Yvonne knew her family was always watching, always ready, for any chance to show her who was in charge. They would always be one step ahead of her, quas.h.i.+ng any chance of Yvonne's happiness.

Yvonne picks up the earrings, twirls the posts between her fingers. "Good luck charms" was what Sam had called them. The turquoise was a symbol of friends.h.i.+p. Yvonne was wearing them on her wedding day, a day where she suddenly found herself without a fiance, without a friend. Hardly the good luck charms he'd promise they'd be.

But it did get her out of the Tate family dynamic once and for all. Even if she goes back now, it'll be on different terms, not because she knows her family's agenda better, but because she knows herself better. Yvonne gets to call her life her own, which is more than she can say for her mother or sisters, both of whom married men who are now working for her father. In a way, Yvonne was set free.

Yvonne unscrews the back posts and carefully slips the turquoise hearts into her ears, one at a time. She tucks her wet hair behind her ears and gazes at herself in the mirror, then smiles at the woman smiling back.

"Sweetheart, I think you're being hasty," Madeline is saying. "And under the circ.u.mstances, leaving probably isn't such a good idea right now."

"I'll be back," Connie says. She can't look Madeline in the eye so she pretends to be absorbed in folding a sweater and then adding it to the pile. "I think some s.p.a.ce would be good for me, that's all. Suddenly this town feels too small. Everyone's looking at me funny, like I'm a criminal or a hoodlum or something."

"I can understand that," Madeline says. "Except that you're not packing for a small trip, Connie. You're packing everything." She gestures to the empty drawers in the dresser, the dangling hangers in the armoire.

"I feel better if everything's with me," Connie says. "Old habits die hard."

"But . . ." Madeline's eyes look sad.

"And I don't want you to worry about everything that's happened with Serena. I mean, Daffodil." Connie begins to clear the shelves, stacking her journals in a box. She sees her black sc.r.a.pbooking alb.u.m, the one adorned with lace and graffiti, the silver tags still new, the pages still empty. She decides to leave it. "I'm going to take care of it."

"Connie, do you honestly think I care about that? Things will get sorted out one way or another, of that I am certain." Madeline perches on Connie's bed, anxious. "I know everything must be so distressing right now. Are you sure you don't want to talk? Or maybe I can find someone neutral for you to talk to . . ."

"A therapist?" Connie shakes her head. She's had her fair share of them and she's done. "No, I'm all right, Madeline. I just need a little time away. And I don't want to be here when they have the sc.r.a.pbooking meeting this week-I'll feel like a sideshow freak. You know everybody will be looking. There's already a drop in business because I'm here."

"That's not true . . ." Madeline begins to say, but then her voice trails off.

Connie wishes she could tell Madeline the truth, that she is leaving and that she isn't coming back. That she has taken all of her savings out of her bank account, savings that have grown substantially over the years, and that a check is already on its way to Rayna Doherty to pay for all the damages to the farm and some, even though it's not Connie's fault. She doesn't want it to end up in Madeline's lap and she wants to make sure Serena's taken care of. Her baby, too.

Madeline might be sad at first, but she won't miss Connie for long. Connie has already called Hannah, saying only that she'd be grateful if Hannah could help out for a while. She and Madeline will establish a new rhythm in the kitchen, and they'll be able to talk about music and art and all the fancy things that Connie knows little about. It'll work out better for everyone if she's gone.

"I'll be fine, Madeline," she promises, and she hears the strength in her own voice, her own words. She will be all right, come what may.

Madeline leaves, reluctant, and again Connie has to refrain from running to her and throwing her arms around her, telling her everything. But she doesn't.

When she's finished packing, she stands in the doorway and looks back at the room. Her room, her refuge for the past year. It's by far the nicest place she's ever lived, a place that feels as close to home as Connie's been able to get. She turns to leave.

Hannah is in the foyer, an ap.r.o.n already tied around her waist. She looks at the two suitcases in Connie's hands. "Hey."

"Hi." Connie looks away, blinking rapidly.

"Need a hand?" Hannah asks. Connie shakes her head but Hannah has already grabbed one of the suitcases from her.

They walk in silence out the door. Connie pops the trunk and Hannah helps to load the suitcases.

"So, I guess this is it," Hannah says. It's clear she knows exactly what's going on.

"What?" Connie says, trying to laugh. "I'll be back."

Hannah looks at her. "Promise?" she asks.

Connie swallows, unable to answer.

Hannah touches her arm. "Don't leave. It'll crush Madeline and you didn't do anything wrong."

Connie looks at Hannah, at her earnest face, at her perfect clothes. She knows it's not Hannah's fault, but Connie still can't help but feel a little resentful. "Maybe it's all true, Hannah, that I stole Serena because I'm lonely. I'm obviously reckless because of the way I'm dressed and the fact that I grew up in a bunch of foster homes." She slams the trunk closed and gives Hannah a defiant look.

