The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society

by Darien Gee

  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.”

  Yvonne didn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it. She jumped into her car and drove to Sam’s house, where his father was waiting for her with a cup of coffee, his face tired and weathered from years of working outdoors. He didn’t have to say anything for Yvonne to know it was true.

  Sam was gone.

  Driving home, Yvonne realized that her life would always be this way. Her parents showing her who she was and what she could or could not have, no matter what the cost. They wanted to humiliate her into submission. But it was more than simple embarrassment, Yvonne knew. They wanted her hurt. Hurt so she could see the cost of love, and that in the end, it would always be about the money.

  She left her car by the side of the road. When she saw the plumbing truck, she stuck out her thumb. His name was Harold Stroup. He was sixty and ready to retire, had been in the business for over forty years. When he smiled the edges of his eyes crinkled. They talked as they drove away from her past and toward her future.

  Now, Yvonne lifts her toolbox out of her truck and heads into the house. That was ten years ago, a lifetime ago. The first few years were the hardest, trying to make her own way and finding that life was harder when she didn’t have the resources available to her that she was used to. But she managed, and she saved. When she was ready to buy a home of her own, she looked for a small town where she wouldn’t have to pay an arm and a leg. She found Avalon.

  She should tell this all to Hugh, not to mention Isabel, but Yvonne doesn’t want to go there. She knows what happens when people find out about her past, about her family. The questions start and they don’t stop, and then they start treating her differently, even if they don’t mean to. The money thing gets in the way, and then it gets awkward and uncomfortable. She’s had friendships and relationships end because of it, ex-boyfriends who wonder if maybe she should reconnect with her family, if she’s absolutely sure that she’s been cut from the will. When she says yes, there’s the wavering and then the eventual breakup. It never starts because of the money, Yvonne realizes, but it usually ends because of it.

  Yvonne is about to put her key in the lock when she notices that the front door is slightly ajar. Odd. She gives the door a push, and it slowly swings open.

  From the doorway, everything looks as she left it. Nothing seems to be missing or broken. Someone breaking in wouldn’t be so discreet, would they? Plus it’s still light out. Who would risk coming into her house in broad daylight, much less through the front door?

  Yvonne hesitates, unsure of whether or not to go in. She may be fearless, but she’s not stupid, and something doesn’t feel right.

  “Hello?” she calls out, and half expects someone to reply. But no one does.

  Should she call the police? What would she say? Maybe she didn’t close the door all the way when she left—she was in a rush this morning to get to the elementary school on time, to fix a busted water main. She was excited to get the call, after weeks of sluggish business and unexpected cancellations, and it was very possible that she wasn’t paying attention.

  It’s a plausible explanation, and there are probably others, too. So why does Yvonne suddenly feel scared?

  Lamar Henderson, 72

  Retired Teacher

  Lamar Henderson is in his living room playing the weekly Sudoku in the Avalon Gazette. He pencils in a 4 beneath a 1 when he hears a panicked cry from the driveway.

  “Help! Lamar, oh Lamar, come quick!”

  It’s his wife, Alice. There’s something about the urgent tone of her voice—no, not urgent, but desperate—that makes Lamar throw down the paper and rush to the door, almost tripping over their cat, Precious.

  Lamar fumbles with the lock as Alice cries out again for help. He throws open the door, half expecting to see Alice lying on the ground with a twisted ankle or clutching her chest in pain.

  “Lamar! Thank goodness!” Alice gasps when she sees him. She’s buckling under the weight of several large shopping bags, their contents threatening to spill over the sides. He hurries forward to catch the bags as Alice’s arms give way.

  Several spools of ribbon fall out of one bag and roll toward the walkway before settling on their sides. Bright oranges and sunny yellows, pinks with white polka dots, crinkly blues, luscious purple stripes. Ribbons in every color of the rainbow. Lamar stares at them and a long-forgotten memory comes up—paper strips of sugary candy dots, his favorite treat as a young boy, so many summers ago.

  “Alice, did you make it back from Rockford in one piece?” comes a holler from across the street. Alice and Lamar turn to see Tubby Jenkins wiping her hands on her apron before giving them a wave.

  “Yes! But I couldn’t find those heart cabo
chons that Mary Winder has. Came across some alphabet ones that are adorable, though. I picked up a set for you, too. They have a nice epoxy dome on top.”

  “Bless you!” Tubby exclaims. “I’m finishing up a pie. I’ll be by in an hour with a couple of slices and you can show me what you got.”

