The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society Part 27

Max has joined them in the kitchen again and Yvonne is almost tempted to offer them a ride-to school, the store, wherever-but she knows it could hurt her friends.h.i.+p with Isabel. She also knows that it's a small Band-Aid to a much bigger problem, and that sometimes it's best to leave well enough alone. She gives Max a high five and then says goodbye.

Connie enters through the backdoor of the tea salon and goes to the sink to wash her hands.

"Well, it's done," she says, her voice breaking. "It's like she was never here."

Madeline looks to the backyard. The fence, hay bales, and doghouse are gone.

Connie comes to the table and drops into a chair. Pictures of the Dohertys' farm were sent over by Sergeant Overby, pictures that Serena's owner, Rayna, had submitted to the police station and the Avalon Gazette. Madeline and Connie have looked through the pictures, stared at the deep tread marks in dug-up earth, a broken fence, a trough split in two. It's a wonder n.o.body was hurt, and no wonder that the owner of the farm, Rayna, is upset-Connie would be, too.

"I feel like I should do something," Connie says. "I don't know what we're waiting for. Maybe I should say I did it so this whole thing can end."

"Absolutely not. You didn't do anything wrong, Connie," Madeline reminds her firmly as she lines the bottom of a pie dish with pastry dough. "Let the police finish their investigation. That's their business-we have plenty of things to do ourselves."

"I wish I'd taken more pictures," Connie says. She closes her eyes, which are swollen from having cried through most of the night. "I thought I'd have more time. I didn't think it would happen so fast. I didn't think it would happen like this."

"Oh, Connie." Madeline goes over to give her a hug, but Connie doesn't feel comforted.

She knows that most of the town of Avalon thinks she did it. It feels that way, at least. Even their regular customers look at her questioningly, their eyes darting away when she turns to face them. Business seems to have slowed to a trickle, people avoiding the tea salon until things can get sorted out.

But what if it doesn't? Connie doesn't want what's happened to affect Madeline, affect the tea salon. Connie called Hannah yesterday, asked her to fill in here and there over the next few days. She's going to show Hannah where everything is-where things are stored, the lists of food staples and recipes, the computer files and ledger. She'll mention the projects that need attention, like getting the fireplace cleaned and having the thermostats in the ovens checked. She doesn't want to make Madeline or Hannah suspicious, but it feels better to know that someone else can step in and take over, just in case.

"It'll be fine," Madeline says, trying to sound brave for both of them, but Connie can hear the worry in Madeline's voice. She closes her eyes but still the tears find a way of leaking out and spilling down her cheeks.

Isabel stares at the stack of boxes lined up in long, tall rows in her garage, almost touching the ceiling. The garage is so full she can't even get her car in. It's daunting, and even Yvonne seems intimidated as she lets out a low whistle.

"This is all from your attic?" she asks, amazed.

Isabel looks at the side of one box scrawled in Bill's messy handwriting. Manuals, she reads. She moves it to the side, creating a small pile for the new owners. Somewhere there are blueprints of the house, something the previous owner had left for them. Bill had been delighted and would pore over each oversized page, taking in every detail, nodding in agreement at the placement of electrical outlets and wiring, complaining about the side door being cut too close to the water heater. Isabel would tease him, say that he was channeling his inner engineer.

"I cleared out the closets and cabinets in the house, too," she says now. The prospective buyers are coming by next week to take another look at the house now that the porch is done. She wants them to be able to envision their own things in the house, wants to get rid of all the clutter and who knows what she's let acc.u.mulate over the years.

If things go as planned, she could be out of the house by the end of November. It's hard to believe that she might be ringing in the new year someplace other than here.

Yvonne opens one box and counts six identical flashlights, still in their packaging.

"That was Bill," Isabel tells her. "He liked to buy things in bulk. Said it was a better deal."

