by Darien Gee
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 button I put a picture in the center and fill it with a clear resin. Then I’ll add some petite glass beads and a word like ‘love’ or ‘gratitude.’ 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 scrapbook page. So original, so creative, and you could under-cycle—”
“Upcycle—”
“—whatever you have in your scrap 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 Scrapbooking 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 passed 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 Saturday, 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 shirt 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-shirt 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 competition. 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 unassuming dental assistants 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 gu
ys 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 glass 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 complimentary, 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-shirt and jeans so she’s clad in only a sports bra and underwear. Isabel turns away, embarrassed.
“Sorry,” Yvonne says. “I have to chuck my work clothes into the washing 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 washing 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 fashion 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, Massachusetts, 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 shore, 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 fishing 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 friendship 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.
Isabel feigns indifference. “Okay, the Avalon Grill it is. I mean, if you’re sure …”
Yvonne is already at the door, keys in hand, and for a second Isabel sees her face tighten, but maybe it’s her imagination. A second later Yvonne bounds forward and grabs Isabel’s hand, laughing, pulling her down the hall. They pass a mirror on their way out and Isabel is pleased to see she doesn’t look as dowdy as she thought. While she’s no Yvonne, she doesn’t look so bad, either. Isabel’s so caught up in the thought that she doesn’t hear Yvonne mutter under her breath.
“Oh, I’m sure.”
What did Isabel see? Yvonne couldn’t tell for sure, but when she walked in Isabel had turned to her with a face full of curiosity, questions. She might have been flipping through the magazine, looking for a way to pass away the time. Nothing more, nothing less. Yvonne doesn’t need to read into it, doesn’t need to make it into a big deal. Even if Isabel saw the article, she might not have had time to put two and two together—Yvonne wasn’t gone that long. Anyway, she’ll know soon enough if Isabel saw something. People can’t help themselves from asking questions once they know who Yvonne is.
But either Isabel is showing incredible restraint or Yvonne’s past isn’t as intriguing as she thinks. They settle at the bar, both opting for a beer even though Isabel orders a “lite.” They proceed in typical girl fashion to discuss what they should order for dinner.
“They do a mean beef brisket,” Isabel says, perusing the menu. “Oh, and the artichoke dip! I’m putting on weight just sitting here.”
“Go for it,” Yvonne says, running her finger down the list of appetizers. “What about—”
“Whatever you s
ay, please don’t tell me you’re getting a salad,” Isabel says, a hint of warning in her voice. “Because I’m starving and it’s bad enough you’re wearing a dress that I couldn’t fit into in a million years.”
“You look great, Isabel. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Yvonne tosses the menu onto the bar. “And I am getting a salad. With dressing on the side.”
“God, no. Really?” Isabel wrinkles her nose.
“Yeah, for my appetizer!” Yvonne laughs, reaches for her beer. “And then I’ll get the catch of the day and the veggies. Comes with a massive side of pasta. And a bread basket.”
“Where does it go?” Isabel demands. “That’s what I want to know. All those carbs—are they somehow magically transported to someone else’s body? Like mine? That would explain a lot.”
“If you want to burn calories, get into plumbing. I don’t even have to bother with a gym membership anymore.” One of the many perks of the job, Yvonne has discovered. Her arms have never been so toned.
“Um, Yvonne, I’ve seen plumbers, and they most definitely don’t look like you.”
“Some do,” Yvonne insists.
“None of them do. You must have good genes.”
Yvonne gives her a blank smile but doesn’t respond. Instead she says, “What are you going to order?”
Isabel looks longingly at the menu. “I want the beef brisket. Of course I would be wearing white—we know how that’s going to go. I can picture a chunk of beef falling off my fork and landing in my lap.”
Yvonne reaches for a handful of bar nuts, picks out the cashews. “I didn’t want to say anything, but you know it is past Labor Day. In case you wanted to wear, I don’t know, any other color other than white. Unless you’re making some kind of fashion statement?”
“I like white,” Isabel says smugly. “It’s straightforward, it is what it is. I’m sick of all this teal, aquamarine, chartreuse or whatever business. Just call it blue, you know? Green. Yellow.” She sighs. “Though I’ll admit I wish I wasn’t wearing white now so I could get that beef brisket.”