  Alice waves as she picks up wayward ribbon spools as she heads into the house. “We’re going to fry in this heat if we don’t get in the house,” she tells her husband. “Don’t forget the bags in back!”

  It takes Lamar almost ten minutes to bring everything in. Alice has changed into a housedress and is standing by the kitchen sink, washing her hands and bubbling with excitement. “Oh, good, I can’t wait to see what I got!”

  Lamar stares at her in disbelief. “You don’t know what you bought?” he asks. He peers into one of the bags as his stomach gives a grumble. “Is any of this food?”

  “Food? Don’t be ridiculous. It’s scrapbooking supplies. And I know what I bought, I just want to see everything again. I’m going to convert the guest bedroom into a crafter’s paradise!” Alice beams as she peers into the first bag.

  Lamar frowns. “But where will the kids stay when they come to visit?” They have two children, all grown up with children of their own. Six grandchildren in all.

  “Oh, we’ll figure it out. They only come two weeks out of the year—there’s no point in leaving the room empty for the other fifty. Besides, you have a home office in the second room and a wood shop out back. Why can’t I have a little space of my own?”

  Lamar feels a small rise of panic as Alice begins to pull things out of the bags: thick stacks of patterned paper, empty storage boxes, large puffy albums, scissors with colorful handles, jar after jar of small metal things. She’s even bought some kind of machine that looks like a cross between a printer and a toaster.

  “Isn’t this clever?” she’s saying as she zips and unzips the matching nylon carrier. “I can’t wait to show the girls at the next meeting!”

  “Doesn’t Tubby have one of these?”

  Alice waves his comment away. “Lamar, I can’t keep borrowing everyone else’s die-cutting machine—it wears on the blade, it’s just not fair. Plus I plan to do a fair amount of scrapping from here on out so I’ll need the right tools. It’s not like you don’t own every hammer, wrench, or power tool this side of the Mississippi.”

  “That’s different,” Lamar protests. “Those things are practical. Necessary.”

  Alice stops for a second and puts her hands on her hips. “For what? A couple of footstools, a squirrel-be-gone bird feeder? I don’t see you putting a new roof on the house anytime soon. You putter just as much as I do, Lamar. Don’t deny it.”

  She’s got him there. He watches Alice pull out a strip of paper several feet long before he realizes in horror that it’s a shopping receipt. “We’re gonna go broke, Alice!”

  Alice swats him. “Oh, hush. Almost everything I bought is on sale or had a coupon. I’ll have to get a little creative with our food budget for the next few months, that’s all. It’ll be fine.” She pulls out a box that looks like it has a hair dryer inside. “Oh, and I got this for you.”

  “For me?” Lamar looks at it, puzzled. Heat embosser, he reads. He doesn’t know what it is but it looks like something that could go in his shop.

  Alice nods. “It’s for you to give to me for our anniversary next month. Skip the dinner out—I’ll make something nice here. Skip the chocolates, too—Tubby and I are going to start Weight Watchers at the end of the month.” She hands him several small jars of sparkly powder. “This goes with it. You can wrap it all up and give it to me then.”

  “But it won’t be a surprise,” he says, frowning. He hasn’t had a chance to think of a gift yet, but he would have. Eventually.

  “I’ll pretend,” Alice says. “It’s not like I haven’t before. And, really, this will make me very happy. I love you, Lamar, but I don’t need another bottle of perfume I’ll never use.”

  Lamar gives one of the small jars a shake. Snowy glitter, he thinks. Well, he’s a man and he doesn’t understand these things—he’s long since given up trying to. And Alice is right—he hasn’t come up with a good gift for her in years. She’s saved him a trip to the drugstore at least.

  “Well, all right,” he says reluctantly, because there isn’t anything else for him to say. He pokes his head into another bag and lets out an exclamation. “How much ribbon do you have in here?!”

  “You can never have enough ribbon,” Alice informs him, her face lighting up as she gasps in delight at her discovery of another purchase she’d already forgotten about. She’s happy, there’s no doubt about that.

  Lamar picks up a spool of red rickrack and weighs it in his hand, remembering an episode on one of those home-shopping channels a couple of years ago. A lady had a whole room dedicated to gift wrapping, with rolls of gift wrap suspended on wooden dowels. It was some sort of expensive storage system that cost over a hundred dollars. Lamar had scoffed, saying it would take him half an hour and less than ten bucks to make the same thing. Alice had laughed.