Hannah isn't fazed. "Connie, n.o.body believes that you took Serena, and if they do they obviously don't know you. Look at what you've done with your life. You're smart and creative. You have this uncanny ability to take a good thing and make it better. There are a lot of people who believe in you. And you're going to throw it all away because of this little b.u.mp in the road? That doesn't sound like the Connie I used to be so jealous of."

Connie gapes at her in disbelief. Hannah? Jealous of her?

Hannah laughs. "Oh, don't be so surprised. You showed up last year and took over everything in the tea salon, came in at a time when Madeline needed help. Everything changed for her after that-you helped make her dreams come true. And you were the one that made the Amish Friends.h.i.+p Bread drive last year a success. I was filled with admiration but envy, too. You're so young but you know who you are. I'm still trying to figure that out for myself. I look at you and think, I want that courage for myself. And I know I'm not alone in thinking that."

"Then why is everyone being weird?"

Hannah shrugs. "Because the whole thing is weird. It's not you, it's the situation. Plus with the fire-everyone is on edge. But people who believe in you are looking to you for how to react. If you're anxious or nervous, they will be, too. If you're okay with it . . ."

"They'll be okay with it, too. I get it."

"I hope so," Hannah says, and then she catches Connie in an unexpected embrace. "Because this town won't be the same if you're not in it." She steps back and gives Connie a smile, then turns to head back into the tea salon.

Chapter 18.

The temperature in Avalon is dropping. Halloween is just around the corner, scarecrows and pumpkins adorning porches, wispy tissue paper ghosts gracing windows and doorways.

Frances is at her sewing machine, two half-sewn costumes on the ironing board, Mei Ling's growing quilt hanging on the door to the pantry. Nick refused a homemade costume this year, saying he was going to go as a skateboarder instead. T-s.h.i.+rt, jeans, sneakers, knit hat, skateboard, done. Frances tried not to look disappointed, but she can't help it. She's made a costume for him every year since his birth.

"Mom," he says as she ticks off possible costumes. Pirate, skeleton, wizard. "That's kid stuff."

Well, he's a kid, isn't he? Frances is perplexed by her growing boy, by her inability to antic.i.p.ate his every need. She thought she was good at this. It was easier when he was little, and she's not having the same problem with Brady or Noah. But Nick is growing from boy to young man and Frances isn't sure what to do.

"I'm sorry," she says as soon as Hannah answers the phone. She explains her dilemma. "I remember you said that Jamie is from a family of boys, and I thought I could get some tips. I'm really feeling lost here."

"I'm not sure there's much I can do to help," Hannah admits. "But I'd be happy to introduce you to Sandra Linde, Jamie's mother. She's wonderful, and you have a lot in common."

Sandra invites them over for coffee. As she and Hannah walk up to Sandra Linde's house, Frances sees the battered basketball hoop but none of the odds and ends of boyhood that are so easily found at her house. Tricycles littering the lawn; the odd a.s.sortment of rubber b.a.l.l.s, baseb.a.l.l.s, soccer b.a.l.l.s; a forgotten toy; dried out paint cups; even Brady's shoes. There's all the junk her boys have picked up throughout their day, too. A forgotten frog in a gla.s.s jar, makes.h.i.+ft swords, a bucket full of rocks. She knows Sandra's boys are much older, but for some reason Frances figured there would be evidence of their boyness still.

When Sandra answers the door and invites them in, Frances sees it. Or, rather, smells it. Stinky shoes and socks, dirty laundry piled high. Sandra keeps a neat house, much more so than Frances, but it reeks of boy, and Frances loves it.

"Sorry," Sandra apologizes. She picks up a damp towel from the floor and hollers, "Peter, get out here and hang this up!"

A sixteen-year-old boy with damp hair lopes out of his room, and Frances is struck by how tall he is. She can't imagine any of her boys becoming . . . this.

"My youngest," Sandra says proudly, and then she points to pictures of Jamie, her oldest, and her middle twins, Casey and Bailey, who are in college in Vermont. There are sports trophies, sports equipment, and textbooks everywhere. It's like the big version of her home.

The front door opens again and Jamie walks in, still wearing his UPS uniform.

"Hi, Mom," Jamie says, giving Sandra a kiss on the cheek before doing the same to Hannah. He slips an arm around Hannah's waist. "I heard there was a party and thought I'd come over."

Sandra grins and Frances can tell she's delighted to have him home. She would be, too. Hannah and Jamie wander into the kitchen while Sandra and Frances settle in the living room.

"Hannah told me your family is growing," Sandra says as they sit down. "How exciting!"

"Thank you," Frances says, beaming. "There's still so much to be done, but I'm ready. We all are."

