by Darien Gee
The remaining walls in the living room look shabby and lifeless, dull neighbors to the freshly painted wall. That’s how it goes sometimes. She could keep it as an accent wall, but she feels for the others. They deserve a fresh start as well. After all, they were all innocent bystanders.
This time she’ll do it differently—no need to slap one stroke on after the other. After all, this is her house, her walls. She can do whatever she wants with it.
Isabel dips her brush and begins again.
Yvonne Tate checks the address one last time before shoving the scrap of paper into her pocket. The house in front of her is a modest bungalow with a white picket fence, sycamore trees lining the street. She opens the gate and goes up the walk, noticing the postage-stamp lawn and garden. Flower boxes filled with geraniums and impatiens in a summer burst of colors line the windows, butterflies dancing in the garden. It’s a sweet home.
Yvonne presses the doorbell and waits. She hears voices inside, a man and a woman arguing. A second later the door opens.
“May I help you?” The woman is in her late twenties, young and pretty. Her husband stands behind her, about the same age.
“I’m Yvonne Tate. Tate Plumbing. You called about an emergency?”
The couple stares at her. The wife looks past Yvonne for another person, presumably the “real” plumber, while the husband gawks at Yvonne, his mouth slightly open in surprise.
“It’s just me,” Yvonne tells them good-naturedly. She knows she doesn’t look the part. She’s slender and athletic, her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. She has the requisite T-shirt, jeans, and work boots, along with her toolbox, but even with these accoutrements and no makeup she is still often mistaken for a model. “We spoke on the phone an hour ago?” she reminds the woman. Yvonne pulls out the piece of paper. “Megan and Billy Newman, right?”
Megan Newman stares at her. “Yes, but I thought you were the receptionist.”
“I am the receptionist. I’m also the bookkeeper, sales director, and of course, plumber. I’m a one-woman show.” Yvonne glances at her watch. “Now, why don’t you show me the problem?”
Megan doesn’t look convinced but her husband is quick to step aside and invite Yvonne in, earning him a glare from his wife.
“How long have you been doing this?” Megan asks, a skeptical look on her face.
“Ten years, though I’ve only been in Avalon about six months. I’m licensed in three states and have a flawless track record.” Yvonne takes in the honey-colored hardwood floors, the gingham curtains, the slipcovered couch and loveseat. Fresh flowers in glass vases are dotted throughout the house, wedding pictures everywhere. “So what’s the problem again?” she asks.
Megan and Billy exchange a look. “It’s probably easier if we show you,” Billy says.
Yvonne follows them into the master bathroom. Once in the bathroom, she lets out a small giggle but quickly composes herself. “Oh,” she says. “I see.”
Pots and pans are stacked in the bathtub.
“It’s temporary until we figure out what happened in the kitchen,” Megan says hurriedly. “We’ll show you that later. This is the problem in here.”
The bathroom sink is new, with two antique faucets, one labeled HOT and one labeled COLD. Megan turns the knob on the left for the cold water, but water shoots out from the faucet on the right, and vice versa.
“I thought I installed it right,” Billy says, scratching his head. “But obviously it’s a bit messed up.”
Yvonne points to the piping below the sink. “You’ll also want to install some shut-off valves.”
“I was going to do that next,” Billy says, unconvincingly.
“I told him we should hire professionals for the plumbing and electrical projects, but no, he had to do it himself.” Megan shoots her husband a look. “And that’s not all. Come on.” She motions Yvonne to follow her.
In the kitchen Megan opens the doors beneath the sink, revealing a maze of bizarre piping, including a cut-up milk jug attached to the P-trap with zip ties and duct tape. “The kitchen sink leaks so bad that we can’t use it at all,” Megan says. “Billy rigged up this contraption to catch the water but there’s so much we don’t even bother. It was supposed to be a temporary thing but we’re coming up on three weeks. I can’t take it anymore!”
“It’s not so bad …” Billy begins.
“We’re doing our dishes in the bathtub, Billy!”