"Yeah, but only if you use them," Yvonne says. She looks around again and shakes her head. "You should have a garage sale. Don't even bother to unpack everything, just charge fifty dollars per box, sight unseen."

It's not a bad idea-after all, Isabel's made it all this time without ever looking in these boxes-but she can't.

"No," she says. "I told Lillian, Bill's mother, that I'd give her anything of Bill's she might like to keep. I always meant to go through everything, but I never did. I didn't want to see any of this, you know? But I owe this to her. She was always so good to me, and she was supportive of our marriage, even when things fell apart."

"She sounds nice," Yvonne says.

"She is." Isabel tugs on a piece of packing tape, wonders how Lillian's doing. They exchange the occasional card or phone call, but they have less and less to say. She knows that Lillian is still racked with sorrow. "But Bill was her only son and when he died so unexpectedly, she lost it. It was only a few months after Bill's father had died, so it was a rough time for her. She was like a completely different person. You should have seen her tearing into Ava at the hospital." Isabel shakes her head at the memory.

Yvonne clears her throat. "Speaking of Ava . . ."

Isabel doesn't like the tone of Yvonne's voice. It's one part caution, one part determination. Isabel can feel a sales pitch coming from a mile away, and she knows one is about to come from Yvonne.

"We weren't speaking of Ava," she says curtly. "We were speaking of Bill's mother, Lillian, and why I can't dump this stuff without seeing if there's something here that she'll want." Isabel flips through the manuals in the box and finds other doc.u.ments stuffed in there as well-old tax returns, insurance papers. It's going to take her forever to go through everything.

Yvonne isn't deterred. "I'm saying that maybe you should give Ava a break. I get how awkward and weird this whole thing is, but I think she's reaching out to you, Isabel. Maybe just find out why, you know?" Yvonne gives her friend a hopeful look. "Maybe not be so quick to shut her down?"

Isabel closes up the box and reaches for another. "I'm glad the two of you had time to bond during your ten-minute incarceration," she retorts, "but it's not that simple."

"Maybe not before," Yvonne says. "But now I think that's exactly what this is. Things have changed, Isabel, and something is going on with her. I get the feeling that she doesn't have anyone else. Anyone other than . . . you."

Isabel snorts. "Just because she doesn't have any friends is not a good reason to put me down as her emergency contact. I still can't believe she did that."

Yvonne looks at her. "I can."

"Well, it's bizarre and completely inappropriate." Isabel rips the tape off a sealed box and finds a stack of sweaters she stored years ago, still wrapped in a plastic dry cleaner's bag. Isabel tears the bag and pulls out a yellow argyle sweater with green and blue diamonds. It smells of mothb.a.l.l.s and dust but is in otherwise good condition, as if she'd put it away for the summer. "It's like she's doing this on purpose, dragging me into the drama of her life to show me that she's still here, that she has Max."

"I don't think she's doing this on purpose," Yvonne says. "And she's not this terrible person. I don't know what was going on in your marriage when she got involved with Bill, and I know it came from out of the blue . . ."

Isabel pulls out a navy cable-knit sweater with an alligator motif-one of Bill's old favorites. "When I look back, I can see that he was unhappy. But he didn't say anything to me at the time, so I thought that was normal. Highs and lows in a marriage. We still got along and we weren't fighting-in fact, I don't think we ever fought, not even in the end. And it wasn't like I hated him or he hated me. We were . . . existing." Isabel runs her hand along the neckline of the sweater, remembering how Bill would complain that it was too tight but wear it anyway. It's not unlike her marriage. It was something that didn't quite fit but Bill wore it dutifully, at least until Ava came along. "I guess that wasn't much of a marriage, huh?"

"I don't know," Yvonne admits. "I never knew Bill, and I don't know how you were together. But I know there are all sorts of marriages out there, just like I know there are all sorts of families out there. There's no 'one size fits all.' I think what matters most is that there's love and happiness, you know?"

