The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society Part 10

"You said you knew she was the one," Frances says, remembering his wet eyes, his goofy grin when they called their parents on the phone to give them the good news.

Reed closes his eyes and turns away from her. Reed has never turned away from her in the twelve years they've been married. Frances wants to burst into tears.

"I thought she was," he says. "But now I'm not so sure."

Frances feels as if she's being ripped apart. How can this be happening? How can any of this be happening? "What are you saying, Reed?"

"I'm saying that we shouldn't accept Mei Ling's referral. I'm saying no, Frances. I'm sorry."

Abilene Gould, 26

Temporary Secretary

"Avalon Drywall, can you hold please? Avalon Drywall, can you hold please? Avalon Drywall, this is Abilene. How may I help you?"

"I'm looking for an Abilene Gould. Is she available?"

Abilene frowns. "May I ask who's calling?"

There's a guffaw. "Abby, it's me. Mr. Whatley. I'm yanking your chain, girl! Just wanted to make sure you were on top of the phones."

Abilene turns to glance back at her boss's office. Sure enough, there he is, laughing his head off. "Very funny, Mr. Whatley," she says, waving gamely.

She disconnects the call and punches the b.u.t.ton for the first line. "Avalon Drywall, this is Abilene. How may I help you?"

"It's me again!" comes the familiar chortle.

She disconnects and punches another b.u.t.ton, already filled with dread. "Avalon Drywall, this is . . ."

"You get an A-plus, Abby. You're an ace on the phones. Now if only people were actually calling. Come back here a moment, will ya?"

Abilene sighs and reaches for a pad of paper. It's her second temp job and the agency told her that Avalon Drywall is going out of business so the position is on a day-to-day basis. They don't have anything lined up for her after that so she's back to square one, circling ads in the newspapers and trying to squeeze in interviews whenever she can.

d.i.c.k Whatley is leaning back in his chair, balling up blank invoices and tossing them into the trash. "Score!" he shouts when he gets one in.

Abilene settles herself in the chair in front of his desk. "Yes, Mr. Whatley?"

"You're a smart girl, Abby. Noticed that the minute you walked in. So I'm sorry to tell you that today's your last day." He smiles but it's a struggle, his bravado gone. "I'm closing up shop tomorrow. Gonna pack everything up." He gestures to the walls where pictures and plaques of recognition and community service have hung proudly for years. "This was my father's business," he says, pointing to one photo. "He built it from the ground up. He managed to weather two recessions. I wish I could say the same." He picks up a framed photo on his desk and shows it to Abilene. "Those are my girls. My wife, Ann Marie, and my little girl, Tiffany. Though she's not a little girl anymore-she's sixteen. I haven't had a chance to put a new picture in."

"It's a nice picture," Abilene says politely.

"So, I know you've only been here a couple of days but I'm happy to write a recommendation, say that you impressed me from the get-go. It'd be the truth. I hope you find something that you like, something good." He starts piling the papers on his desk, then stops and looks around, suddenly overwhelmed. "I have to be out by Sat.u.r.day. Thought it would be quick, you know? But I haven't been able to do much of anything. I've already sold the furniture and the file cabinets, most of my equipment. Movers come tomorrow to take everything where it needs to go. But my files and personal belongings-well, I've yet to make a dent in things. I guess I'll be up all night packing up and ferrying things back and forth over the next few days."

Abilene swallows, can see the sadness on Mr. Whatley's face. He's a portly man, a bit rough around the edges, but nice. She can see that at one time business was booming, that he held a position of respect in the community. He has a lot to be proud of, but in the face of the devastating close of his business, it's hard to see any of that.

"I'd be happy to come in and help you," she offers.

"Oh, I appreciate that, Abby, but I can't afford to pay the agency past today." He powers down his computer and the sound is so depressing they both slump down a little lower in their chairs.

Abilene forces herself to sit upright, fastens on a bright smile. "You wouldn't have to pay me," she tells him. "I don't have anything going on anyways. I'd much rather stay busy and I'd like to help you."

For a second his face brightens. But then he shakes his head. "No, no. It's my business, I should be the one to do the work."

"Okay, Mr. Whatley. I understand." But Abilene finds herself drawn to the pictures on the wall, to the framed dollar bill, to an autographed photo of Mr. Whatley and his father posing with the governor of Illinois. There's a timeline, too, and three different graphic renditions of how the logo has changed over time. Abilene can't imagine the despair Mr. Whatley must feel at having to take it all down and put it away.

And that's when it hits her.

A few weeks ago she'd stood outside the Pick and Save, relis.h.i.+ng a yellow gumball. She'd come back from yet another disappointing interview and the globe of gla.s.s, filled with large, multicolored gumb.a.l.l.s, beckoned her. She fished around in her purse until she came up with a quarter, then slid it into the slot and turned the k.n.o.b. There was a satisfying crunch of machinery and then the sound of a gumball falling into the dispenser. Abilene opened the little door and popped a yellow gumball into her mouth. She felt, for the moment at least, a wave of simple happiness overcome her.