Well, that explains that. “These are pretty easy fixes,” Yvonne assures her. She turns to Billy. “Why didn’t you put a bucket underneath, by the way?”
Billy opens his mouth to respond then scratches his head. “Yeah, that does make better sense,” he says sheepishly.
Yvonne grins. “I should be able to take care of everything today,” she tells them. She quotes them a price and Megan nods enthusiastically.
“Yes,” she says. “Please start right away.”
“I thought it would be more expensive,” Billy says, surprised. “The other company we called quoted us almost double.”
Yvonne shrugs. She doesn’t worry about the competition, has always had an attitude that there’s enough business for everyone. “I’ll give you an itemized invoice of the work when I’m done, too.”
Megan is humming happily as she goes to the fridge and pulls out a carafe of iced tea. She pours each of them a glass, then nods to the backyard. “I’ll be outside.” She gives her husband a pointed look before leaving.
Yvonne opens her toolbox. Billy shoves his hands into his pockets, shifting his weight from side to side.
“She’s mad at me,” he says. “I guess I’m a dope for trying to do our own plumbing.”
“You’re not,” Yvonne tells him. “It’s great that you tried, Billy.” Yvonne is used to coming to the rescue after disastrous DIY plumbing projects—this is nothing. She’s all for people learning how to take care of their homes and perform simple home maintenance tasks, but you have to do your homework, have to put in a little more time beyond watching a three-minute YouTube video on how to seal your tub. “I’m sure you would have figured it out eventually,” she says kindly.
He smiles, grateful, then casts a longing look toward Megan who’s leaning back on a lawn chair, her hands shading the sun from her eyes.
“Go join your wife,” Yvonne encourages. “She’s just ready to have your house in working order. You’ve been married about a year?”
Billy looks at her in surprise. “Eleven months,” he says. “How’d you know?”
Yvonne gives a nonchalant shrug as she digs through her tools for a crescent wrench. Yvonne doesn’t tell him what else she thinks, that Megan is clearly nesting. And slightly hormonal. She’s seen it in clients before. She’s not sure that Billy knows yet, or maybe not even Megan, but Yvonne would bet her bottom dollar that Megan is pregnant.
“She just wants to make your home nice,” Yvonne tells him. “Go sit with her.”
Billy grins and then lopes outside after his wife. Yvonne smiles.
Her job isn’t dull, that’s for sure. She’s seen everything in this business—men who try to sweet talk her or aggressively haggle or even intimidate her to get a lower fee. She’s been asked out more times than she cares to remember, once by a woman even. She’s heard every joke in the book about plumber’s crack and whether or not she wears a thong. She’s used to it, but it doesn’t happen often. Most of her clients are nice, decent people, surprised to find a young woman in this line of work, but supportive nonetheless. It’s one reason why she loves what she does.
Her job also reminds her that things are not always as they seem, that her life is her own, always has been and always will be. Still, it wasn’t until ten years ago that Yvonne understood that she needed to step up and own it.
It came at a price. On the days where she’s feeling lonely or homesick, she battles temptation to pick up the phone, to get on a plane, to look up information she’d be better off not knowing. As difficult as it can be sometimes,
Yvonne knows she has to stay the course. It’s too painful otherwise.
She looks outside and sees Billy sitting in the chair next to his wife, talking to her. Megan laughs at something he says, and Billy leans over to give his wife a kiss.
It’s tender and sweet, but Yvonne has to look away. She swallows the lump in her throat and gets back to work.
Chapter Two
“Here you go.” The bartender hefts a plastic bag full of bottle caps onto the bar. There’s the sound of metal cascading into a lazy pile as the bag almost tips over, the top unsealed. “Whoa!”
“I got it,” Ava says, catching the bag in time. The bag is nice and heavy in her hand, and already a couple of bottle caps catch her eye—a navy blue one with a yellow starburst and a red one with white block lettering across the top. Quite a few are bent but that’s okay—she wants to practice a few new techniques and they’ll do perfectly.
