The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society Part 5

So now . . . what? This aloneness is the hardest part for Ava. The separateness. Bill's mother, Max's biological grandmother, has made it clear that she wants nothing to do with them, so there is only one person left.

Ava has written her letters but hasn't received a response. Ava doesn't even know if she still lives in Avalon. It's been four years, after all, and maybe she's moved on, like Ava should, but can't. Or maybe it's still too soon, and Ava can't take a hint and leave well enough alone. If it was just about Ava, she'd already be gone, her bags packed. But it's not just about Ava-it's about Max.

The wire slips from the pliers and sends beads flying across the living room. Ava gasps-she'd brought out the Swarovski crystals especially for this bracelet, wanting it to be the centerpiece of her collection. She watches as the crystals scatter in the air and then drop into the thick carpet, instantly obscured.

She drops to her knees, wills herself not to cry. She knows how life works, at least her life up to this point-if you wait for the other shoe to drop, it will. She isn't going to be like that anymore. She's going to think only good thoughts for her and Max. She's going to find a job, she's going to fix the car, she's going to find each and every crystal. She's going to do what she can to give him the very best life she can. And it's all going to be fine. Strike that-it's going to be beyond expectation. Good things. One miracle after another.

Yes.

For a moment Ava believes it so fully her eyes spot the first crystal, sparkling from within the deep pile. But when she reaches for it, it transforms itself into a piece of plastic, a small broken piece from one of Max's toys. And then she hears it, a small cry from her bedroom as Max discovers that she's not there. He calls for her, his voice sleepy and uncertain, and then full of panic. Ava knows the room looks dark and murky through his eyes, thick blurs that won't correct themselves into recognizable shapes until he puts his gla.s.ses on. Ava is torn, but only for a moment. She stands up, turns off the lamp and radio, plunging the apartment into darkness once again.

"I'm coming, Max."

Christopher Barlowe, 55

More Than Meets the Eye Photography Studio

"Oh, you look great. Really, you do. You're going to love this! You're a natural and, wow, that's it, that's the look! That's a definite keeper. I think you're going to be happy with these. I really really do."

Christopher Barlowe has been taking pictures and snapping shots since he was twenty, and some of his travel and creative work has shown up in magazines, won a few awards. In the past couple of years he's earned enough not only to support himself and his family, but to buy the lot next door and build a studio. He can walk to work in his pajamas, though he never has-he still gets up and shaves and dresses exactly as if he were going to his old place down on Main Street. He's proud of what he does, and doesn't take it any less seriously because his studio is less than sixty seconds from his kitchen.

When people ask him what he does for a living, he hands them his card. They see the collage of portraits on the back, see the word "Photographer" on the front and write him off as some guy who only takes senior portraits and wedding photos. He does that, too, and actually enjoys it, but there's so much more to the job than standing behind a lens.

Once he had an apprentice who thought getting into photography would be a way to make a quick buck. Christopher told him, "If you want to be good, you're not just a photographer. You're part psychologist, part sociologist. You have to understand your subject, help them feel good about themselves, about being in front of the camera. If they're having a bad day or feeling nervous, you have to help them feel better. They should leave feeling really good about the shoot, and about themselves."

The apprentice didn't listen of course. He started his own portrait business the following spring, offered cut-rate discounts and coupons, bragged about how good he was and how bad the compet.i.tion was, including Christopher. He didn't make it to Christmas.

More Than Meets the Eye is still here, and business is thriving. No small feat since everyone has a digital camera or some kind of photo-editing software, and can easily order large prints online, even on canvas. For a while, business slowed to a stop and Christopher was worried, not sure if things would pick up again and if they didn't, what he would do. He loves Avalon-both he and his wife grew up here and now the same can be said for their girls-but things got dicey for a while.

The month he thought he'd have to close shop for good was the worst. He was in the old location looking at a stack of bills, wondering if this was it. It was very depressing and his wife had gone home crying, sad that they might have to leave and start over somewhere new. He was sad, too.

Someone knocked on his door then. He looked up and saw that he hadn't even remembered to turn the sign from CLOSED to OPEN, that's how distracted he was. He saw an umbrella and a bob of silvery-blue hair. It was one of the ladies from his neighborhood. Bettie Shelton.

He hurried to let her in. It had been raining outside that day, cats and dogs as it sometimes does in the spring, and she stamped her feet on the welcome mat to get all the water off her galoshes. She leaned the umbrella against the outside of the door.

"Just stopping by to give you this," she said. She handed him a stack of business cards. They had her name on them, along with her phone number and address. Sc.r.a.pbooking supplies, it read, for all your memory-keeping needs.

"Um," he'd said, not sure what to do.