A pet.i.te woman with silvery-blue hair stopped and pointed to the gumball machine. "Colorful, isn't it?"

Her mouth full, Abilene could only nod.

"I bet your generation has a lot of good memories about gumball machines," the woman said. "It's childhood at its best. Right up there with ice cream trucks and tree houses."

The hard sugary sh.e.l.l finally gave way and Abilene was able to speak. "I had a tree house growing up," she said. "My dad and I built it."

"You see?" the woman exclaimed. "That's what I'm talking about! Did you have a stamp collection, too?"

Abilene shook her head. "Not stamps. I had an eraser collection, though. And I liked Betty and Veronica comics. Double digests especially." She had smiled at the memory, remembered how she had over a hundred in all. What happened to them? Did her parents give them away? Abilene could have sold them-she kept them in mint condition, each one carefully stored in archival plastic sleeves. They'd be worth something now.

The woman grinned. "You're new to Avalon, aren't you? I'm Bettie Shelton, president of the Avalon Ladies Sc.r.a.pbooking Society." She stuck out a hand.

"Abilene Gould."

"You should come to our meeting tonight. You'll meet lots of people, get some good ideas for how to preserve your memories in creative ways. It's usually fifteen dollars a month but I'd be willing to waive it in your case, seeing how you're new in town. You can't tell anyone that I've done that, though. Wouldn't want people to think I'm playing favorites." She continued to pump Abilene's hand up and down, beaming.

Abilene finally managed to extract her hand. "Thank you, but I'm not much of a creative person."

"What? Nonsense. But I tell you what-just come for the company, meet a few nice people. Tonight, seven o'clock. Here's my card." Bettie pressed an ornately embellished business card into Abilene's hands. "That's one of my fancy ones. I have six other styles."

"Oh, I don't know . . ."

Bettie waved away her excuse. "I hear some strawberries and Maalox calling my name-mercy, it's been one of those weeks. See you tonight!" She gave Abilene a friendly pat on the arm and disappeared into the store before Abilene could respond.

And so Abilene had gone to the meeting, had listened politely, had learned a little bit about sc.r.a.pbooking and a lot about the town of Avalon. The other members had taken her under their wings and the word is out that she is looking for a job, but who knows how that will go. She hadn't planned on going back, but maybe she will, because she sees that there's a way she can help Mr. Whatley, one that will have a lasting effect.

"Mr. Whatley," she says suddenly. "Would you like me to help put some of these things together in an alb.u.m? Sort of as a keepsake of the business?" She points to the pictures on the wall.

He c.o.c.ks his head to one side, not comprehending. "You mean take them out of the frames?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. Maybe you could keep the originals someplace safe and we could make color photocopies to put in the alb.u.m. I went to a meeting the other night that talked about this sort of thing, about creating a memory sc.r.a.pbook. I'm still learning so I wouldn't be able to do anything fancy, but it might give you a nice record of what you and your father have done with the business. Would you like that?"

Mr. Whatley looks at Abilene, a slow smile breaking over his face. "Abilene," he says, calling her by her full name for the first time since she started working for him. "I would like that very much."

Chapter 8.

Yvonne picks through her jewelry box, looking for a pair of earrings. She prefers small gold hoops while on the job, but she lost one last week and she's thinking she should wear studs instead, something less likely to fall out of her ears. Of course the reasonable thing would be to be completely jewelry free, but what would be the fun in that?

Nothing too fancy, she tells herself as she looks through her choices. It's a handful compared to what she used to have, but it's enough.

She touches a pair of silver turquoise hearts and hears her breath catch. Sam. He'd given the earrings to her for her eighteenth birthday after he'd taken a trip to the Southwest with some buddies. It had been an eye-opening trip for him, had lit a desire to see more of the world beyond Wareham, to have a life beyond the cranberry bogs. His enthusiasm was contagious, and Yvonne felt certain that it would happen for him someday.

And then, well. Yvonne sighs, shakes her head. She knows that others might see the earrings as a painful reminder, but she doesn't. She was wearing them the day she left Wareham and hasn't worn them since. They comfort her, as do the simple pair of pearl earrings that used to belong to her grandmother. Yvonne misses them both.

Last year her oldest sister managed to get ahold of her, told her the news.

"Gramma pa.s.sed," Anne had said briskly on the phone. "Stroke. Funeral's next week. I know you're not coming."

Yvonne had felt a stirring of nostalgia, of familiarity, but it wasn't enough to change anything. "No," she said. "I'll send flowers."

"Don't bother," her sister had said. "I already ordered some in your name. Carnations."

Yvonne hates carnations, and Anne knows it, but she didn't say anything. Instead they hung up and a month later a small package arrived with a folded copy of the program from the memorial service, the earrings carelessly tucked into a cotton ball. They were probably the only things n.o.body else wanted, clamoring instead for the money, or the diamonds, or both.