If it were anyone else, Yvonne's optimism would grate on Isabel. But instead it makes Isabel think. Even though Yvonne is being a loyal friend to Isabel, it's clear she doesn't dislike Ava, either. Yvonne is cheerful despite what has happened with Hugh and his family, doesn't seem to be stuck in the past like Isabel. Yvonne has found a way to be happy.

Maybe Isabel should, too.

She lets out a deep breath. She's never done this before, but she's also never had a friend like Yvonne before. "So," she finally says. "What do you think I should do?"

Yvonne doesn't answer right away. She's halfheartedly rummaging through a small box and pulls out a single bra.s.s cufflink. It's tarnished but Isabel can see that it's engraved with Bill's initials-WSK. William Samuel Kidd. Bill's parents gave them to him when he graduated from college, and he wore them religiously until French cuffs went out of style. Isabel wonders where the other one is, if he lost it or took it with him when he moved out.

Yvonne studies the cufflink, then gently puts it to the side. "You know what I think, Isabel. It's the same thing you've been thinking about for a while, too."

Isabel stares at her in disbelief. "I finally ask you for advice and you lob it back into my court. Unbelievable." She drops the sweater into the box, frustrated.

"You don't need my advice, Isabel. You need someone to say it's okay to do what you want to do."

Isabel gives one of the boxes a kick, discouraged, and then leans heavily against the wall. "And what's that?"

Yvonne comes and stands next to her, her hands in her pockets. "To reach out to Ava and Max." She gives a sad smile. "I know what it's like to feel bad about loving someone. It's the worst kind of feeling, Isabel, because in your heart you know one thing, but everyone else is telling you something different. And then you betray yourself by listening to them instead of yourself."

Isabel doesn't say anything.

"I almost got married once," Yvonne says. "Sam was my best friend. We grew up together. But his family worked the bogs while my family owned them-your typical mismatch from different sides of the tracks. It didn't matter to me, of course-I was in love. And I believe Sam loved me, too. But in the end my father offered him money-a lot of it-if he would break it off and leave the Cape. Sam did, on the morning of our wedding. I never saw him again. He never even said goodbye. Last I heard he got married about five years ago.

"When I look back now, I see that it wasn't just about me and Sam. It was about his family, too. I know my father and I'm sure he gave Sam and his family some kind of ultimatum, a threat."

"G.o.d," Isabel says. "That sucks. I'm sorry, Yvonne."

Yvonne shrugs. "Sam made a choice that allowed his parents and sisters to live a different life. I was willing to walk away from the money, but for Sam and his family, money equaled freedom. So I guess I'm saying that things are not always as they seem, Isabel. What happens has consequences that sometimes exceed what we can see. And I think that's what you have with Ava and Max."

"So what are we supposed to do, have sleepovers?" Isabel complains. "Do each other's hair? Reminisce about Bill?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe she wants money. Or maybe she wants me to absolve her of what happened. Well, I won't." Isabel crosses her arms.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do," Yvonne tells her. "I just know that you're not as closed off about Ava and Max as you claim to be. And because of that, and because I'm your friend, I want you to know that there's nothing wrong with striking up a conversation and seeing where it goes, especially since you might be moving soon. This may be your last chance."

Isabel can't picture how this will go. Awkward, that's for sure. More tears, mostly likely on Ava's part. Weird politeness, possibly the occasional curt word from Isabel if she can't resist. But Max?

Isabel hasn't told Yvonne everything about the call from Max's school, about how she answered the phone, confused at first, and was then struck with terror that something awful had happened to Ava. Why hadn't she picked up her son? Had she deserted him? Had she been in an accident? It had taken Isabel all of five seconds to leave the office and rush to the school, uncertain of what to do next. Who to call? Where to take him? Did they have any other family, any other friends? She didn't know where they lived. She didn't know anything more than Ava's last name.