She pulled out a small business card stand adorned with fake jewels and ribbon. "It was a good day when they invented the glue gun," she said. "So, Chris, I'm thinking if you put these out for your customers and they buy anything from me, I can give them an extra five, make that ten, percent off. They just have to show the card. I have a little code in the corner, see? So I'll know the business came from you. I'll extend the discount to you, too."

He put her cards and stand by the small cash register. "I'll put them out," he said, "but you should know that I may not be in business much longer. People aren't spending money on items like photography anymore."

"What? Don't be ridiculous," Bettie scoffed. She looked around the studio, took in the pictures on the walls, the books of photographs in the seating area. "It's a matter of adjusting to the times, that's all."

"Yeah, well, if you figure out how to do that, let me know." Christopher turned his attention back to the mess on his desk, but not before he saw her scowl.

"What, you're throwing in the towel already? You haven't even begun to figure this one out." Bettie shook her head, obviously disappointed. "For instance, I've been noticing that more people are using stock images these days. You should as well."

"But everyone's doing that," he told Bettie. "I don't see why anybody would want to buy stock images from me when they can get them from lots of other places online."

"Holy smokes!" she retorted. "With that att.i.tude I'm amazed you're still in business at all!" She pointed to one of his favorite photos on the wall, an image of a man with his grandson, sitting on a bench in Avalon Park. "Look at that. You capture not only the connection between the two of them, but where they are. That boy will always have special memories when he goes to the park-he'll always think of his grandfather. Or why not spend your free time taking pictures of landmarks around Avalon? I'm sure lots of businesses might like you to get photos for them, too. Proprietors standing in their doorways, for example. Like Hal at the butcher shop, swinging his cleaver. Or Mason Cribbs, driving his snow plow in the winter. Or Tessa Bridges when she's taking out a fresh loaf of bread from her oven. We're always telling people to buy local, maybe show them what buying local means, you know?" She played with the ribbons on her business card holder, trying to figure out how they'd look best.

Christopher was skeptical, but intrigued. What was he doing moping behind a desk, waiting for someone to call with business? He should be doing what he does best-standing behind a lens.

And then he got discouraged again. "But who would buy those?" he asked.

"I would," Bettie said, standing tall. "In fact, I'd like to commission you to take a photo doc.u.mentary of me and my sc.r.a.pbooking society. A few nice black-and-white photos from our meetings that we can save in our archives. I might also use them for Christmas cards."

Bells started going off in Christopher's head. Not warning bells, but the kind that let you know that inspiration is brewing. Christopher thought about what Bettie said, about putting a face to a name, about encouraging small business owners to show their customers what they were about. He knew he could capture this better than anyone else. These people put their hearts into what they did. It was their pa.s.sion. And it was up to Christopher to show that to everyone else.

He started with Bettie and the Avalon Ladies Sc.r.a.pbooking Society. He took pictures at a meeting, then went to the homes of some members and took pictures of their craft s.p.a.ces, their alb.u.ms. The result was four more jobs, and he started shooting pictures for people who wanted to get grants for their nonprofit organizations, who were chronicling their businesses, who wanted compelling, well-shot images for their own marketing and promotional purposes. He used this same approach with his own business, setting up self-portraits so people could see him in action. Six months later, he was out of debt. Nine months later, he'd made almost as much money as he did the previous year. By the end of his second year, he'd had his best year ever.

Anyone can take a picture, and that's the truth. But what he tells prospective clients is that not everyone can capture a person, or an image, or an emotion. There's a creative engagement that happens when you look through the lens. This is not a haphazard endeavor, but one that you enter into with great care and focus. You see what matters most, and then you snap a picture of it for all the world to see.

Chapter 6.

Frances gazes dreamily at the pink petticoats, the white lace. She's standing outside Margot West's new store, a catchall gift shop selling beauty and body care, wooden toys, knitwear, and baby clothes. There's a sign in the window, AVON PRODUCTS SOLD HERE, and Frances is reminded of her own childhood, the round boxes of talc.u.m powder her mother used to buy from their neighbor, Mrs. Granger. Frances herself had a small yellow pin, a bird whose tummy would pop open to reveal a small pot of lip balm. It was a silly thing but she loved it, and she wishes now she had more keepsakes from her childhood.

Brady is having a full-on conversation with himself, still on a sugar high after the ice cream cone from lunch. Frances couldn't help it-he didn't want the chicken fingers, didn't want the macaroni and cheese, refused a peanut b.u.t.ter and jelly sandwich. He pointed to another young child sitting in the booth next to them, a child who had already eaten her lunch and was now enjoying a chocolate cone with sprinkles. Nick and Noah were in school, Noah having started kindergarten this fall. So it's now just the two of them, Mom and Brady, having this time together. Frances didn't want to spoil it.

