The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society (23 page)

Wordlessly, Madeline comes around the table to give Connie a hug. Connie hugs her back, feels her disappointment about the album 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.

“Excuse me?” There’s a knock on the frame of the doorway. The two women from the sales table are standing there. Connie can see the black album already tucked into a kraft-paper bag.

“Trudy, Eleanor, come in,” Madeline says. She wipes her eyes and steps back, gives Connie’s arm a squeeze.

Trudy Hughes steps forward. “We wanted to drop this off.” She looks at Connie and pats the package in her hands. “You said you wanted this if I didn’t?”

Connie feels a small leap of hope. “You didn’t get it?”

Trudy smiles. “I’ve decided to give my niece a gift certificate. Let her choose her own album for herself. Or, as Bettie likes to say, let the album choose her.” She holds out the paper bag. “I think this chose you, yes?”

“I still like the green one,” Eleanor Winters mutters.

“So you get it,” Trudy tells her. She turns her attention back to Connie. “Anyway, here you go. Enjoy!”

Connie takes the bag, feels the crisp crinkle of paper as her fingers curl around the album. She pulls it out and touches the cover, the texture of the lace, the ribbons.

She clutches it to her chest and tries not to look too happy, but it’s impossible. A wide smile breaks across her face. “Thank you.” Already she knows that the first page will be a picture of Serena. Maybe she’ll do one of those film strips with four images and run it along the side. Or a hoofprint. Could she get a hoofprint? Maybe Serena could step in ink and trot across the page.

Trudy adds, “And Bettie wanted me to tell you that our special segment will be starting soon. Something about bottle cups.”

“Bottle caps,” Eleanor corrects her.

“I’m pretty sure she said bottle cups,” Trudy says.

“There are no such things as bottle cups, Eleanor. She’s been jumbling her words lately, haven’t you noticed?” Eleanor purses her lips. “Well, let’s go. I think I’m going to get that green album for myself.” She looks at Madeline and Connie and straightens up. “Green is the new black, you know.” She avoids looking at her friend.

Trudy giggles. “See you back outside!” The women leave.

“That is a lovely album,” Madeline says, admiring it. She smiles. “It suits you.”

“I know.” Connie pages through the album. It’s a fairly simple album filled with black card-stock pages, but there are also random tags and overlays, little bits and bursts of sparkle here and there. Not a lot, but enough. Just like Connie. Suddenly she can’t wait to get started. “I think I’ll go back to the meeting. Is that okay?”

Max is holding up the bowl of yogurt toward Madeline. “Try?”

Madeline laughs. “Of course! And take notes. In the meantime, I’m going to get Max and myself a couple of spoons.”

Isabel sits in her car in her driveway, stares at her darkened house. Next door the lights in Bettie’s house are blazing, the automatic timer having kicked on, an attempt to stave off intruders.

Isabel’s eyes trail along the fence line circling Bettie’s backyard, practically in line with their own. She and Bill had put the fence up shortly after they moved in, in anticipation of the children who would one day come.

It’s not that Isabel really wanted kids. That is, she wanted them as much as the next person, had planned to take that natural step into motherhood like other married women her age. She hadn’t thought about it much, hadn’t expected it to be a problem. But when it didn’t happen, it became about what she didn’t have, what she couldn’t have. The baby, then Bill.

Isabel slides down in the driver’s seat. She doesn’t want to go inside her house. What exactly is she coming home to? Canned soup, white walls, her own loneliness?

She leans her head against the window. She could live in her car. Sell the house, sell her things, live out of her little hybrid coupe. It gets forty-five miles to the gallon and it’d be a heck of a lot cheaper than her mortgage. The seat reclines and she could shower at the gym. Keep her files in the trunk, do her laundry at the Avalon Wash and Dry, eat out. The proceeds from the house sale would give her enough cushion that she could take a leave of absence from work. Tour the country. Head to the ocean.

