The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society Part 8

Connie hurries to the window and sees that it is indeed Serena, munching on some gra.s.s. She feels a flood of relief. "Serena!"

She hurries outside, set on reprimanding the wayward goat, and finds herself on her knees instead, her arms wrapped around Serena's neck. Connie knows she's a sight but she doesn't care. After a few silent minutes-her clinging to Serena, Serena oblivious and eating gra.s.s as usual-Connie takes hold of Serena's rope collar and leads her back to her pen. Madeline and Bettie are standing in the doorway, watching.

"Well," she hears Bettie murmur. "Who would have thought it would be possible to love a goat? I've never heard of such a thing."

Madeline's voice is quiet, full of understanding. "I suppose that's what makes us human," she says. "We can love anything, even the impossible."

"These are lovely." Margot West, owner of Avalon Gifts 'N More, bends over Ava's portable display box. She picks up one of the sparkly vintage rhinestone rings rimmed by a silvery bottle cap and slips it onto her finger.

"I burnished the bra.s.s ring finding to a gunmetal tone," Ava explains, embarra.s.sed by the praise. The shops in Barrett had turned her away so this compliment comes as welcome relief. "That's new. Everything else is upcycled."

"Upcycled? Is that like recycled?"

"Recycled items make items of lesser value, but upcycled items repurpose things for equal or greater value." Ava points to a large rhinestone gracing the center of the ring, an orbit of small silver b.a.l.l.s encircling it. "That used to be part of a brooch that was cracked and missing smaller rhinestones. I found it at a garage sale. The silver ball chain had been cut too short at a jewelry store and was in a box of discards. And, of course, the bottle cap. It's an antique cap from Reisch Brewery, which used to be in Springfield, Illinois." It had been an unexpected find, and Ava still isn't quite sure what to make of it. It had been in the bag Colin had given her, but the brewery hadn't been around since 1966. It didn't make any sense that he would be serving beers almost half a century old. "Taken individually, the value isn't much, but putting it together significantly increases its use and overall value, plus becomes an entirely new creation."

Margot holds out her hand to admire the ring. "You could even wear it with evening wear!" The large rhinestone winks at them.

Ava beams. She loves when people get it, when they see exactly what she sees. "I designed it to be versatile. It could go with a little black dress or jeans and a T-s.h.i.+rt. It'll look wonderful either way."

"I agree. I may have to put this aside for myself." Margot peers down at the rest of Ava's items. "So you have three rings, ten bookmarks, and ten of those adorable hair clips." She looks at the price list. "Well, I think I'll take them all."

"All?" Ava can't believe it. "I mean, that's great. Thank you!"

"The packaging is wonderful, too," Margot notes. "Free Hearts." She taps the small cellophane packets with Ava's triptych heart logo hand-stamped across the top on creamy card stock, three hearts in a row. "Touching and sweet, very nicely done. I think I'll put the hair clips and bookmarks in a basket and maybe put the rings with the jewelry and body care items. Let's see how we do with that and go from there."

"Thank you," Ava says. "Um, terms are net thirty . . ."

Margot waves her hand. "You're here, I can pay you now. It'll save me the stamp. Just give me a moment." She disappears into a small room in back separated by a pink gingham curtain.

Ava is grateful for the moment alone, so no one has to see the huge smile on her face, her damp eyes. Her first real sale! It's not much but it's a start, and the woman is taking all of her inventory, which means Ava doesn't have to worry about knocking on any more doors until she has more. Which she'll start on tonight. In fact, she can't wait.

She hovers by the wooden toys, admires the train set in the window. It's a nice shop, filled with something for everyone. Maybe she'll bring Max here sometime and see if there's anything he'd like for his birthday. Ava checks the price tag on one of the toys and gives a start. Maybe not.

The door opens and an elderly woman tumbles in, pulling a luggage cart behind her.

"Mercy, it is hot today," she mutters, touching her brow. She sets her cart upright and then picks up one of the mosaic-tiled hand mirrors by the door and checks her silvery-blue hair. She sees Ava in the reflection, and tosses the mirror back into the box.

"Who are you?" the woman demands. She marches up to where Ava is standing and Ava doesn't know what to do. "Where's Margot?"

