by Darien Gee
Chapter Six
Frances gazes dreamily at the pink petticoats, the white lace. She’s standing outside Margot West’s new store, a catchall gift shop selling beauty and body care, wooden toys, knitwear, and baby clothes. There’s a sign in the window, AVON PRODUCTS SOLD HERE, and Frances is reminded of her own childhood, the round boxes of talcum powder her mother used to buy from their neighbor, Mrs. Granger. Frances herself had a small yellow pin, a bird whose tummy would pop open to reveal a small pot of lip balm. It was a silly thing but she loved it, and she wishes now she had more keepsakes from her childhood.
Brady is having a full-on conversation with himself, still on a sugar high after the ice cream cone from lunch. Frances couldn’t help it—he didn’t want the chicken fingers, didn’t want the macaroni and cheese, refused a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He pointed to another young child sitting in the booth next to them, a child who had already eaten her lunch and was now enjoying a chocolate cone with sprinkles. Nick and Noah were in school, Noah having started kindergarten this fall. So it’s now just the two of them, Mom and Brady, having this time together. Frances didn’t want to spoil it.
She had tried several times to talk to him about his baby sister who was on her way to joining the family, but Brady had stared at her blankly, as if she were from another planet. Baby who? Baby what? his expression seemed to read.
Frances sighs. She should know better than try to put this on a three-year-old. She drew a picture the other day with him, making six smiling faces for their family instead of five. Brady had shaken his head and crossed out the smallest one, his fingers wrapped tightly around the crayon, then passed the picture back to her, satisfied.
He’ll figure it out when she gets here, Reed had reassured her when she called him at work upset. Let him be.
Let him be, let him be. Frances had agreed but now, standing in front of Margot’s shop, she has an idea.
“Brady, let’s go get some things for Mei Ling’s care package!” she exclaims, her voice more animated than usual.
Brady points to a toy train in the window. “Train! Train! I want to see!”
“Yes, a train,” Frances says as she pushes the door open and ushers him inside. They’re greeted with a blast of cold air and Frances catches a whiff of lavender. She feels herself begin to relax as Margot looks up and waves from the register.
“All blue-dot items are ten percent off today,” Margot says. “And I have a special bath and body care promotion going on. Buy one, get one free.”
“Thank you,” Frances says as Brady makes a beeline for the train set in the window.
“That’s just for display,” Margot tells her. “Been in the family for years.” She picks up a smaller wooden train set, painted in primary colors, tucked safely behind the cellophane packaging. “Look, a blue dot!” The look on her face is pure surprise, as if she had no idea.
Frances nods politely. “We’ll think about it,” even though she knows there’s no way she’s bringing another train set into their house.
Or airplanes or fire trucks. Or cars of any kind.
No more marble mazes or racetracks or Legos. Frances is going to clean out and ban the eight million golf balls Reed brings back from the golf course. Noah threw one at the oven door when he was four and it cost them $150 to replace it.
What else? No more mismatched play tool sets. No more rockets, guns (all gifts, not her idea), or Mr. Potato Heads. The boys have plenty, but Frances is ready for something more gender neutral. Something quieter. Prettier.
Her eyes drift to the miniature tea party kit. Real ceramic cups, teapot, creamer and sugar bowl, tiny spoons and saucers and plastic finger sandwiches. She wants to swoon.
“Those have no phthalates or BPA,” Margot informs her proudly. “And I have these adorable petit fours dessert toys that would go with it beautifully. They’re hand knitted by Maureen Nyer—the tops are made from felt. All locally made.”
Frances gasps at a small chocolate cupcake dotted with white stitches that look like sprinkles. “Brady, look! It’s like the real thing!”
Brady doesn’t bother to look over, and instead concentrates on pushing the train through a tunnel.
“I’ll get them all,” Frances says, even though she knows she can’t send them to China. Their adoption agency is very specific about what can go into a care package, but that’s all right. She’ll save it for when Mei Ling is actually here, add it to the growing collection of special items that Frances is putting aside for her.