"A girl," Sandra sighs wistfully. "That used to be my dream-one boy and one girl. But two was our magic number, and then when we had the twins our entire parenting strategy changed. We switched from man-to-man to zone defense. At that point we figured, what the heck, we're already outnumbered, so then we had Peter." She laughs.

Frances wonders when she'll be able to talk about her children and parenting with the same ease as Sandra Linde. Sandra looks connected with her boys, something Frances thought she was as well.

"I guess that's why I'm here," she says. "With Mei Ling on the way, I thought I had everything under control with the boys. But my eight-year-old, Nick, has suddenly become this reticent, reluctant kid. It's harder to get him to do things with us, and he seems embarra.s.sed by me already. He even did that eyeball roll the other day when I told him to zip up his sweater hoodie. Isn't it a little early for that?"

Sandra sighs. "Casey was like that," she remembers. "He wouldn't let me walk him into the cla.s.sroom like his brothers did. He didn't want me cramping his style."

That sounds just like her son, and Frances feels stung by the comment. "But how can I cramp his style?" she asks. "Nick is only eight!"

Sandra laughs. "I don't think age has anything to do with it," she says. "It's their personalities. They come into the world wired a certain way. We can influence it, certainly, but they are who they are." She lifts her chin to point down the hallway. "Peter is my easiest kid. Agreeable, not argumentative. You can tell him to do something and he'll do it. But he also has a knack for getting into trouble. If there's something going down, Peter is never far away."

Frances thinks about the boy she met minutes ago. "Really?"

"Peter, come here!" Frances calls. A second later Peter is there, a bag of chips in hand.

"Hey, there he is," Jamie says as he and Hannah walk back into the living room. "The conquering hero!" Jamie musses his brother's hair and Peter tries to duck out of the way.

"Quit it," Peter says, but he's grinning.

"They won another game," Sandra tells her. "Peter's on the football team. They're on a winning streak, the first time in six years. It's a big deal."

Frances nods wordlessly, still taking in these grown-up versions of her sons. She can't imagine them towering over her but she knows it's inevitable-Reed is 6'2" and the boys are already in the hundredth percentile for their height.

"Hey, no food in your room," Sandra reminds Peter, grabbing the bag of chips. "You know better."

"Aw. But Jamie gets to eat in his room."

"Jamie has his own apartment and he's an adult. As long as you're under my roof, all food stays in the kitchen." Sandra whispers to Frances. "Jamie's my neat one. Always made his bed, folded his own laundry, set the table. Very responsible."

"I'm responsible," Peter mumbles, overhearing them.

"Yeah, responsible for setting off two fire alarms in school last month," Jamie reminds him.

"But that wasn't me," his brother protests.

Sandra ignores him. "He's still grounded," she tells Frances. "I forgot to tell you about that part. This is where you hope you raised them right at the end of the day."

"I said I didn't do it," Peter says again.

"Let me guess-was it Spit Parker?" Jamie snorts. He tells Hannah and Frances, "Spit Parker is the quarterback. A legend, larger than life. He can't do wrong since he's taking the team to champions.h.i.+ps. Isn't that right, Pete?"

Peter mumbles something unintelligible. Frances catches the words, "not fair," somewhere in the mix.

"Look, Peter," Sandra says, turning her attention to her youngest son. Her voice is stern. "I know you said it wasn't you. But you knew who did it and that makes you an accomplice. I know it seems like a harmless prank, but people panic in situations like that. Someone could get hurt and I know you wouldn't want that."

Peter hangs his head.

"I know you want to be loyal to Spit, but being a good friend isn't about hiding the truth. It's about helping him make better decisions, not enabling poor ones. Do you know what I'm saying?"

A nod.

Frances wishes she could take notes, get a transcript of what's transpiring. She likes to think her boys will never misbehave, will never get into trouble, but they already misbehave, already get into trouble. She may as well learn how to deal with it.

"You're a good boy, Peter, but that doesn't mean your father and I aren't going to call you on it when you do something wrong, or allow somebody else to do something wrong. I don't ever want you to look back on something and feel regret. Now go," Sandra says, waving them all away. "I want to finish enjoying my chat with Mrs. Latham before it's time to put dinner on the table."

n.o.body moves. Peter is looking edgy, clearly unhappy, and Jamie has a frown on his face.

"Pete, what is it?" he asks.

"Nothing," Peter mumbles, but he also doesn't move to leave.

"I'll tackle it out of you if I have to," Jamie says. He makes a threatening move toward his brother and Peter jumps back.

"Okay, okay!" Peter's nervous now, and both Jamie and Sandra have impatient looks on their faces. Clearly this is not an uncommon occurrence. Frances would be concerned if she weren't so fascinated at the same time.