“Great reflexes,” the bartender says, grinning. His name is Colin. He unties the apron from around his waist and tosses it into a pile with the dirty towels.
“It’s parenthood,” Ava says, giving the bag a shake, delighting in the weight of it. There’s easily two hundred caps, maybe more. “I’ve caught many a falling sippy cup in my time.”
“In your time?” Colin does a quick appraisal of her and Ava laughs, knowing she looks like a kid herself these days, careless and frayed around the edges. “How old is your son again?” Colin has two boys of his own, in high school.
“Four, going on twenty.” Ava reaches for her wallet. “And I’m twenty-eight going on fifty.”
“I hear that.” Colin instantly reddens. “I mean, not that you look like you’re going on fifty, because you’re obviously not. You don’t even look twenty-eight …” He grimaces and shakes his head. “Sorry, that came out wrong. I just mean that I know what it’s like to have your hands full.”
“It’s okay. I know.” Ava smiles. “Well, thanks for this. How much do I owe you?”
Colin holds up his hands. “This one’s on the house. It’s my last day.”
“Your last day?”
“Got laid off. A bunch of us did. Restaurant’s ‘renovating.’ ” Colin gestures to the booths and tables around them, empty even though it’s only an hour past lunchtime. “They’re going bare bones until business picks up. But I found a new job at the Avalon Grill starting tomorrow, so I’ll be all right.”
“The Avalon Grill?”
“Yeah. I’ll check with my manager, but I’m sure it won’t be a problem to put aside some bottle caps for you if you don’t mind driving over to pick them up. It’s about an extra fifteen minutes from Barrett.”
“Yeah, I know.” Ava remembers a pear-and-blue-cheese salad that she used to have for lunch all the time and her stomach rumbles, hungry. “I used to work in Avalon.”
Colin writes something on a piece of paper, then slides it across the bar toward Ava. “Here’s my number. Call me in a couple of weeks and I’ll let you know what I have. Or, you know, call me anytime.” His eyes hold hers for a second longer than usual, then he glances away, embarrassed.
Ava doesn’t quite remember Colin’s marital situation but knows he’s either divorced or separated, both of which are already far too complicated for Ava. He’s a nice guy and she appreciates his help these past couple of years, putting aside used bottle caps for her and charging no more than a cup of coffee for them, but she can’t see beyond that right now, doesn’t want anything beyond that right now.
“Thanks,” she says. “But I don’t want to put you out.”
“It’s no problem—” he begins, but Ava shakes her head, her guard back up. Awkwardly she slips the piece of paper into her purse and offers her hand. “Well, good luck, Colin.”
She can tell he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. Instead he takes her hand and gives it a shake, his cheeks still pink. “You too, Ava.”
In her car, Ava lets out a long breath. She gives the bag a poke, sad that she won’t be seeing Colin again, weary at the thought of having to find another source in Barrett for her bottle caps. She knows Colin takes special care not to bend them more than necessary, has seen him use a soft cloth over the bottle opener, careful not to scratch the cap. He makes it look easy and effortless and most customers don’t even notice that he’s taking this extra step, but Ava knows.
She feels herself blinking back tears. She was foolish to let herself get attached, even in this small way. But Colin is one of the only people she can talk to and he’s a decent person, which counts for a lot.
Still, she should know better.
Ava starts her Jeep. The engine reluctantly kicks over, a sign that there’s trouble up ahead, or at least something that will need attention. A new fuel pump, the starter, a weak battery, who knows.
“Please,” she whispers under her breath. The engine revs and Ava feels a spark of hope that things will be all right.
Then the Jeep sputters and dies altogether.
Frances Latham gazes at the small black-and-white photograph in her hand. The mop of black hair, the chubby cheeks, the searching dark eyes staring back at her.
“Beautiful,” Frances breathes.
The package came yesterday. Reed, her husband, knew it was coming because people started posting on the boards that their referrals had arrived. Pictures were posted with virtual cheers from everyone in the group with the same log-in date from the time their adoption application was accepted by the Chinese government.
