by Darien Gee
“If it’s so simple,” Connie asks, “then why all the fuss? Why do we need all this?” She waves at the tables next to them, piled with paper and punches and glittery embellishments.
“The stuff of inspiration, dear,” Bettie says. “You can’t bake a pie without some basic ingredients, now can you? And the more you have, the more options available to you. Who knows what you’ll come up with? Plus, and you might want to sit down for this, Connie …”
Connie wrinkles her nose. “I am sitting down.”
“It’s fun.” Bettie grins at them. “FUN!”
Yvonne is nodding. “Fun,” she repeats, and Connie can tell Yvonne is already hooked.
“I could use some fun,” Frances mutters.
“I don’t even know what fun is anymore,” Ava says quietly. “But I’ll take whatever I can get.”
Fun? Really? Connie had never thought of scrapbooking as fun. It always seemed to be more of a weird obsession or retailing ploy, but now as she looks around the room, she notices that everyone is relaxed, laughing, enjoying themselves.
“There’s no way to get it wrong, and so many ways to get it right,” Bettie tells them. “Even if you tie or bind all of your birthday cards together, for example, and tuck in a few pictures or words here and there. Voilà, you’re done! You’re no longer saving a bunch of cards, but you’ve taken a moment to imbue it with thoughts and memories. I promise you that in ten years, you’ll be glad you did.”
Bettie passes out several cellophane packets around the table. “Here’s the September scrap pack—lots of fun goodies inside! You don’t have to use my kits, of course, but I strongly advise that you choose archival safe materials whenever possible, and that includes any glue or tape. You want your hard work to withstand the test of time, and acid is most certainly not your friend.”
Connie picks up a packet. Inside are several sheets of scrapbooking paper and card stock, a small clear envelope of buttons, brads, and eyelets. Five different kinds of ribbon and yarn are wrapped around a cardboard tag. There are also small paper frames, embossed tags, clear vellum squares with different words and sayings. A full page of alphabet stickers in a typewriter font and a half sheet of decorative border rub-ons.
“Can I get two?” Yvonne asks. “One for me and one for Isabel?”
“The best value is if you have a membership to the Society,” Bettie says. “Only fifteen dollars a month. You get all Society news, discounts on products and classes, the monthly scrap pack which is otherwise $9.99, and unlimited support by me. ‘Turning moments into memories,’ that’s the Bettie Shelton motto and the heart of the Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society!”
“I’ll join,” Frances instantly says. “Where do I sign?”
“Can we trade for some bottle-cap products?” Ava asks Bettie a bit anxiously.
Bettie is nodding as the women bring out their wallets and eagerly open their packets, oohing and aahing over the contents inside. Connie has to admit that it looks even more appealing once everything is spread out, feels herself drawn to a sheet of black-and-white-checkered paper. Her eyes drift to a sparkly black pom-pom, then a sheet of velvety green card stock. The blue rickrack. Suddenly her mind is swimming with ideas, the items rearranging themselves on a journal page. Serena, she thinks. It would be nice to do a scrapbook of Serena.
“Connie?” Bettie has an eyebrow raised, nodding to the unopened pack sitting in front of her. “You and Madeline each get a kit for free, plus a starter album. Remember?” She slides the pack closer to Connie until it practically falls into her lap. “You can choose your album now. They’re right over there.” She points to a sales table filled with merchandise in the corner of the room.
Connie looks to the sales table, Bettie’s voice fading into the background. Albums of different shapes and sizes are propped up across the table, and Connie watches as a couple of women linger and browse there, picking up item after item.
It wouldn’t kill her to take a look. That pink frilly album? No way. On second glance, it’s a baby album anyway. There’s a puffy album with lemons and peaches stamped on the front, and others with polka dots and stripes, rainbows, solid leather or picture windows. Pass, pass, pass, pass. Connie’s eyes skim the table, bored, and then she sees it.
A fat square black album with what looks like black lace and graffiti on the cover. Silver fabric tags poke out of the pages, and the entire album is held together with metal binder rings and tied with a stretchy silvery cord. It seems so out of place among the colorful, ornate albums on the table, the black sheep, a misfit.
Perfect.
As Connie rises from her seat, one of the women standing by the table reaches for the album.
“Look at this!” she exclaims. “My niece would love it. What’s this called—urban grunge?”
“I don’t care for it,” her friend informs her. “It perpetuates bad behavior, I think.”
“Oh, you’re just being a fuddy-duddy. It’s a new generation, Eleanor.”
Connie hurries over as the woman picks it up. “Hi, sorry, I’d like to get that if you don’t want it.” She resists the urge to reach out and pluck the album from the woman’s hands.
The woman gives her a smile. “Oh, I’m sorry, but I’m getting it for my niece’s birthday. Maybe ask Bettie if she has any more?”
“No more,” comes a prompt reply from the beginner’s table. “Now let’s talk about layering!”
“This one’s nice,” Eleanor says, thrusting a garish lime-green fabric album decorated with paper flowers into Connie’s hands. “Green is going to be big this fall.”
“I did hear that green is the new black,” her friend agrees.
Ugh. “Thanks, but I think I’ll keep looking.” Connie puts the album back on the table and casts another look around. There’s nothing else that holds her interest, not even close. Connie tries to hide her disappointment as she veers away from the beginner’s table and makes her way back to the kitchen.
“How’s it going?” Madeline asks, handing Max a wooden spoon. It looks like she’s put him to work, stirring yogurt and letting him add granola and dried fruit. She gives Connie a wink as she nods toward Max. “He’s cooking, aren’t you, Max?”
“Yes!”
“Nice,” Connie says. She pulls out a chair and flops down. “So when is this scrapbooking meeting going to be over?”
Madeline glances at the clock. “Another hour. You’re not having fun?”
Connie tries to shrug. “It’s not my thing.” Despondent, she drums her fingers on the wooden table.
“That’s too bad,” Madeline says. There’s a wistful look in her eye. “I have to say, though, that I’m inspired. I’ve decided that I am definitely going to chronicle Steven’s life for Maggie. I’m going to do everything I can to share as much as possible about her grandfather. And grandmother. I’ll have to ask Ben to help me fill in the details. Do you think he’ll mind?”
Connie thinks back to Ben’s last visit, over Easter. How they’d hidden eggs in the backyard for Maggie to find, even though she was too young to know what was going on. How she squealed with delight whenever Madeline produced a colorful egg from underneath a bush or from behind a tree. Connie remembers watching Ben’s face, the mix of emotions, of gratitude, of love. The entire time he and his wife, Karen, were here was spent in the kitchen, talking with Madeline as she cooked.
“I don’t think he’ll mind,” Connie tells her. “In fact, I think he’d really like it.”
“Oh, I hope so,” Madeline says. She gives Connie a sheepish look. “I don’t want to overstep my bounds.”
Connie runs a finger along the smooth grain of the wood. “You won’t,” she says. “I think finding ways to show someone you love them is pretty cool. It’s the one thing I wished I had more of when I was growing up. Someone to show they cared.”
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 rec
eived 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 pic
tures 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.
