The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society Part 6

An hour later, Isabel's torn up her entire front porch without a clue as to what to do next. She steps back to survey her work, a bit appalled at the mess she's made, then tosses the crowbar onto the gra.s.s in defeat. It started with that single rotten board on the steps and then Isabel had gotten carried away, enjoying the satisfaction that comes with tearing something up, the creak of old nails reluctantly being pulled from the wooden framing, the boards cracking and breaking, brittle. At first she thought fresh planks of wood were in order, and she liked the idea of everything being new, not only the one busted spot. Except now she sees she's gotten in over her head and it's going to cost her double to find someone to finish the job.

A truck pulls up in front of her house. What now? Isabel watches as the woman she met at the sc.r.a.pbooking meeting climbs out and heads up her walk, waving as she does so. Evelyn something. No, Yvonne. The in-house technician/plumber.

Caught off guard, Isabel waves back.

"Fixing your porch?" Yvonne calls as she approaches.

"Destroying it is more like it," Isabel says with a grimace. It all seems so hopeless. She wishes she could undo what she's done, but it's too late. "It seemed like a good idea when I started."

Yvonne grins. "I wanted to stop by to tell you that a lot of these old houses are having plumbing issues," she says. "You might want to have it checked out. Wouldn't want it to slow up the sale of your house." She nods at the FOR SALE sign.

"Well, it's not selling yet. Besides, I figure the new owners can take care of it."

"Yeah, I get it. I thought I should mention it, though-Bettie's was the fourth house this month. I'm going to tell all the other neighbors, too. All things being equal, if you've already addressed the problem it might make your house stand out from the others."

Isabel considers this, knows Yvonne has a point. "How much would this cost me?"

"There are plenty of plumbers who can take a look and give you an estimate, but you could probably take a look yourself and do your own a.s.sessment. You seem pretty handy."

"Me?" Isabel scoffs. "I'm the least handy person I know."

Yvonne peers up at the porch. "Could've fooled me. I see lots of remodels-you did a good job there. Framing's still intact." She looks at the boards on the lawn. "And you still have some pretty good boards there."

"Yeah, I figured that out a bit too late. Story of my life."

Yvonne raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything.

"And," Isabel says abruptly, leaning forward, "I'm sorry, but I have to ask. How is it that a plumber has perfectly plucked eyebrows? I mean, is that a job requirement?" Isabel knows she's being blunt but she doesn't care. How do some women make looking good seem so easy?

Instead of being offended, Yvonne laughs. "Old habits die hard," she says. "I think my mother put a pair of tweezers in my hand when I was ten. I was trained to pluck away unsightly body hair the second I got it."

Isabel flops down on the steps. "I bet you work out, too?"

"My job is enough of a workout," Yvonne says. "But I swim at the Avalon pool whenever I get a chance. I'm thirty-two and it definitely takes more work to stay in shape."

"I hate exercising," Isabel says. Suddenly she feels old and frumpy.

"You probably burned a decent amount of calories pulling up those boards," Yvonne points out. "Beats the rowing machine, you know?"

"Yeah." Despite feeling sorry for herself, Isabel gives a small smile. "Hey, maybe I should res.h.i.+ngle my roof while I'm at it."

"Why not? You could remodel your kitchen, too."

"Or install a drop ceiling in my laundry room."

"Retile the bathrooms."

"Insulate my attic."

"Get new window treatments."

At this Isabel makes a face and the two women burst out laughing. "I don't even know what a window treatment is," Isabel says. "Curtains and blinds?"

Yvonne nods. "Basically anything that goes in, on, or around a window. My mother lives for window treatments." She gives a slight roll of her eyes. "It's sad, really."

The women look at each other and burst out laughing again.

"Isabel!" The two women turn to see Bettie Shelton standing in the frame of her doorway. "I certainly hope you plan to clean up that mess today. It's unsightly and I wouldn't want the neighbors to think your house has fallen to disrepair."

Isabel's finally in a good mood and she's not about to let Bettie get the better of her. "Bettie, I'm afraid that's not going to happen," she calls back. She gives a cheerful wave, something she's never done before. "I'm beat. Maybe tomorrow. Or after the weekend. By Halloween for sure!"

Bettie purses her lips and retreats into her house.

Yvonne looks a bit guilty. "She's a sweet lady," she says as Bettie slams her door. "She means well."

"Oh, you don't know her like I do," Isabel says. "Did you forget that she commandeered my house Thursday night? Without my permission? And with your help, I might add?" There's an accusatory tone in her voice.