"She's, um, in the back," Ava stammers, taking a step back. "She'll be right out."

"Are you the new shopgirl?" The woman is squinting at her.

"No, I had some business with her. With Margot. The owner."

"I know who Margot is," the woman retorts. "I just don't know who you are." Then a look of recognition crosses her face. "Wait a minute. Didn't you used to work in Dr. Kidd's dental office?"

Ava feels the heat race to her cheeks, feels her heart pounding in her chest. She remembers most of their patients, but not this one, and at any rate she has done her best to avoid running into anybody who might remember her. She knows no one will want to hear her side of the story, and she knows it will never be right in the eyes of most people. Even Ava doesn't feel completely right with it but it is what it is, and she's trying to be okay with it, not just for her sake, but for Max's.

Margot emerges from the back room. "Here we are." She hands the check to Ava and grins at the woman. "Oh, Bettie! I have to show you what Ava brought in. So original!" She gestures for Bettie to follow her to the register.

Ava edges toward the door. "Well, I should be going," she says, folding the check and tucking it into her purse. She doesn't even bother to see if the amount is right, she just wants to get out of there. "Thank-"

"How clever!" she hears Bettie exclaim.

"And look! I have one on!" Margot sticks out her hand and shows off her ring.

"Of course you'd choose the one with the biggest rock," Bettie sniffs. "It's just as well. I like this rose one here, with the vines. What is that?"

"It's a vintage gold b.u.t.ton," Ava says. Despite wanting to leave she can't help adding, "It's resting on a champagne-pink bottle cap, which reflects onto the b.u.t.ton, giving the entire piece a rosy glow."

"Oooh." Bettie slips it on and gazes at her finger. "How much?"

"I haven't priced these yet," Margot tells her.

"Margot West, are you turning down a sale? What kind of businesswoman are you?"

Margot looks put out. "If you'll give me a minute, Bettie, I'll figure it out. Anyway, aren't you here to drop off those sc.r.a.p packs?"

Bettie nods. "The last of the summer soda-pop colors. I'll have the fall packs ready next week. It's more of a service to Society members than anything, mind you. I'm not always available when they want materials in between meetings."

"Well, I'll have to mark them up so I can make some kind of profit," Margot points out. "As a proper businesswoman, you understand."

The sarcasm isn't lost on Bettie, who glances at Ava still hovering by the door. "Where are you going?"

"I need to get back," Ava says, her mind a blank. "I have errands, and . . ."

"Amateurs," Bettie says to herself with a shake of the head. She waves to Ava's inventory on the counter. "You have a potential customer here. Me. You need to work on your sales pitch, present yourself as the artiste. Get my drift?"

Ava nods but doesn't move.

"So . . ." Bettie prompts. "Any day now. I'm not getting any younger standing here, that's for sure."

"Her bark is worse than her bite," Margot says to Ava, beckoning her. "Come on over and tell her what you told me."

Ava hesitates, then walks forward, her chin tilted up. "The ribbons and findings are new," she says, "but all the other items are upcycled or repurposed. The beads on the hair clips are vintage-I took them off a beaded purse that had a broken clasp and ripped lining. Everything's been thoroughly washed and, where necessary, treated with a clear coat to prevent any further rusting. All of these pieces are original, one of a kind, and should last a long time."

Both Margot and Bettie are nodding.

"I've been experimenting with stacking bottle caps, too," Ava continues, encouraged. "To create a more layered effect, like petals on a flower. Instead of a centerpiece like a rhinestone or antique b.u.t.ton I put a picture in the center and fill it with a clear resin. Then I'll add some pet.i.te gla.s.s beads and a word like 'love' or 'grat.i.tude.' If these sell, I'll bring some of those in, too. They're small tokens or charms that you can tuck into a birthday card or your purse."

Bettie is looking thoughtful and Margot gets a knowing look in her eye. "Uh-oh," she says to Ava.