Two simple pairs of earrings loaded with meaning, so much so that Yvonne can't bring herself to wear them anymore.

She finally settles on a pair of citrine ear studs when the doorbell rings. Yvonne glances at the clock-it's half past eight in the morning. She's due at a job in half an hour but she's already run five miles and had her breakfast. Yvonne tosses a few throw pillows onto the bed, then checks herself in the mirror once again before heading down the stairs.

She takes a look through the peephole but doesn't see anyone, just the sunny street that runs in front of her house, Mrs. Markowitz walking by with her dog. Yvonne opens the door and scans the street, but doesn't see anyone else. Then she looks down and sees a note tucked under the corner of the doormat.

It's a scrawl, written in haste.

Go home, it says. You don't belong here.

Yvonne feels her throat tighten. She picks up the note and gives a polite wave to Mrs. Markowitz who's looking at her with a frown. Yvonne b.a.l.l.s up the note in her hand, then throws it into the kitchen trash.

She pours herself a gla.s.s of orange juice and wills herself to stop shaking. She has a busy day ahead of her-that's where her mind needs to be. Work. Work has always made it better, has helped her move out of her head and into her body.

Her cellphone rings and she hesitates for a moment. The area code is for Avalon, though, so she answers. "Yvonne Tate."

There's a lot of throat clearing before Yvonne hears anything. "Is this the plumber lady?" comes an uncertain voice.

"Yes, this is Yvo-"

"I'm sorry to call at the last minute, but I won't be needing your services today. Looks like everything's working fine now. Oh, this is Mervin McDowell of 1524 Plum Street."

Yvonne digs through her bag until she finds her job book. She flips to the page with Mervin McDowell's information. Residential, stopped-up shower. Well, quite possibly a little Drano fixed the problem, though it had sounded more serious than that.

"No problem, Mr. McDowell," she says. Yvonne's disappointed to lose the work, but it happens. "If you need any other-"

Click. He's hung up.

Yvonne stares at her cellphone, then slowly crosses his name off her calendar, makes a note on his page. Well, the upside is that she can move the rest of her appointments, end her day a little early. Every cloud has a silver lining, right? Maybe Isabel will join her for dinner. They can go out or see a movie or something.

She looks up her next appointment and gives them a call. "Hi, Mrs. McKenzie? Yvonne Tate of Tate Plumbing. I wanted you to know that I have an opening and can move you up to an earlier time."

"Oh, Yvonne!" Mrs. McKenzie sounds delighted to hear from her. "I was meaning to call you. It looks like we'll have to reschedule, if that's all right."

Reschedule? They were going to replace the water heater. The old one wasn't working at all, which means the McKenzies are in a house with no hot running water.

Yvonne looks at her calendar. "I have some time tomorrow," she says. It's a big job, not complicated, but it takes time to drain and remove the old water heater and install the new one, plus Yvonne was going to dispose of the old water heater at a steel recycle center almost half an hour away. "Or I can try to move some jobs around, try to get over there sooner."

"Oh, you know, I hate that you have to go through all this fuss. You know, forget about it. I'm sure we'll work something out. I can probably get Larry to figure it out."

Mr. McKenzie? Yvonne remembers him crashed out on the couch, his belly rising and falling as he snored away, thick c.o.ke-bottle gla.s.ses askew on his face. No, Larry McKenzie most certainly will not be able to figure it out, nor will Mrs. McKenzie, who's a small, wiry thing.

"Thank you so much for everything, Yvonne," Mrs. McKenzie says before saying goodbye.

Now her schedule is really open, with only one job left. What the h.e.l.l? Frustrated, Yvonne punches in the numbers for Isabel's cellphone.

"Hey, do you want to come over for dinner tonight?" she asks as soon as Isabel picks up. "I only have soup, but it's Wolfgang Puck, and pretty tasty . . ."

"Geez, hi to you, too. I'm about to go into a meeting-can I call you later?"

"You don't have a second to talk?"

"I do . . . and now it's gone. Here comes my boss-gotta run. Call you later." Isabel hangs up.

Yvonne is not an emotional eater but she wanders back to the pantry and grabs a bag of rice cakes. As she munches through one and then another, she tries not to get upset. It's just a couple of cancellations, albeit bizarrely on the same day, and nothing more. Yvonne finishes off one more rice cake and reaches for her phone again.

She calls her last appointment of the day, someone she hasn't met yet because he didn't want a quote, just someone to come over quick to help with a running toilet that's been keeping him up nights. He had been hoping she could do an emergency call last night, but she was already on another job and by the time she was done, she was too beat to head out again. Now, however, she dials his number with trepidation, wondering if he'll tell her that his toilet has fixed itself and that he doesn't need her, either.

"What a relief!" comes the reply when she tells Hubert Hill she's available to come by now.

Yvonne almost can't believe it. "Really?" she says. "Now is a good time?"

"Are you kidding? I was about to take a hammer to the thing this morning. Can you meet me at the house in half an hour? You know where it is?"