Yvonne frowns. "I know, I'm sorry. I had no idea. I thought you were friends."

"Yeah, well." Isabel walks over to the pile, gives one of the boards a kick. "I don't have a lot of friends."

The women are silent as they survey the pile of boards. Isabel's little demolition project has attracted a few neighbor kids.

"Hey lady, what are you going to do with all those boards?" A boy with a shock of red hair and a smattering of freckles leans forward on the handlebars of his bike. Jack or Jake, Isabel always forgets.

Isabel glances at him. "I haven't thought that far ahead. Why? You got any ideas?"

"We want to build a clubhouse," another kid tells her. "Over in Lucy Fitzpatrick's yard. She's got the biggest yard."

Isabel considers this. That would certainly solve her problem with the boards and Yvonne is nodding in approval of the idea.

"We could help if you like," Yvonne offers and there's a collective whoop from the kids.

We? Isabel shoots Yvonne an annoyed look but then thinks, what the heck. It's Sat.u.r.day and it's not like she has anything else going on.

"Fine," she says, then rolls her eyes when Yvonne does a high five with the freckly kid. "But you should probably ask your parents first. And Lucy Fitzpatrick."

"They'll say yes," he tells her over his shoulder as they quickly bike away. "We'll be right back!"

Yvonne's phone rings and she steps away to take the call. Isabel starts to sift through the boards, putting the ones in better condition in one pile, the mediocre ones in another. Maybe she'll put in that composite decking, something low maintenance that can be sprayed down with a hose.

A shadow falls over her and Isabel says, "Do you think they want these rotten ones, too? If they cut around the bad spots they might be able to salvage the-"

"Isabel?"

Isabel looks up expecting to see Yvonne but sees a young woman instead, looking at her tentatively. Isabel tilts her head to the side, unable to place her, then stiffens when she realizes who it is.

Ava. Ava Catalina, her husband's dental-a.s.sistant-turned-lover. The woman responsible for changing Isabel's life forever.

Isabel sucks in her breath. She feels frozen in place, unable to move. Yvonne is still on the phone, her back to them, unaware that they've been joined by an unwanted third party. Isabel straightens up and holds herself tall, is pleased to see she has a couple inches on Ava.

She wants to stare Ava down, but something's wrong. The Ava standing in front of her is different. Gone are the colorful sea greens and sky blues. Ava's wearing a faded skirt that may have been red at one time, but now it's a dull shade of pink, a dusty rose. She's wearing a white T-s.h.i.+rt and plain sandals on her feet. Her nails are no longer painted but short and plain. And her hair-Isabel remembers it used to be a thick and l.u.s.trous chocolate, s.h.i.+ny and past her shoulders. Now it's cut short pageboy style, cropped close to her face. It's still annoyingly flattering but this is not the Ava Isabel remembers.

Ava takes a small step forward, clutches a cheap denim purse slung across her body. "I know you probably don't want to talk to me. I didn't want to show up this way, but I didn't think you'd answer your phone if I called. I sent you a letter . . ."

Isabel finds her voice. "That letter's in the trash."

"Oh." Ava swallows. "Well, I wanted to talk. I thought we should talk."

Isabel shakes her head. "I have nothing to say to you." She glances over at Yvonne who is still talking on the phone but is now looking at them, curious.

Ava follows her gaze uncertainly. "If now isn't a good time . . ."

Isabel steps forward. Ava shrinks back, her eyes wide. She's scared, Isabel realizes. Of me.

"I think you should go," Isabel says tightly.

Ava's hands are trembling as she unzips her purse. She pulls out a piece of paper. "Here's my number if you want to call. I'm also in the book . . ."

"Get off my property!" Isabel shouts.

The paper flutters from Ava's fingers. She turns and flees down the walk, down the street to where a green Jeep is parked. The windows are down and Isabel sees a child's car seat, the top of a child's head. Ava is crying as she fumbles for the door handle. She manages to pull the driver's door open and get inside. She makes a hasty U-turn, narrowly missing an oncoming car that swerves out of the way.

Isabel bends down to pick up the piece of paper. MAX AND AVA, it reads. And a phone number. Isabel folds the paper and tears it in half. Then again, and again, and again.

"Wow." Yvonne has come up behind her. "You weren't kidding about the friend thing." She s.h.i.+elds her eyes from the sun as she stares at the Jeep disappearing from view.