"You know," Bettie says, straightening up, her voice suddenly full of tender endearment. "I think these would be perfect embellishments for a sc.r.a.pbook page. So original, so creative, and you could undercycle-"

"Upcycle-"

"-whatever you have in your sc.r.a.p box. Bits of glitter, a photo, and so on. Yes," Bettie says, nodding her head as if they were all in agreement. "That's perfect. You'll come to a meeting and do a demonstration, and of course you'll have an opportunity to sell your items, too. It's common practice to take a bit of a commission, a nominal courtesy fee if you will, but I'm happy to waive it in this one case. And if you think about it, it's perfect because we creative types need to stick together."

Ava hesitates. "The meetings are in Avalon?"

"Of course! It's the Avalon Ladies Sc.r.a.pbooking Society, after all. I'm the founder and president, Bettie Shelton." Bettie sticks out her hand as if they were just meeting and haven't been in conversation for the past ten minutes. "And you are?"

"Ava," Ava mumbles, not wanting to say more than she has to. If the meeting is in Avalon, Ava is out. She was nervous enough coming to Avalon Gifts 'N More after the disastrous attempt to talk to Isabel Kidd last week. It had shaken her to her core, the vehemence with which Isabel had responded to her, the anger. Ava was ready for the cold shoulder or the evil eye, but never did she think there would be a scene, an outburst.

In the years Ava had worked for Bill, Isabel had always treated her with polite distance. When Bill left Isabel, Ava quit her job and made a point of staying out of the way. And then when Bill died a couple of months later, it had been Isabel who made all the funeral arrangements since she was still Bill's legal wife. The only words that had pa.s.sed between them were Isabel's request that Ava not attend the memorial because Bill's mother had made it clear that she didn't want to see the woman she was holding responsible for Bill's death. The fact that she was carrying her grandchild seemed to make no difference.

Afterward, Isabel had sent Ava a letter. It was short but clear: a savings account had been set up for Max because that's what Bill would have done had he lived, but that was all Isabel was able to do. Ava was grateful, but now she knows it's not enough, and it has nothing to do with the money. But after Isabel had reacted with so much anger on Sat.u.r.day, Ava's not sure she can risk running into her again.

No one else. No one else.

"I'm sorry, but I have to go," Ava says. She shakes both of their hands. "Thank you, Margot. And it was very nice to meet you, Bettie." She turns and heads quickly to the door.

"You'll come to a meeting sometime, won't you?" Bettie calls after her. "Second Thursday of every month. We have refreshments and everything. And the ladies are wonderful, I'm sure you'll love them!"

Ava doesn't say anything, just quickly steps into the muggy August afternoon.

"Tell me you're going to shower before we go out." Isabel is sitting on the porch swing of Yvonne's house, her nose wrinkled. Isabel is wearing her usual ensemble, a white s.h.i.+rt with a skirt and lightweight cardigan, white sandals. She had gone online the night after she'd painted her walls, in search of a pair of shorts, when she saw row after row of summer whites on sale. Every imaginable piece of clothing, all available in white. It was like Garanimals for adults, a mix-and-match wardrobe that a child could put together. Or a thirty-eight-year-old woman who didn't want to spend an ounce of energy figuring out what to wear. As Isabel was pleased to discover, when you have a wardrobe of white, everything goes together. "Or are we taking separate cars? And sitting in separate restaurants?" Isabel fans her hand in front of her nose.

Yvonne grins as she looks down at her splattered T-s.h.i.+rt and chinos, her scuffed work boots. When they helped bring over the boards for the neighborhood clubhouse, several of the dads couldn't keep their eyes off of Yvonne. Isabel found herself vacillating between annoyance and envy. Only Yvonne could make hard work look good. Isabel, on the other hand, looked like she'd run across a desert. Sweaty, her chestnut-brown hair droopy and listless, her face flushed red from the heat. Not a pretty picture, that's for sure.

But there was no doubt that it felt good, the act of building something after she'd torn up her porch, the triumphant feeling of completion and satisfaction when they were done. Isabel had never given it much thought, had never been one for dirty, manly jobs. In the past those tasks fell to Bill, not for any reason other than that's how it was. It seemed natural that Bill would clean the gutters or shovel the snow while Isabel scrubbed the house and fixed dinner. It wasn't anything they discussed-and it wasn't like Isabel really wanted to clean the gutters or shovel snow-but when Bill was gone everything just stopped.