But when she saw Max sitting there, alone in an empty cla.s.sroom with a wooden puzzle, all her questions and fears evaporated. He had wet his pants. The teachers hadn't noticed, halfheartedly wiping down toys and complaining about this parent or that parent. All Isabel could think about was getting him out of there. Getting him out of there and then figuring out what to do.

Since the teachers hadn't bothered to change him, Isabel didn't bother to argue. She showed her ID, found the spare set of clothes he had at the school, borrowed a car seat, and got them out of there.

"I'm Isabel," she'd told him when he looked at her with his big blue eyes. "Your, um, mother asked me to come and get you."

"Mommy," he said at the mention of Ava, and Isabel saw his lower lip tremble.

"Yep," she said in what she hoped was a light and airy tone. "And she's so proud you waited patiently. Maybe we'll get an ice cream cone to celebrate, okay?"

He had nodded and seemed to relax. Then a barrage of thoughts filled her mind: Did he have any food allergies? Had Ava taught him about stranger danger? Was there another preschool she could send him to? Did he even know his home phone number? And then the more immediate question at hand.

Where the heck was Ava?

Isabel called Yvonne but there had been no answer. She drove by Yvonne's house, pointing out points of interest to Max along the way, and finally bit the bullet and called Hugh. She'd had to hold the phone away from her ear, he was yelling so loud. It had been easy from there, another five minutes to the police station, and then the surprise of seeing both Yvonne and Ava sitting on the bench, a look of guilt and pride on their faces, each for their own reasons.

But it was more than just surprise-it was relief. Max reached for Ava and for a second, all three were in an unexpected embrace as Max went from one set of arms to another. Isabel doesn't know if Ava felt it, but it doesn't matter-she knew that pang in her gut, felt something ring true. She knew in that moment that if they needed her help, Isabel was going to give it.

After she had dropped them off at their apartment, a dingy hole in a not-so-nice area of Barrett, things got complicated again. A war of emotions, of right and wrong, of fair and unfair. Isabel felt trapped, her clarity gone.

"I don't know what to do," Isabel finally says. "And I'm mad at Bill for leaving me to deal with all this. This is his mess, not mine."

"Don't look at it as messy," Yvonne advises. "Look at it as life. Not Bill's life, not Ava's life, not even Max's life. It's your life, Isabel. It's all up to you to decide what you want."

Isabel gives a small nod, wis.h.i.+ng it wasn't up to her. "I think I need a drink," she says. "Let's take a break."

They open the side door, walk into the house, and gasp. There, sitting at Isabel's kitchen table, is Bettie. She's dressed but her hair is in curlers even though it's the middle of the afternoon. She's upended Isabel's trash onto the table and is picking through it carefully.

"Look at what I found!" she tells the girls, holding up an old bottle of pale pink nail polish. "It's practically full!"

"Bettie, how did you get in here?" Isabel demands, and then she sees her Hide-a-Key sitting on the table next to an empty tissue box.

Yvonne gives Isabel a pointed look as she begins to sweep the trash back into the bag. "Let's clean up a bit," Yvonne starts to say but Bettie swats her away, her face indignant. She doesn't seem to recognize Yvonne at all.

Then Bettie turns to Isabel, her face flushed with pleasure. She holds up a plastic tube. "And look at this: a rejuvenating clay mask, all natural! I could use some rejuvenating, that's for sure." She pops off the top and begins to squeeze the tube but nothing comes out.

"Bettie, that's old," Isabel tells her, taking it from her grasp. "I was cleaning out the cabinets in the bathroom." She motions for Yvonne to start cleaning up again. "I'll get you a new one, okay?"

"Get us a new one, you mean," Bettie says, grabbing bits of trash and paper as Yvonne tries to quickly shovel it back into the bag. "We have to do it together, like the old days. Right?"

"Um, right." Isabel gives Yvonne another bewildered look. "So Bettie, what are you doing here?"