But there was envy, too, and anxiety for those who were still waiting. Frances had been ecstatic and then crashed, crying, her emotions bouncing all over the place. Why hadn’t they received their referral? What if something was wrong? Reed assured her that everything was fine, but how did he know? How did any of them know? They finally called the agency and the agency confirmed that yes, people were getting their referrals, and the Lathams should receive theirs by the end of the week.
And then Jamie Linde arrived in his UPS truck, a package in hand. Frances could tell by the look on his face that he knew what it was. He didn’t seem at all surprised by the hug or the tears, and even offered to take a picture of her holding up the heavy, flat envelope. Frances got Noah, her five-year-old, to take the picture because she wanted Jamie in it. She had the picture printed the next day and wrote on the back, “Me with our stork, Jamie Linde.”
Reed came home immediately and they opened the envelope together. When they saw the picture clipped to the stack of documents, Reed’s eyes got wet and Frances gasped. “She’s beautiful! Look at her, Reed!” He nodded and wiped his eyes.
There is still more waiting ahead, but now they know. They know that this little girl is the one that will make their family complete.
Frances closes her eyes, feels the hot tears of joy and relief coming again. They’ve already made copies of the picture so Reed can take one to work and each of the older boys wanted one as well. Frances taped copies on the fridge, the bathroom mirrors, the home office, the car. She sent framed copies to her parents and to Reed’s mother.
But this one, the original, the one that came from China and taken by someone who had looked this little girl in the eyes, this is the picture Frances holds in her hands.
Mei Ling. Our daughter.
Frances and Reed pored over every detail, put stickies on the pages to send to the agency to get translated, made notes in their notebook of questions and things that needed clarifying. But the bottom line is that they are one step closer to bringing her home.
The phone rings and Frances jumps to answer it. “Hello?” Her voice is breathless.
“Hi, sweetheart.” It’s Reed, and Frances smiles. He sounds tired, but happy. “How’s your day going?”
“Good. Wonderful. Perfect. Do you have to ask?”
Reed laughs, a low baritone that reminds her of Reed’s father. Frances wishes that he was alive, that he could meet this little girl, his soon-to-be granddaughter. “I guess not. I’m calling to see if you want to take t
he boys out for dinner. Give you a night off.”
“I already have a marinara sauce simmering on the stove,” she says. “With meatballs. It’s spaghetti night, remember? Tuesday?” Frances is gazing dreamily at Mei Ling’s picture and then it hits her. “Wait. You’re going to be traveling again, aren’t you? Where? When?”
“Arizona. One week. I leave the day after tomorrow.”
“Reed …”
“Fran, I know. But there’s no way around it. And the way I see it, the more I do now, the easier it’ll be when I have to put in my vacation days when we go to China to pick up Mei Ling.”
Frances tucks Mei Ling’s picture back into a wax-paper envelope. “I wish I knew when that was going to be.”
“I know. Me too.”
The timeline is sketchy at best, but now that they’ve been matched with Mei Ling, it could be anywhere from six months to a year before a travel date is set. They have to be ready either way, and even though there are a few more hoops to jump through, the worst is over.
“So dinner in or out?” Reed asks. “I have to go in a minute—one more meeting and then I can head home.”
“Let’s go out,” Frances says. She can refrigerate the sauce for another day. At least there won’t be any dishes to worry about tonight.
“Did the agency say anything about the medical records yet?”
“No. I sent them an email this morning but I haven’t heard back. I didn’t want to call and hound them any more than I already have.” Frances turns the heat off on the stove.
“I’ll call them before I leave the office,” Reed says. “See you soon.”
“Bye.”
Noah struts into the kitchen. That’s his thing these days—he likes to walk in and command a room. Reed says Noah is a lot like his uncle, Reed’s younger brother, Jason. Too smart for his own good, Reed often says, and always the center of attention. But Jason must be doing something right, because he’s living in an expensive apartment in Los Angeles, an entertainment lawyer to the stars.