Isabel is getting that there's no reason she can't do a lot of this herself. It helps having someone like Yvonne pave the way, a woman comfortable with tools and sweat, who doesn't worry about anything being too hard or intimidating.

"Women are great problem solvers," Yvonne had said. "We're naturally creative. So coming up with creative solutions is easy for us."

Isabel's admiration for Yvonne continues to grow, especially when she hears through the grapevine that her clients love her, that Yvonne isn't like some of the other local outfits that overcharge or take advantage of people. Yvonne is honest and does good work, gives the other plumbers in town a run for their money. Yvonne always has a smile on her face, is pleasant and polite, and makes Isabel laugh through her witty observations.

But Yvonne is also a bit of a puzzle, this plumber who could body double as a model and whom Isabel could never have seen herself befriending. Women like Yvonne aren't usually friends-they're compet.i.tion. They're the ones guaranteed to steal the show-or the guy. If Isabel were still married to Bill, she'd feel uncomfortable with Yvonne, worried that she'd somehow be trying to seduce Bill, or that Bill wouldn't be able to keep his eyes off her. But maybe that's too obvious. It's not the gorgeous plumbers you have to worry about-it's the una.s.suming dental a.s.sistants who find a way to get pregnant with your husband's child.

Isabel tries to push the thought from her head, but it's hard. It's different from before, where Isabel would obsess about when it all started, could picture Bill in Ava's arms, would wonder about what they talked about, about where Ava lived. Isabel would torment herself dreaming up imaginary conversations, pictured them talking and laughing about her. Dumb, clueless, childless Isabel.

But now Isabel keeps replaying that day on her front lawn, at how pale and drawn Ava looked, how she'd stood there nervously, as if she had more bad news to break to Isabel. The tuft of hair in the backseat of the Jeep. Isabel doesn't want to think about it, but it's impossible not to. In fact, it's all she can think about.

"What's wrong with the way I'm dressed?" Yvonne asks now. She kicks off her boots before climbing the steps to her porch, pulls the elastic from her ponytail so her blond hair falls around her shoulders. "Come on. Let's go."

Isabel looks at her new friend dubiously. There's a stench coming from Yvonne that smells like a cross between a pool hall and a Dumpster.

Yvonne laughs before Isabel can say anything. "I'm kidding, Isabel! Of course I'm going to take a shower. Gotta pretty myself up for all those good-looking single guys in Avalon."

"I think there's only one," Isabel informs her dryly, "and he lives with his mother."

Yvonne unlocks her front door. "Well, you only need one," she says optimistically.

Isabel makes a face-she hopes Yvonne isn't one of those New Age positive types. "I already had one, and that was enough, thank you."

"Well, maybe you need another one," Yvonne says simply as she pushes the door open. "A good one." All Yvonne knows is that Bill left her for Ava and then conveniently died. Isabel didn't mention the baby, whose name keeps floating in front of her face. Max.

"Bill was a good one," Isabel says. "If you discount the cheating part." She follows Yvonne into the house and is instantly struck by the heady fragrance of gardenia. She spies a gla.s.s vase filled with fresh blooms near the doorway. "Maybe I should get a cat. Cats are good companions, aren't they?"

Yvonne laughs. She gestures to the living area just off the entrance, points down the hallway into the kitchen. "Make yourself at home. I'll be back down in a jiffy."

"Okay." Isabel looks around and sees that she's stepped into a picture-perfect house, something out of one of those trendy catalogs or magazines, Pottery Barn or Martha Stewart Living. Fresh blooms in vases are dotted everywhere, the furniture cozy but complementary, nice artwork on the walls. On the one hand it fits Yvonne perfectly, and on the other hand it doesn't make sense at all. "Are you renting this place?"

Yvonne shakes her head. "I bought it. I'd been saving for a while and the prices in Avalon are pretty reasonable." As she's talking she peels off her dirty T-s.h.i.+rt and jeans so she's clad in only a sports bra and underwear. Isabel turns away, embarra.s.sed.

"Sorry," Yvonne says. "I have to chuck my work clothes into the was.h.i.+ng machine down here. I don't have people over much."