"I'm baking," Bettie says matter-of-factly. "Wanted to bring some goodies to the sc.r.a.pbook meeting on Thursday. I don't like last-minute baking-too stressful." One of her curlers is slipping out of her hair and Isabel notices that there's dirt underneath Bettie's nails.

Isabel glances at her oven. The dial is pointing to OFF, but she goes and checks it anyway, almost expecting to find a pan of uncooked batter sitting inside. But when she opens the door, the oven is empty.

Yvonne has removed all the trash and taken it to the garage. Isabel pulls out a chair and sits next to Bettie who's humming as she smooths a crumpled advertis.e.m.e.nt for a credit card.

The door accidentally slams when Yvonne comes back into the kitchen, and Bettie jumps. Her eyes grow wide and then she looks around, confused. "Am I home?" she asks.

Isabel feels her breath catch. "This is my home," she says. "You live next door."

Bettie looks at her, suddenly annoyed. "Well, I know that, Isabel!" She stands up, almost knocking her chair over. "Goodbye."

"Bettie, wait," Isabel begins, but Bettie is gone.

"We need to call someone," Yvonne says, frowning. "Her doctor, maybe? Or maybe we should take her to a hospital and see if we can get some answers."

Isabel nods, already reaching for the phone book. "I'll call Dr. Richard," she says. "He'll know what to do." She starts dialing and looks at Yvonne, her heart pounding. "What's happening?"

Yvonne shakes her head. "I don't know. I've never seen her like this before."

"I have," Isabel says, struck by the realization that while she knew something was wrong, she's waited too long. She presses the phone against her ear. "I should have done something, but I didn't. I thought that maybe she was being difficult, or absent-minded . . ."

Yvonne walks to the kitchen sink. "I have to wash my hands," she begins, and then she looks out the window, a horrified look on her face. "Isabel, call 911!"

Isabel rushes to the window. Gray and white smoke is billowing from windows in the back of Bettie's house. Orange and yellow flames lick the curtains, overtaking the back rooms. Isabel thrusts the phone at Yvonne and runs out the back door.

Isabel cuts across her backyard into Bettie's. Bettie's back patio is cluttered with debris and random household and garden items. Isabel touches the handle of the sliding door, finds it cool to the touch.

And locked.

"Bettie!" she calls, pounding on the gla.s.s. Flames seem to be coming from the kitchen and the back of the house, but smoke is everywhere. Isabel can see the piles of magazines in the hallway, already on fire.

Somebody else must have seen the fire because Isabel can hear the sirens but they're not close enough. With all the junk strewn throughout the house it won't take long before everything is ablaze. And Bettie. Where is she?

Then Isabel sees her through the window, in the front living room, her face already blackened by the smoke, walking toward one wall, then the next one, and round again. "Bettie!" Isabel cries. She picks up a heavy garden gnome and hurls it through the patio door.

The sound of breaking gla.s.s is deafening. Isabel scrambles through the gla.s.s and hears small explosions, snaps, and crackles. There's a layer of smoke wafting toward the front of the house. There's a whoosh and Isabel suddenly finds herself surrounded by flames.

"Bettie!" she calls, pulling up her s.h.i.+rt to cover her nose. She runs forward, tripping, kicking things out of her way.

Bettie turns in the direction of Isabel's voice. "Isabel!" she cries. "I can't find my way out!"

Isabel feels an unbearable heat on her back-there's a wall of flames blocking the patio exit. Isabel looks around, coughing, disoriented until she sees the front door. She grabs Bettie and pulls her forward, stumbling over piles of magazines and mail, miscellaneous sc.r.a.pbooking items, trash. She manages to open the door and pull them through.

Yvonne is on the sidewalk and sprints forward toward them, as do several other neighbors. The fire trucks have arrived, along with an ambulance. Firemen race past them dragging long fire hoses. Two EMTs escort Bettie and Isabel to the back of the ambulance where they're immediately given oxygen and inspected for burns and smoke inhalation.