She had tried several times to talk to him about his baby sister who was on her way to joining the family, but Brady had stared at her blankly, as if she were from another planet. Baby who? Baby what? his expression seemed to read.

Frances sighs. She should know better than try to put this on a three-year-old. She drew a picture the other day with him, making six smiling faces for their family instead of five. Brady had shaken his head and crossed out the smallest one, his fingers wrapped tightly around the crayon, then pa.s.sed the picture back to her, satisfied.

He'll figure it out when she gets here, Reed had rea.s.sured her when she called him at work upset. Let him be.

Let him be, let him be. Frances had agreed but now, standing in front of Margot's shop, she has an idea.

"Brady, let's go get some things for Mei Ling's care package!" she exclaims, her voice more animated than usual.

Brady points to a toy train in the window. "Train! Train! I want to see!"

"Yes, a train," Frances says as she pushes the door open and ushers him inside. They're greeted with a blast of cold air and Frances catches a whiff of lavender. She feels herself begin to relax as Margot looks up and waves from the register.

"All blue-dot items are ten percent off today," Margot says. "And I have a special bath and body care promotion going on. Buy one, get one free."

"Thank you," Frances says as Brady makes a beeline for the train set in the window.

"That's just for display," Margot tells her. "Been in the family for years." She picks up a smaller wooden train set, painted in primary colors, tucked safely behind the cellophane packaging. "Look, a blue dot!" The look on her face is pure surprise, as if she had no idea.

Frances nods politely. "We'll think about it," even though she knows there's no way she's bringing another train set into their house.

Or airplanes or fire trucks. Or cars of any kind.

No more marble mazes or racetracks or Legos. Frances is going to clean out and ban the eight million golf b.a.l.l.s Reed brings back from the golf course. Noah threw one at the oven door when he was four and it cost them $150 to replace it.

What else? No more mismatched play tool sets. No more rockets, guns (all gifts, not her idea), or Mr. Potato Heads. The boys have plenty, but Frances is ready for something more gender neutral. Something quieter. Prettier.

Her eyes drift to the miniature tea party kit. Real ceramic cups, teapot, creamer and sugar bowl, tiny spoons and saucers and plastic finger sandwiches. She wants to swoon.

"Those have no phthalates or BPA," Margot informs her proudly. "And I have these adorable pet.i.t fours dessert toys that would go with it beautifully. They're hand knitted by Maureen Nyer-the tops are made from felt. All locally made."

Frances gasps at a small chocolate cupcake dotted with white st.i.tches that look like sprinkles. "Brady, look! It's like the real thing!"

Brady doesn't bother to look over, and instead concentrates on pus.h.i.+ng the train through a tunnel.

"I'll get them all," Frances says, even though she knows she can't send them to China. Their adoption agency is very specific about what can go into a care package, but that's all right. She'll save it for when Mei Ling is actually here, add it to the growing collection of special items that Frances is putting aside for her.

Frances finds a few more items that can go into the care package-a small picture alb.u.m, a doll, some fabric hair clips, a coloring book of Avalon Park. Mei Ling is in a foster home in Guangzhou instead of an orphanage, but Frances is pretty sure they don't speak English. She pa.s.ses on the board books filled with ABCs and buys a couple of postcards of Avalon instead, hoping that Mei Ling will fall in love with this small town that will be her home.

Margot is ringing her up when a young woman enters the store.

"Hannah!" Margot exclaims. "I was wondering when you were going to come by with more brochures. People have been asking about your music cla.s.ses, you know."

Frances watches as Hannah w.a.n.g gives Margot a hug. Hannah is somewhat of a celebrity, a former cellist with a famous orchestra in New York or Chicago, Frances doesn't quite remember. She doesn't know Hannah personally, but remembers her from the prior year when Avalon was baking friends.h.i.+p bread for a neighbor town that had been devastated by floods.

"I just added a master cla.s.s," Hannah explains as she hands Margot a stack of brochures. "And another beginner's cla.s.s, so I had to redo everything. This should last you awhile, though." She turns and smiles at Frances. "Hi, I'm Hannah."

"Frances Latham." They shake hands and Frances is struck by how graceful and refined Hannah seems to be. She looks like she's in her mid-or late twenties. Hannah has the figure of a dancer, tall and lean, her sleek dark hair pulled back in a simple chignon. "We actually met briefly last year. At Madeline's."

"The night we baked for Barrett," Hannah remembers, nodding. "That's right! It's nice to see you again."

"You too."

Hannah spies Brady by the wooden train set. "Is this your son? He's adorable."

"That's Brady," Frances says. "He's my youngest. I have three boys, if you can believe that. Nick is eight and Noah is five. Brady here is three."

