The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society Part 15

Connie and Madeline appear behind him, smiling.

"He's so cute," Connie says. "He said he wanted to share it with you so we decided to fill a to-go bag. He found that ribbon and chipboard M on the sc.r.a.p table."

"Swap table," Bettie corrects, then reddens when she remembers what's going on.

Ava doesn't look at Isabel, her cheeks hot. She says hastily to Connie and Madeline, "Thank you."

"No problem," Connie says.

"Max is a delight," Madeline agrees. "He's welcome here anytime." She smiles pleasantly at Isabel and her friend. "h.e.l.lo, I'm Madeline Davis."

Bettie clears her throat. "This is Isabel Kidd and Yvonne Tate." She blinks frantically at Madeline, like she's sending Morse code with her eyes.

Yvonne shakes their hands but Isabel isn't paying attention to any one of them. The bl.u.s.ter seems to have gone out of her and her face is drawn and pale.

"Well, goodbye," Ava says, and begins to make her way toward the front door.

"This is Max?" Isabel asks. She steps in front of them, stopping them.

Ava clutches Max to her, turns him away from Isabel. She's no longer scared for herself, her own fear dissipating and replaced by a new one as she realizes what this could mean. Bettie and Yvonne are holding their breath while Connie and Madeline look uneasy, aware that something awkward is taking place.

Max pushes his gla.s.ses up the bridge of his nose. "h.e.l.lo," he says.

Ava is holding her breath, too. If she has to, she'll fight. Push back, push her out of the way. Burn the bridge once and for all.

But Isabel doesn't even seem to notice Ava. Her eyes are on Max, and Ava can see them filling with tears.

"My G.o.d," Isabel breathes. Her hand comes up to her mouth, her eyes wide and wet. "He looks just like Bill's baby pictures."

"Really?" Bettie squints and stares at Max. Connie and Madeline inadvertently look at him, too. "Even with those gla.s.ses?"

"Bill had strabismus as a kid, but he had surgery and got it corrected." Isabel's voice is a whisper. Ava feels her heart give a leap at this news.

Bill had it, too. Just like Max.

"Stra-bis-what?" Bettie asks, but Isabel is shaking her head, unable to answer.

"Strabismus," Ava says quietly. "Misaligned or crossed eyes. Max's isn't too bad so he won't need a procedure, but he has to do regular exercises to strengthen the muscles in his eyes."

"It's probably hereditary," Bettie says, and then stops when she realizes what she's said. "I mean . . ."

At hearing this, Isabel seems to jerk back to her old self. She straightens up and clears her throat, wipes her eyes. "I have to go." She spins and leaves before anyone can say anything, almost b.u.mping into someone walking into the tea salon.

"Isabel!" Yvonne calls, but she's already gone.

"Let her go," Bettie says, reaching out to touch Yvonne's arm. "Give her some time."

Yvonne watches her friend disappear, worry etched on her face, but doesn't go after her.

Ava feels terrible. She isn't quite sure what to make of this turn of events. It was her plan to leave, but Isabel beat her to it. She doesn't know what to do now. Max wiggles in her arms, grinning happily, oblivious. She holds him tighter, still processing the information that Bill also had strabismus. She'll have to tell Max's doctor, not that it will make any difference, but it can go into the file as a note. Hereditary predisposition. One more thing that Bill and Max share, something Ava can't wait to tell him once they get home.

"Excuse me." The woman who just walked in stares at the cl.u.s.ter of women, at Bettie, Madeline, Connie, Yvonne, and Ava. "My name is Frances Latham and I'm looking for the sc.r.a.pbooking meeting. Am I late?"

Bettie checks her watch and gives it a tap, grateful for the interruption. "You're right on time."

Chapter 10.

"Sc.r.a.pbooking is part preservation, part visualization," Bettie begins. She's standing in front of a round table where Connie, Yvonne, Ava, and Frances have gathered. Max is helping Madeline straighten up in the kitchen. Connie told her she could do it but Madeline shooed her out, wanting some alone time with Max. Connie knows she misses her granddaughter and that this young boy is like a balm, helping to ease Madeline's longing.

Connie fidgets in her chair, wishes she could be in the kitchen as well. It had just sort of happened, her sitting here. They were all standing awkwardly in the foyer after Isabel had run out, a little stunned and unsure of what to do, and Bettie had been quick to herd them into the sitting room and plonk them into chairs.

