The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society (10 page)

Isabel stares at the envelope, postmarked Barrett. It’s addressed to her, the handwriting unfamiliar, but in the upper left-hand corner, Isabel sees the return address, the name.

A. Catalina
.

“Whatcha got there?” Bettie Shelton calls from next door. She’s also checking her mail, and Isabel can see Bettie’s mailbox is stuffed with catalogs and magazines. “Pen pal?”

Isabel doesn’t respond, just closes the mailbox door with a slam.

She’s climbing the steps to her porch when suddenly a worn board gives. Isabel grabs the handrail and struggles to keep her balance.

“I told you so!” Bettie tells her. “Good thing it didn’t happen during the meeting, otherwise you’d have a lawsuit on your hands!”

Isabel shoots Bettie an annoyed look before putting her mail down to inspect the board. It’s rotted through, the board soggy and weak. As Isabel glances around her porch, she sees the spot where Bettie stepped through last week, and a couple more soft spots, too. Bill used to take care of all this, pressure washing the porch annually, the weatherproofing, the staining. Suddenly, Isabel can see the sum of her neglect. The entire porch looks like a danger zone.

“I have two copies of
Crafters Today
,” Bettie calls to Isabel. “Want one?” She waves the magazine in the air like a flag.

If Bettie thinks Isabel is going to forget about what happened the other night, she’s sorely mistaken. Isabel’s still finding miscellaneous ribbon and eyelets everywhere. She goes into her house and closes the door, feeling the house sigh along with her.

It’s so quiet. That was the first thing Isabel had noticed after Bill left—how quiet the house suddenly was. Even if she and Bill were in separate parts of the house, doing their own thing, there were always footsteps, the sounds of shuffling paper, of running water. Simple reminders that you were not alone.

She walks into the kitchen, looking through her mail when her hand rests on the envelope, her name and address written in small, careful script. Isabel feels her heart clench.

It’s the third one she’s received since Bill’s death. Whatever that woman has to say, Isabel isn’t interested in hearing it.

She throws the letter into the trash and heads out the back door to the shed where she finds the crowbar. She marches to the front of the house and straight to the porch. A few minutes later, the rotten board is gone.

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 grass 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 scrapbooking 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 assessment. 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 reshingle 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 Saturday 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-assistant-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-shirt 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 lustrous chocolate, shiny 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 shields 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 scraps 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 sturdier 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 thrashing below, but no goat. Connie hurries back to her room and opens the bedroom door.