The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society (14 page)

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 say, 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.”

“It’s called a napkin. Get the beef brisket, Isabel.”

“I’ll regret it tomorrow.”

“Sounds like you’re regretting it already. Come on—life’s too short.”

Isabel sighs. “Life is too short so I should eat beef brisket? Maybe I should put that on a bumper sticker.”

Yvonne grins. “Why not? Just don’t make it a question. Make it a statement:
Life is short—eat beef brisket!
”

The women laugh as the manager, Arnold Fritz, emerges from the kitchen looking distraught. “Sorry, folks, but we have to close early tonight. I’m going to have to ask you all to leave.”

There’s a collective groan, the loudest one being from Isabel.

“How come?” someone demands.

“What about my skirt steak?” someone else wants to know.

“Can I still get dessert?”

“What about my beer? Can I finish my beer?”

Arnold holds up his hands. “It’s a plumbing issue, folks. Nothing major, but it’ll shut us down for the night. I can’t get anyone to come out and take a look until the morning and I’m not comfortable having a full house under the circumstances. The waitresses will hand out rain checks—fifteen percent off the next time you come in. Sorry for your trouble.”

There’s more grumbling as patrons begin to gather their things.

“There’s always the Pizza Shack,” Isabel says with a sigh, tossing the menu aside. “Or McDonald’s.”

Yvonne notices the manager talking with the bartender. She eats another cashew, then slides off the stool and walks over. “You’re having plumbing problems?”

Arnold nods. “Really slow drains. Company came out last month to clear the grease traps but something’s going on. I’d rather lose a little business than have a major problem on my hands.”

“Same thing happened at the last place I worked in Barrett,” the bartender says. He starts to clear the discarded glasses on the bar, waves to a few customers as they pass by.

“I’d be happy to take a look,” Yvonne offers. “No promises, but I can see if your grease trap is the culprit.”

“The grease trap?” Arnold chuckles, amused. “While I appreciate your offer, miss, the grease trap is not some little doohicky inside the kitchen.”

“I know what a grease trap is,” Yvonne says. It doesn’t bother her that the manager of the Avalon Grill assumes she doesn’t know a thing about plumbing. “I’m a licensed plumber in the state of Illinois. Yvonne Tate, Tate Plumbing.” She digs in her purse, a small glittery thing that seems a bit impractical at the moment, and hands him a business card.

“Let her take a look, Arnold,” the bartender suggests. “In Barrett it backed up into the kitchen—it was a real mess, shut us down for two weeks. We had to have the health inspector come out again.”

Isabel is behind her now, looking as flummoxed as Arnold. “What’s going on?”

Arnold looks at her and back at Yvonne, who is holding out her hand. He shakes his head as he shakes her hand. “I’m not sure, but I think this little lady is going to look at my grease trap out back.”

“This little lady is,” Yvonne confirms, reaching for another handful of nuts. Isabel seems less enthusiastic but Yvonne tugs her along, following Arnold through the kitchen and out the back door.

It takes her all of five minutes to conclude that whoever pumped their grease trap did a lousy job. “If they pumped a month ago, it shouldn’t be this full,” Yvonne says. Isabel is next to her with her nose pinched. Generally restaurants the size of the Avalon Grill would need to have their grease traps cleaned four times a year, so missing a cleaning or doing a lousy job could end up with disastrous results. “Are they snaking the lines into the kitchen, too?”

“I thought so,” Arnold says. “But obviously not. I don’t want to bad-mouth anyone, small town and all, but I’m not happy with the company we’re using. They’re the biggest outfit around but I guess that doesn’t mean they’re the best.”

“I’d look into another company,” Yvonne advises. She doesn’t do grease traps, doesn’t have the tank or equipment to properly flush the lines or pump out the fats and other food solids that have to be treated after they’re removed from the premises. But she knows what a clean grease trap looks like, and this isn’t one of them. “You made the right call, Arnold. If left for too long you’d be looking at hydrogen sulfide gas, which is not only dangerous but could accelerate decay of the trap itself.” If Arnold is able to get a company out first thing in the morning, it will take all of thirty minutes to get the grease trap properly serviced and maintained.

“Thank God, I was worried there for a second. I can’t afford to lose this job and—” Arnold lets out a deep breath, offers them both a sheepish smile. “I guess there’s always that not knowing, huh? If you made the right choice or not? It’s a relief to know you made the right decision.”

The two women look at each other, then look away, each lost in their own thoughts.

“Yeah,” Yvonne says, and suddenly she can’t wait to get out of there, to end this conversation, to crawl in between the sheets of her own bed, to close her eyes to this day that’s beginning to fill with old memories she’d rather forget. “You’re lucky. Because sometimes you never get to know.”

“Fran, what are you doing?” Reed looks bewildered as Frances bursts through the door with the boys in tow, their arms laden with shopping bags. Reed puts down the book he is reading.

“Mom is nuts,” Nick says, dropping his load onto the couch. “She bought everything in the store.”

Frances shoots her oldest a look. At eight, Nick is already tall and gangly, still a boy but with occasional glimpses of becoming a young
man. It’s too fast, Frances used to think, but now she’s just annoyed. “Nick, that’s not true.”