"People sc.r.a.pbook for all sorts of reasons," Bettie continues. "And there are all sorts of ways to do it." In one hand she holds up a thick alb.u.m with a plastic protective cover, in the other a smaller handmade alb.u.m held together with two round binder rings and all sorts of decorative fabric, ribbon and paper sticking out of it. On the table other sample alb.u.ms are spread out in front of them in all shapes and sizes.

Frances Latham raises her hand. Connie sees her around town every now and then, knows that she's a mom who's always rus.h.i.+ng around with her kids, the kind of person who partic.i.p.ates in every Avalon fund-raiser or charitable event. She's come into the tea salon a few times, usually as part of one of these special events, never on her own. Connie knows there are lots of women like Frances, women who find it hard to make time for themselves because they're always doing things for others. She makes a note to have special ten-percent-off coupons that they can hand out to Society members the next time they come in for tea, maybe with a special surprise treat on their first visit, a small pot of jam tied with a ribbon or a cl.u.s.ter of fresh lavender.

"My problem is I don't know where to start," Frances admits. "I have so many pictures, it's overwhelming to think about organizing everything. And our pictures are scattered everywhere-some are still in the envelope from when I picked them up from the store! If I have to go back and start doc.u.menting everything after the first year my kids were born, they'll be in college before I'm done."

There's laughter. Ava is sitting next to Frances and tells her, "I haven't even done my son's baby alb.u.m yet."

Frances sighs. "Tell me about it."

"I don't have any kids," Yvonne says. "But it seems a bit indulgent to sc.r.a.pbook about myself."

Connie wasn't planning on saying anything when the words slip out of her mouth. "I don't have anything to sc.r.a.pbook about," she says. "I hardly have any pictures from my past."

The women look at her questioningly and Connie wishes she hadn't said anything. But Bettie continues, unconcerned.

"Ladies, sc.r.a.pbooks are about memories. It goes beyond the photographs." She holds up a funky alb.u.m made of old menu covers. "This one is from Tilde Smart, the lady over there. A few years ago she put together an alb.u.m filled with menus, napkins, and other memorabilia from restaurants she used to eat at with her college roommate, Sweeney. She has pictures in here, too, but a lot of it is writing, like a journal. Tilde wrote down every memory, every silly joke, any detail she could remember. Sweeney had been diagnosed with cancer, you see, and Tilde wanted to give her something she could take to the hospital when she had treatments. Something to make her smile, take her mind off of what was happening.

"When Sweeney pa.s.sed, the family sent this back to Tilde. And look." Bettie opens to a random page and shows it to the women. Connie sees two different sets of handwriting. "Sweeney had written her own memories in there, too, next to Tilde's, while she was going through chemotherapy. You can only imagine how Tilde felt when she first opened this and saw Sweeney's handwriting, saw the funny doodles in the margins, a poem Sweeney wrote at the end. Tilde treasures this alb.u.m. It's part of who she is."

Bettie shows them several more alb.u.ms. "You get to choose what goes inside," she tells them. "It doesn't have to be in chronological order, it doesn't have to be anything other than what you want it to be. And if you don't have pictures, find other images or words or colors that evoke the memory. Connie, what's one of your favorite memories?"

Connie squirms, again in the hot seat. "I don't have one," she says.

"Not one?" It's clear Bettie doesn't believe her. "A birthday? Christmas? Camp? Anything!"

Images flicker through Connie's mind, but not one of them is worth sharing. "Sorry, I've got nothing."

"Well, what about now? What's something you enjoy doing now?"

"The tea salon," Connie says without hesitation. "And Serena. My goat."

"Ah-ha!" Bettie snaps her fingers. "There you go! An alb.u.m filled with pictures of you and Madeline, of the tea salon, of some of your favorite menu items. You could even include tea bags, or recipes, or pressed flowers or leaves from the backyard. The salon's business card. Pictures of customers. You could even take the loose tea and st.i.tch in a clear plastic pocket right into your alb.u.m! And Selena . . ."

"Serena . . ."

". . . I'm sure you can find lots of goat information on the Internet. You could jot specifics about her breed, what she likes to eat, what she likes to play with, funny stories."

"I do that already in my journal."