Frances finds a few more items that can go into the care package—a small picture album, a doll, some fabric hair clips, a coloring book of Avalon Park. Mei Ling is in a foster home in Guangzhou instead of an orphanage, but Frances is pretty sure they don’t speak English. She passes on the board books filled with ABC’s and buys a couple of postcards of Avalon instead, hoping that Mei Ling will fall in love with this small town that will be her home.
Margot is ringing her up when a young woman enters the store.
“Hannah!” Margot exclaims. “I was wondering when you were going to come by with more brochures. People have been asking about your music classes, you know.”
Frances watches as Hannah Wang gives Margot a hug. Hannah is somewhat of a celebrity, a former cellist with a famous orchestra in New York or Chicago, Frances doesn’t quite remember. She doesn’t know Hannah personally, but remembers her from the prior year when Avalon was baking friendship bread for a neighbor town that had been devastated by floods.
“I just added a master class,” Hannah explains as she hands Margot a stack of brochures. “And another beginner’s class, so I had to redo everything. This should last you awhile, though.” She turns and smiles at Frances. “Hi, I’m Hannah.”
“Frances Latham.” They shake hands and Frances is struck by how graceful and refined Hannah seems to be. She looks like she’s in her mid- or late twenties. Hannah has the figure of a dancer, tall and lean, her sleek dark hair pulled back in a simple chignon. “We actually met briefly last year. At Madeline’s.”
“The night we baked for Barrett,” Hannah remembers, nodding. “That’s right! It’s nice to see you again.”
“You too.”
Hannah spies Brady by the wooden train set. “Is this your son? He’s adorable.”
“That’s Brady,” Frances says. “He’s my youngest. I have three boys, if you can believe that. Nick is eight and Noah is five. Brady here is three.”
Margot lets out a low whistle, either impressed or from sympathy, but Hannah laughs. “I believe that your hands are full, that’s for sure,” she says. “My boyfriend is from a family of four boys so I know how crazy it can get. His mother’s always telling me stories about how much trouble they used to get into when they were growing up.”
“Hannah dates Jamie Linde,” Margot explains. “He drives a truck for UPS.” She takes Hannah’s brochures and walks to the front of the store where a small table and community bulletin board have been set up.
“Jamie?” Frances gasps. “Of course we know Jamie! I just put his photo in our photo album!”
“Your photo album?”
“He dropped off the referral letter for our daughter, Mei Ling. Well, she’s not our daughter yet, but she will be. We’re adopting from China. I got a picture with Jamie when he delivered the letter the other day.”
“I remember that!” Hannah exclaims, then blushes. “I hope you don’t mind, but Jamie told me that there was a family in Avalon who was going through a Chinese adoption. I think that’s wonderful, Frances.”
“Us too,” Frances says, grinning. It feels good to talk about it with someone. She’s been careful in sharing the news, not wanting to navigate the barrage of questions, not wanting to get everyone’s hopes up including her own, but now she feels almost giddy with relief. She’s thrilled that someone else knows, and Hannah looks genuinely happy for her. “We’re hoping she’ll be with us by Christmas at the latest. I know it’s only a few months away, but it f
eels like forever.”
“I’m so excited for your family,” Hannah tells her. “And it’s just a matter of time—she’ll be here before you know it.”
Frances smiles, grateful. “Thank you, Hannah.”
Hannah returns the smile. “I hope I’ll have a chance to see you again, maybe meet your daughter when you bring her home.”
Frances nods. “I’d like that, too.” Her eyes drift to the geometric clock on the wall and she gasps. “Oh, I’m late. The boys will be coming home from school.” Frances quickly gathers her things, wishing she could stay and talk some more. “Please tell Jamie we say hi.”
“I will.” Hannah waves as Frances bids Margot goodbye and ushers a reluctant Brady out of the store. The minute they step outside they’re met with a blast of blazing heat, but Frances doesn’t mind, not even when Brady whines and insists that she carry him the rest of the way, which she does. By the time they reach the car, both the bags and Brady are heavy and Frances is covered in sweat, but she’s too happy to care. Talking to Hannah about Mei Ling has made it all the more real. They’ve been approved, they have their referral, they have Mei Ling. Frances is going to have to practice saying that she has four children now, because Mei Ling is going to be Frances’s daughter, and, like Hannah said, it’s only a matter of time before she’ll be coming home to Avalon.
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.”