And then what? Eventually you have to have someplace to come back to, a place to call home, a place to hang your hat. It’s the unwritten rule of life. You grow up in one tribe, your family, and then strike out on your own to build another. It’s what people do.

Everyone, that is, except Isabel. Even Ava has managed to do this. An interrupted life with Bill but still she has Max. Isabel hardly has any friends. Even Yvonne, as wonderful as she is, has managed to find a boyfriend. Everyone on the path to finding a home and filling it with the people they love.

In the waning light, Isabel looks at the for sale sign, at her
dilapidated porch that has yet to be fixed. Who would want to buy this place? The grass in the front yard is spiky and dry, the hydrangeas brown and shriveled. Even the windows in the house look sad and droopy, the porch frowning its disapproval.

Isabel gets out of the car. They never bothered with a sprinkler system (“
I’m
the sprinkler system,” Bill would joke as he dragged out the hose and tossed the oscillating water sprinkler into the middle of the lawn). Isabel can’t remember the last time she bothered to water the lawn. She digs around in the shed until she finds what she’s looking for.

When the rusty sprinkler is connected to the hose and Isabel turns on the spigot, there’s a reluctant sputter, like an indignant old man being force-fed his dinner. For a second she thinks the whole thing might explode and she steps back, expecting the worst.

But then a stream of water spurts from the first nozzle, and then the next. Soon a cascade of water is washing over the dry grass. It hits the sidewalk in small patters, cooling the warm concrete. Isabel stands there for a moment, watching.

Max. She remembers the baby announcement, the picture taken a few days after his birth. There were similarities, yes, but the truth is it could have been any blue-eyed, big-eared baby.

But the little boy standing in front of her tonight was a miniature Bill. A little Bill, a junior Bill. Bill & Son. Isabel remembers Bill’s baby pictures, buried somewhere up in the attic, knows how real this connection is. She thinks of Lillian, Bill’s widowed mother, who’d made it clear that she had no interest in Ava or “the child,” both of whom she held responsible for the dissolution of Bill’s marriage and subsequent death. But if she could see Max now, Isabel is certain Lillian would feel differently.

Because Isabel feels differently. Not toward Ava so much—her supposed henpecked, I’m-a-stressed-out-mom-with-my-hands-full state doesn’t fool Isabel one bit—but Max is a different story altogether. It messes everything up.

A fan of water hits her as the oscillating spray rotates. It’s refreshing, but it startles her. She touches her cheek, surprised by the wetness,
and then realizes that it’s not water from the sprinkler, but her own tears.

“What’s a guy got to do to get a girl’s attention these days?” Hugh’s voice is teasing over the phone, and Yvonne laughs.

“Sorry, I ended up at a scrapbooking meeting last night,” she says. “It ran late.” She fiddles with a clevis screw.

“What are you doing now?”

“Fixing Mr. Gaulkin’s kitchen faucet.” Yvonne turns up the volume on her earpiece and starts to remove the mounting nuts and washers from under the sink. “Once I get rid of the old one I’ll need to thread the water supply lines into the inlets of the new faucet.”

“I love it when you talk plumber. What are you doing after?”

“I was supposed to see a movie with Isabel but she’s not up for it. Hey!” she brightens. “Do you want to go on a picnic in Avalon Park? You, me, and Toby?”

Hugh hesitates. “Uh, I’d like to but I can’t. Family thing.”

It’s the third time in the past two weeks. “Another one? You seem to have a lot of those.” She pictures Hugh and his mother seated at opposite ends of the large maple table in the dining room, sipping on their soup, asking each other to pass the salt.

“Yeah, well,” Hugh clears his throat. “Hey, the movie idea might work after. Late show?”

Yvonne uses a razor to scrape at some old putty. “Sure.”

“Okay, I’ll text you later.”

They say goodbye and Yvonne turns her attention back to the job in front of her. Secretly she was hoping Hugh would join her for dinner, but it’s no big deal. Maybe she’ll go for a run through the park.