"So you are already sc.r.a.pbooking!" Bettie looks around at the women, triumphant. "A sc.r.a.pbook is like a journal except you're adding a stronger visual element. In addition to the words, you're letting the colors of the page, the texture even, remind you of special moments with her. You could even photocopy a page from your journal and put it in the sc.r.a.pbook, or expand your journal to include more visual pieces. You don't have to sc.r.a.pbook in a special alb.u.m-your journal will do just fine."

Connie hadn't thought of that. Her journal is filled with sketches, and occasionally she'll tuck in a small piece of memorabilia, like a movie ticket stub or inspiring word torn out of a magazine. She looks at the fat makes.h.i.+ft alb.u.m on the table and pictures her journal transformed, with small fabric loops stapled to the page to serve as tabs or dividers.

"There are so many ways to do this, you are only limited by your imagination," Bettie continues. "Choose an event, like a birthday party or a graduation, or even a girls' night out. Sc.r.a.p about that. Or think about something you want in your future, a new job or new house, and sc.r.a.p about that. You could sc.r.a.p a gift for someone special, like Tilde did."

"If it's so simple," Connie asks, "then why all the fuss? Why do we need all this?" She waves at the tables next to them, piled with paper and punches and glittery embellishments.

"The stuff of inspiration, dear," Bettie says. "You can't bake a pie without some basic ingredients, now can you? And the more you have, the more options available to you. Who knows what you'll come up with? Plus, and you might want to sit down for this, Connie . . ."

Connie wrinkles her nose. "I am sitting down."

"It's fun." Bettie grins at them. "FUN!"

Yvonne is nodding. "Fun," she repeats, and Connie can tell Yvonne is already hooked.

"I could use some fun," Frances mutters.

"I don't even know what fun is anymore," Ava says quietly. "But I'll take whatever I can get."

Fun? Really? Connie had never thought of sc.r.a.pbooking as fun. It always seemed to be more of a weird obsession or retailing ploy, but now as she looks around the room, she notices that everyone is relaxed, laughing, enjoying themselves.

"There's no way to get it wrong, and so many ways to get it right," Bettie tells them. "Even if you tie or bind all of your birthday cards together, for example, and tuck in a few pictures or words here and there. Voila, you're done! You're no longer saving a bunch of cards, but you've taken a moment to imbue it with thoughts and memories. I promise you that in ten years, you'll be glad you did."

Bettie pa.s.ses out several cellophane packets around the table. "Here's the September sc.r.a.p pack-lots of fun goodies inside! You don't have to use my kits, of course, but I strongly advise that you choose archival safe materials whenever possible, and that includes any glue or tape. You want your hard work to withstand the test of time, and acid is most certainly not your friend."

Connie picks up a packet. Inside are several sheets of sc.r.a.pbooking paper and card stock, a small clear envelope of b.u.t.tons, brads, and eyelets. Five different kinds of ribbon and yarn are wrapped around a cardboard tag. There are also small paper frames, embossed tags, clear vellum squares with different words and sayings. A full page of alphabet stickers in a typewriter font and a half sheet of decorative border rub-ons.

"Can I get two?" Yvonne asks. "One for me and one for Isabel?"

"The best value is if you have a members.h.i.+p to the Society," Bettie says. "Only fifteen dollars a month. You get all Society news, discounts on products and cla.s.ses, the monthly sc.r.a.p pack which is otherwise $9.99, and unlimited support by me. 'Turning moments into memories,' that's the Bettie Shelton motto and the heart of the Avalon Ladies Sc.r.a.pbooking Society!"

"I'll join," Frances instantly says. "Where do I sign?"

"Can we trade for some bottle-cap products?" Ava asks Bettie a bit anxiously.

Bettie is nodding as the women bring out their wallets and eagerly open their packets, oohing and aahing over the contents inside. Connie has to admit that it looks even more appealing once everything is spread out, feels herself drawn to a sheet of black-and-white-checkered paper. Her eyes drift to a sparkly black pom-pom, then a sheet of velvety green card stock. The blue rickrack. Suddenly her mind is swimming with ideas, the items rearranging themselves on a journal page. Serena, she thinks. It would be nice to do a sc.r.a.pbook of Serena.