"Much?"

Yvonne laughs. "Okay. At all." She disappears into the kitchen and a few minutes later Isabel hears the was.h.i.+ng machine agitating, then Yvonne bounding up the stairs.

Isabel circles the living room, notices how everything seems to be in its proper place. Everything is complementary, carefully thought out and considered, placed deliberately but with an air of casual nonchalance. A slant of late afternoon light falls on the small coffee table, the polished walnut finish warming the room and offsetting the lighter upholstery of the sofa and chairs.

Isabel's own front porch is still torn up, her living room bare and void of furniture. Isabel has no idea what to buy, has no interest in going furniture shopping at all. Maybe she should Garanimals her house. All white, all matching. A no-brainer.

Isabel falls into an overstuffed love seat, examines the slipcovers. They're perfectly pressed and Isabel wonders if Yvonne washes them herself and then irons them, or if she's just really neat. Maybe she sends them out. Who washes slipcovers? Dry cleaners? Why does Isabel even care?

Bored, Isabel pokes through the magazines laying in a wooden rack next to the love seat. A few fas.h.i.+on magazines, an outdoor fitness magazine, some trade magazines. A glossy lifestyle magazine catches her eye and she pulls it out. It automatically flops open to a page where a corner's been bent. The headline reads, "Crimson Harvest: The Fruit of One Family's Labor."

Isabel halfheartedly skims the article. It's about a privately-owned cranberry bog in Wareham, Ma.s.sachusetts, hitting a record-setting year. Isabel turns the page and sees a series of photographs and in them, a familiar face.

Yvonne.

A young Yvonne, granted, in her teen years through her early twenties, but it's definitely Yvonne. In one, she is surrounded by members of her family who look exactly like her-radiant and blond, perfect smiles with perfect teeth. The pictures aren't posed studio shots-some are on the sh.o.r.e, another at a restaurant, one at what looks like a party on New Year's Eve-and yet everyone looks dazzling, their eyes on the camera, their bodies turned just right. The caption reads "The Tate Exchange: Keeping It in the Family" then proceeds to list Yvonne's name along with her family members, where and when the pictures were taken.

Isabel studies the pictures, tries to pinpoint what it is that makes them look so put together. When she takes all the pictures into consideration at once, she sees it.

Yvonne is rich.

Or comes from money. Plenty of it, from what Isabel can tell. Suddenly everything in the room comes into sharp focus-the quality of the furniture, the choice of books on the bookshelf, the paintings on the wall.

Isabel sees something else. In one of the pictures, the family is standing in a pond wearing fis.h.i.+ng waders and surrounded by bobbing red berries. Yvonne is beaming like in all the other pictures, the only difference being that in this one, she has a simple diamond ring on her left hand. In small italics the date is ten years ago.

Isabel arches an eyebrow, looks around the room. So where is the wedding picture? And where is the husband?

"Ready to go?" Yvonne is behind her, already dressed in a pink spaghetti-strap dress with flat sandals on her slim feet, her hair still wrapped in a towel. She shakes out her hair, towel dries it some more.

Isabel glances at Yvonne's left ring finger which is bare. Isabel has a million questions, and suddenly she finds herself grinning, relieved to discover that Yvonne has a history of her own that she doesn't want to share, much less remember. Isabel had been ambiguous about this friends.h.i.+p but now it's official: Yvonne has a secret, and that makes her tremendously more interesting to Isabel, who no longer feels like the elephant in the room.

Yvonne frowns. "What's so funny?" She walks to the hallway and drapes the damp towel on the stair post.

"Nothing." Isabel slips the magazine back into the rack. Maybe Isabel should ask for the full tour, crack open the medicine cabinet when Yvonne's not looking. Who knows what else she'll find?

"We could stay in and eat here," Isabel ventures. "You know, keep it casual." She darts another look at the magazine rack, wonders if she'll have a chance to read the article in its entirety.

"Sure, if Diet Pepsi and stale crackers are up your alley. I don't keep a well-stocked pantry and I have pots and pans in my kitchen that I've never used. Come on." Yvonne's tone is light, but Isabel can hear a subtle edge in it.