Yvonne finishes her work, then chats with Mr. Gaulkin for a few minutes before heading home. She’s eager to change into her running gear. She’ll do a three-mile run, grab a salad on the way back, then shower and send out a few invoices. By then it’ll be time to meet Hugh.

She wishes they would go on a real date. So far it’s been very
buddy-buddy with a sprinkle of romance thrown in, but she noticed that Hugh is not a fan of public displays of affection. Their dates are limited to errand running and late-night movie watching, or just relaxing at Yvonne’s house. Not that she minds, but for once she’d like to get dressed up and hit the town. Go on a proper date, talk to each other over the glow of candlelight, have a waiter refilling the wine and checking to see if there’s anything else they need.

They haven’t been dating long so it’s much too early for Yvonne to propose anything like a road trip or short getaway. Still, she’s curious to see what Hugh might be like once he’s out of Avalon. “Mommy issues,” Isabel said a little too gleefully when Yvonne voiced her concerns. Yvonne doesn’t think so, but then again, Hugh is a grown man living with his mother. A temporary thing, he told her, because he’d just moved back to Avalon after being in Denver. In a way, it’s sweet—he’s a good son who wants to spend time with family. Nothing wrong with that.

Yvonne sighs as she pulls her truck into the driveway. She knows she’s reaching, but she doesn’t want to overthink it, doesn’t want to pick it apart for no good reason. And she’s having fun. It beats the first twenty-two years of her life, which were marked with obligations and responsibilities and expectations. Yvonne was never a bad girl, never rebelled like some of her friends who couldn’t stand the expectations that came with family money and social standing, but that didn’t mean she liked being told what she could or couldn’t do, or who she could or couldn’t be friends with.

Sam Kenney. Even his name set him apart, relegated him to staff before he was old enough to work. Her best friend since the third grade, even after she was sent to boarding school in Connecticut for high school. Her parents tried to discourage the friendship, but they weren’t there to monitor the mail, to stop the late-night phone calls from the hallway pay phone, to prevent him from coming over and sneaking her out of the dorm on weekends.

And then, when she was in her senior year at Smith, Sam predictably started working the cranberry bogs alongside his father and
brothers. Yvonne came back during fall break, right around harvest time, and her father drew a line in the sand. She was a Tate, they had a reputation to uphold, they were the pillars of this small community and Yvonne could not “run around with that Kenney boy” anymore. It was a ludicrous request, and of course Yvonne refused. Her mother, who’d been tight-lipped throughout all of this, demanded to know if they were “involved.” It might have been out of spite that Yvonne proposed to Sam, both literally and figuratively, that they get married. She even went down on bended knee. He had cracked up, but then said yes.

She graduated from college, turned down a plum job at a magazine in New York thanks in part to her mother, and came home to Wareham. It was clear her parents thought that she’d thrown everything away, but they surprised her by insisting that they host the wedding. Yvonne had protested at first, preferring something simple.

“No,” her mother had said flatly. “You’ll give us this, at least.”

Sam had been the one to convince her to let it go. It was a small thing, he reminded her, and then they’d have the rest of their lives.

The rest of their lives.

Funny how a simple friendship can grow into true love. Being with Sam was always good for Yvonne—he made her feel real. Yvonne knew she would be walking away from money and opportunity, and Sam had been concerned about what she would be giving up, but it was a small price to pay for what she was getting in return.

Freedom. Love. Happiness.

And then, their wedding day. Yvonne woke before the alarm, dawn having not quite broken. She stared at the billowing white dress hanging on the closet door. The catering crew was already setting up.

She knew something was wrong by the knock on the door. The small square of an envelope, her mother’s stationery even though it was Sam’s handwriting. An apology, short and sweet, the goodbye. Her mother came to her room a few minutes later, and Yvonne knew this had been her doing.

“Where’s Sam?” she’d screamed, but her mother shook her head.

“He’s gone,” her mother told her. “And he’s not coming back. And good riddance, because it was only about the money, Yvonne. Your father offered him a sizable sum, and he took it. And left.”