"Connie?" Bettie has an eyebrow raised, nodding to the unopened pack sitting in front of her. "You and Madeline each get a kit for free, plus a starter alb.u.m. Remember?" She slides the pack closer to Connie until it practically falls into her lap. "You can choose your alb.u.m now. They're right over there." She points to a sales table filled with merchandise in the corner of the room.

Connie looks to the sales table, Bettie's voice fading into the background. Alb.u.ms of different shapes and sizes are propped up across the table, and Connie watches as a couple of women linger and browse there, picking up item after item.

It wouldn't kill her to take a look. That pink frilly alb.u.m? No way. On second glance, it's a baby alb.u.m anyway. There's a puffy alb.u.m with lemons and peaches stamped on the front, and others with polka dots and stripes, rainbows, solid leather or picture windows. Pa.s.s, pa.s.s, pa.s.s, pa.s.s. Connie's eyes skim the table, bored, and then she sees it.

A fat square black alb.u.m with what looks like black lace and graffiti on the cover. Silver fabric tags poke out of the pages, and the entire alb.u.m is held together with metal binder rings and tied with a stretchy silvery cord. It seems so out of place among the colorful, ornate alb.u.ms on the table, the black sheep, a misfit.

Perfect.

As Connie rises from her seat, one of the women standing by the table reaches for the alb.u.m.

"Look at this!" she exclaims. "My niece would love it. What's this called-urban grunge?"

"I don't care for it," her friend informs her. "It perpetuates bad behavior, I think."

"Oh, you're just being a fuddy-duddy. It's a new generation, Eleanor."

Connie hurries over as the woman picks it up. "Hi, sorry, I'd like to get that if you don't want it." She resists the urge to reach out and pluck the alb.u.m from the woman's hands.

The woman gives her a smile. "Oh, I'm sorry, but I'm getting it for my niece's birthday. Maybe ask Bettie if she has any more?"

"No more," comes a prompt reply from the beginner's table. "Now let's talk about layering!"

"This one's nice," Eleanor says, thrusting a garish lime-green fabric alb.u.m decorated with paper flowers into Connie's hands. "Green is going to be big this fall."

"I did hear that green is the new black," her friend agrees.

Ugh. "Thanks, but I think I'll keep looking." Connie puts the alb.u.m back on the table and casts another look around. There's nothing else that holds her interest, not even close. Connie tries to hide her disappointment as she veers away from the beginner's table and makes her way back to the kitchen.

"How's it going?" Madeline asks, handing Max a wooden spoon. It looks like she's put him to work, stirring yogurt and letting him add granola and dried fruit. She gives Connie a wink as she nods toward Max. "He's cooking, aren't you, Max?"

"Yes!"

"Nice," Connie says. She pulls out a chair and flops down. "So when is this sc.r.a.pbooking meeting going to be over?"

Madeline glances at the clock. "Another hour. You're not having fun?"

Connie tries to shrug. "It's not my thing." Despondent, she drums her fingers on the wooden table.

"That's too bad," Madeline says. There's a wistful look in her eye. "I have to say, though, that I'm inspired. I've decided that I am definitely going to chronicle Steven's life for Maggie. I'm going to do everything I can to share as much as possible about her grandfather. And grandmother. I'll have to ask Ben to help me fill in the details. Do you think he'll mind?"

Connie thinks back to Ben's last visit, over Easter. How they'd hidden eggs in the backyard for Maggie to find, even though she was too young to know what was going on. How she squealed with delight whenever Madeline produced a colorful egg from underneath a bush or from behind a tree. Connie remembers watching Ben's face, the mix of emotions, of grat.i.tude, of love. The entire time he and his wife, Karen, were here was spent in the kitchen, talking with Madeline as she cooked.

"I don't think he'll mind," Connie tells her. "In fact, I think he'd really like it."

"Oh, I hope so," Madeline says. She gives Connie a sheepish look. "I don't want to overstep my bounds."

Connie runs a finger along the smooth grain of the wood. "You won't," she says. "I think finding ways to show someone you love them is pretty cool. It's the one thing I wished I had more of when I was growing up. Someone to show they cared."

Wordlessly, Madeline comes around the table to give Connie a hug. Connie hugs her back, feels her disappointment about the alb.u.m slipping away. She's received more hugs from Madeline in the past year than she's had in the past ten. She'll never tire of it.