  Lamar listens to his wife hum their favorite song as she heads to the fridge. Lamar smiles. Three coins in the fountain, each one seeking happiness. Sinatra. Best song ever.

  “Now, let’s see what we have,” Alice says, surveying the contents. “I can make you a turkey sandwich with a side of potato salad. Oh, good, we still have some of that passion fruit iced tea left over. I’ll pour you a glass.” She removes the items from the fridge, then stops for a moment, gazing toward the ceiling, lost in thought. “You know what I’m going to do for my first project in my new craft room, Lamar? I’m going to put those photos from your retirement party together—they’re just sitting in a box. And all those nice cards people wrote! They said such kind things about you, remember? I’m going to include those, too.”

  His retirement party. Lamar hasn’t thought about that in years. Now that Alice has brought it up, he remembers those cards, too. There was one from Jake Spencer, a young teacher whom he’d taken under his wing. Jake had written a long and heartfelt note, thanking Lamar for inspiring him to become a better teacher. Other teachers and students had lots of kind words for Lamar, too. Lamar loved teaching, loved what he did, and reading those words of appreciation made it all worth it.

  “Of course,” Alice adds thoughtfully as she spreads mayonnaise onto a slice of bread, “I may have to put the cards in cellophane sleeves if they’re not acid-free. I’ll have to ask Bettie about that.” She pauses, making a mental note, then nods, satisfied.

  Lamar doesn’t know what his wife is talking about but he walks over and gives her a peck on the cheek and she smiles. For the first time in a long time, he knows exactly what he’s going to give Alice for their anniversary. He’ll wrap up that heat embosser thing and those jars of whatever, but he’s going to surprise her with something else, too. He’s going to build a rack where she can store all of her ribbons, just like the lady on that show. Given the number of spools in this bag alone, he’ll need three dowels at least, maybe even four. May as well make it five for good measure. He’ll mount it on the wall so Alice can access them easily. Maybe he’ll add some shelving for all this paper, too.

  “Your sandwich is ready!”

  Lamar grins. Yes. The minute Tubby comes over, he’s going to slip out to his shop and start drawing up plans.

  Chapter Eleven

  Frances slides a photo of Brady into a two-inch-square punch and gives the lever a firm squeeze. There’s a crunch as a perfectly cropped photo pops out of the punch window and lands in her palm. Frances grins and adds the photo square to her growing pile, then reaches for a picture of Noah and does the same.

  Frances is making a favorite-things album for each of the boys. Favorite foods, favorite toys, favorites places, favorite sayings, favorite clothes. She’s going to laminate the pages of the albums for the younger boys, hopes it stands up to years of handling. She wants it to be something they’ll ke
ep for a long time, maybe even long enough to share with their own children.

  She has a few other albums planned: family vacations, birthday parties, and Christmas to start. They have some family albums, of course, where she stuck in photos whenever she had time, but Frances always has to narrate each one, explain what’s happening or recount a funny story. With her new scrapbooks, she won’t have to. She’ll journal on each page and include ticket stubs and birthday cards and airplane boarding passes. The story will be right there on the page for anyone to see.

  She’s addicted, she’ll admit it. The day after the scrapbooking meeting, Frances went to the library and checked out every book she could find on scrapbooking and memory keeping. She pored over every page, made lists of supplies and equipment, went shopping. She subscribed to several scrapbooking magazines, went to eBay to bid on huge lots of scrapbooking supplies by people who were giving it up. Those were her favorites—the boxes filled with a jumble of paper and embellishments, stickers, rub-ons, punches, and scissors. It was fun to sort through everything and delight in the randomness of it. Some people included more than what was listed, deciding in the end that it was better to get rid of it all, so Frances always had a surprise or two—a mini craft iron in one, a set of gel pens in another. It was almost too much, but Frances figures she can always use them for projects with the boys, too.

  Frances knows that as fun as this is, she needs it, too. She needs to keep busy, she needs to find ways to occupy her time and mind so that what’s happened (or rather, didn’t happen) doesn’t consume her. She knows scrapbooking isn’t going to fill the hole that’s left from Mei Ling, but it’s made her realize how much she has, how much she’s grateful for. And that’s worth something, isn’t it?

  Reed passes by the kitchen table on the way to the fridge. She can tell by the way his brows furrow that he has something on his mind, but he doesn’t want to talk about it.