Isabel turns to see the neighborhood bearing down on them. The kids are excited, chattering a mile a minute and arguing about who gets what. In a matter of minutes her front yard is cleared of the boards, a parade of parents and children heading over to Lucy Fitzpatrick's house where someone has set up a small lemonade stand, twenty-five cents a cup.

Yvonne grabs her toolbox as Isabel tosses the sc.r.a.ps of paper into the air, expecting a breeze to carry them away, but instead they flutter to the ground. One torn piece of paper lands right side up.

MAX, it says.

Connie wakes up with a start. There's a thin bead of sweat on her forehead and the room is hot, almost suffocating. She doesn't like to run the air conditioner at night, opting instead for the ceiling fan, but she'd forgotten to turn it on before she went to sleep.

The digital clock by her bed reads 2:00 a.m. Connie kicks off the covers and lays there for a second, trying to cool off, but it's impossible. She gets up and feels along the wall for the ceiling fan switch and flicks it on. She moves to the balcony and swings the doors open, hoping for a breeze, but the air is still. There's a rustle in the dark bushes below her.

"Serena?" she whispers. She's built a st.u.r.dier fence, one with a gate Serena can't open, but Connie wouldn't put it past her. She discovered quickly how much fun having a goat can be. Connie found an old green dog house in the shape of an igloo and cleaned it up, then put it in Serena's pen. Serena had seemed indifferent at first, but then Connie found her snoozing in it later that afternoon. It's since become one of her favorite things, and she'll hop on top with her little feet, queen of the mountain, and will call for Connie to come and play.

Now, Serena is oddly quiet and Connie wonders what kind of trouble she's gotten herself into. Connie whispers her name again and there's more thras.h.i.+ng below, but no goat. Connie hurries back to her room and opens the bedroom door.

In the hallway she b.u.mps into Madeline, who jumps in alarm. "Goodness," Madeline says, clutching her chest. A thin robe is tied over her nightgown. "I heard something outside so I thought I'd go check. I think your goat may be out again."

"I know," Connie says. She hopes Madeline won't ask her if she's talked to the vet or put a GOAT MISSING poster up at the feed store, because she hasn't.

"Dolores says Walter is a light sleeper," Madeline says. "Here's hoping he's not out taking a midnight stroll."

At the mention of the La.s.siters, Connie picks up her pace. She's anxious to get to Serena before Mr. La.s.siter does.

Madeline flicks on the light for the back porch and opens the back door. There's more thras.h.i.+ng and then the sound of someone muttering. A bleat-Serena's call-from the back of the yard, far away from where Connie and Madeline are standing. It's a bleat of warning, of alarm. Connie feels the hairs on her neck stand up.

She steps in front of Madeline and peers outside. "h.e.l.lo?" she calls. Madeline has edged backward toward the phone on the wall, her hand on the receiver, ready to dial 911. "h.e.l.lo?" Connie calls again.

The bushes give a s.h.i.+ver. Connie steps back warily, ready to run.

Bettie Shelton stumbles out of the bushes, small leaves strewn in her hair, dressed in her nightgown, dirty slippers on her feet.

"Darjeeling tea!" she snaps, then turns on her heel and disappears into the dark night.

Wally Miller, 62

Founder, Men in Ap.r.o.ns

"Okay, here's what we have: Mr. Jeffreys is putting in the shepherd's pie, Frank Arrington is doing the pickled tongue, Ronnie Stevens has his fried chicken, R.L. Yelverton has the fish muddle, Koji Takahas.h.i.+ is doing tai chazuke-did I say that right?-and Charlie Knox is putting in his squirrel Brunswick stew. Did I miss anything?" Wally Miller looks up from his notes and glances around the room.

R.L. raises his hand. "You forgot Winslow's dessert. He went down to visit his daughter in St. Louis but I'm sure he'd want to include it."

"Right!" Wally jots this down. "What was in it again?"

"Heavy cream with apple brandy-"

"-white raisins-"

"Don't forget the crystallized pineapple-"

"-and chopped nuts," Wally concludes. "Yes, I think that's it."

Jordan Adams raises his hand, looking abashed. He's a large man with a ruddy complexion, but the members of the group notice that the tips of his ears are tinged pink. He clears his throat. "I changed my mind. I'd like to include my jellied ham loaf, if that's all right."

The group claps him on the back, their mood appreciative but somber. Jordan Adams is one of the newest members of the group, his wife having pa.s.sed last year.

"That's great, Jordan. We'd love to have it." Wally gives him a kind smile. Jordan wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Is oyster stuffing considered seafood?" someone asks.

"I don't see why not," Wally says. "Would you like to add that, Gerald?"