Margot lets out a low whistle, either impressed or from sympathy, but Hannah laughs. "I believe that your hands are full, that's for sure," she says. "My boyfriend is from a family of four boys so I know how crazy it can get. His mother's always telling me stories about how much trouble they used to get into when they were growing up."

"Hannah dates Jamie Linde," Margot explains. "He drives a truck for UPS." She takes Hannah's brochures and walks to the front of the store where a small table and community bulletin board have been set up.

"Jamie?" Frances gasps. "Of course we know Jamie! I just put his photo in our photo alb.u.m!"

"Your photo alb.u.m?"

"He dropped off the referral letter for our daughter, Mei Ling. Well, she's not our daughter yet, but she will be. We're adopting from China. I got a picture with Jamie when he delivered the letter the other day."

"I remember that!" Hannah exclaims, then blushes. "I hope you don't mind, but Jamie told me that there was a family in Avalon who was going through a Chinese adoption. I think that's wonderful, Frances."

"Us too," Frances says, grinning. It feels good to talk about it with someone. She's been careful in sharing the news, not wanting to navigate the barrage of questions, not wanting to get everyone's hopes up including her own, but now she feels almost giddy with relief. She's thrilled that someone else knows, and Hannah looks genuinely happy for her. "We're hoping she'll be with us by Christmas at the latest. I know it's only a few months away, but it feels like forever."

"I'm so excited for your family," Hannah tells her. "And it's just a matter of time-she'll be here before you know it."

Frances smiles, grateful. "Thank you, Hannah."

Hannah returns the smile. "I hope I'll have a chance to see you again, maybe meet your daughter when you bring her home."

Frances nods. "I'd like that, too." Her eyes drift to the geometric clock on the wall and she gasps. "Oh, I'm late. The boys will be coming home from school." Frances quickly gathers her things, wis.h.i.+ng she could stay and talk some more. "Please tell Jamie we say hi."

"I will." Hannah waves as Frances bids Margot goodbye and ushers a reluctant Brady out of the store. The minute they step outside they're met with a blast of blazing heat, but Frances doesn't mind, not even when Brady whines and insists that she carry him the rest of the way, which she does. By the time they reach the car, both the bags and Brady are heavy and Frances is covered in sweat, but she's too happy to care. Talking to Hannah about Mei Ling has made it all the more real. They've been approved, they have their referral, they have Mei Ling. Frances is going to have to practice saying that she has four children now, because Mei Ling is going to be Frances's daughter, and, like Hannah said, it's only a matter of time before she'll be coming home to Avalon.

Isabel stares at the envelope, postmarked Barrett. It's addressed to her, the handwriting unfamiliar, but in the upper left-hand corner, Isabel sees the return address, the name.

A. Catalina.

"Whatcha got there?" Bettie Shelton calls from next door. She's also checking her mail, and Isabel can see Bettie's mailbox is stuffed with catalogs and magazines. "Pen pal?"

Isabel doesn't respond, just closes the mailbox door with a slam.

She's climbing the steps to her porch when suddenly a worn board gives. Isabel grabs the handrail and struggles to keep her balance.

"I told you so!" Bettie tells her. "Good thing it didn't happen during the meeting, otherwise you'd have a lawsuit on your hands!"

Isabel shoots Bettie an annoyed look before putting her mail down to inspect the board. It's rotted through, the board soggy and weak. As Isabel glances around her porch, she sees the spot where Bettie stepped through last week, and a couple more soft spots, too. Bill used to take care of all this, pressure was.h.i.+ng the porch annually, the weatherproofing, the staining. Suddenly, Isabel can see the sum of her neglect. The entire porch looks like a danger zone.

"I have two copies of Crafters Today," Bettie calls to Isabel. "Want one?" She waves the magazine in the air like a flag.

If Bettie thinks Isabel is going to forget about what happened the other night, she's sorely mistaken. Isabel's still finding miscellaneous ribbon and eyelets everywhere. She goes into her house and closes the door, feeling the house sigh along with her.

It's so quiet. That was the first thing Isabel had noticed after Bill left-how quiet the house suddenly was. Even if she and Bill were in separate parts of the house, doing their own thing, there were always footsteps, the sounds of shuffling paper, of running water. Simple reminders that you were not alone.

She walks into the kitchen, looking through her mail when her hand rests on the envelope, her name and address written in small, careful script. Isabel feels her heart clench.

It's the third one she's received since Bill's death. Whatever that woman has to say, Isabel isn't interested in hearing it.

She throws the letter into the trash and heads out the back door to the shed where she finds the crowbar. She marches to the front of the house and straight to the porch. A few minutes later, the rotten board is gone.