The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society (2 page)

“Help!” they hear one of the women shout. “There’s a wild beast in here!” Connie hurries to the dining room. There’s a stern reprimand and then another exclamation accompanied by the sound of more good china crashing to the floor.

To outsiders Avalon may look like a nondescript river town, but Madeline knows better. She reaches for the broom and dustpan with a happy sigh, then heads to the dining room.

Isabel grasps the hammer and pounds the
FOR SALE
sign into her front lawn. The earth is hard and unyielding, dry from too much Illinois heat, another long hot August that shows no sign of relief. Maybe she should have watered the lawn first. Maybe she should have hired that redheaded kid from down the street. Maybe she should have called a real estate agent to list her house properly instead of trying to do it on her own, like so many things these days.

But Isabel doesn’t want to wait for people to call her back, to check their schedules, to haggle a fee. To find the garden hose, wherever that is.

Bang bang bang
. The sign shakes and shivers.

Last night, when she was the last person wandering the dusky streets after a seven o’clock showing of
The Man from M.A.R.S
., Isabel had stopped at the hardware store to pick up some laundry detergent. There they were, right by the entrance, on clearance. Fifteen cans of paint stacked in a pyramid, pointing to the sky.

Isabel thought about her house, of the stove and kitchen table, of
the fridge and nubby dishtowels. The living room furniture, the bedroom set, the chipped cherrywood table in the hallway. She thought of her tired walls, the ceilings, the doors. There was a time when she dreamed they’d live in that house forever, have children in it, grow old in it. But Isabel’s had to let that dream go. So what’s she still doing in Avalon?

“I’ll take them all,” she’d told the cashier, handing him a hundred-dollar bill. “And some of those brushes, too.”

She declined a drop cloth, spackle, turpentine. Too many things to remember.
Just the paint
, she’d said. And then she saw it. A sign, bent at the corners, leaning forlornly against the bags of organic lawn fertilizer.

FOR SALE BY OWNER
.

She bought that, too.

Isabel steps back to survey her work. The sign is crooked, but it’s clearly visible from the street. She knows her neighbors will be curious, maybe even nervous that she’s selling. Avalon is the sort of place where most people come to settle down, where families spend whole lifetimes. Isabel herself married into this small town, Bill having been born and raised here. Buried here, too, almost four years now.

There’s a flutter of curtains from the house next door. It’s her neighbor Bettie Shelton, the town fussbudget. Isabel knows Bettie had a hand in spreading the news about Bill’s departure and then his death two months later, a wrong turn down a one-way street. Casseroles had sprouted on her porch like mushrooms.

“Isabel Kidd!” she hears Bettie holler from inside her house. Bettie’s silvery-blue hair is still in curlers. She struggles to open the window, then settles on rapping the glass, the look on her face indignant. “What the heck do you think you’re doing?”

Isabel gives the sign a tap with the hammer.

“Isabel? Do you hear me?”

Isabel pretends to pick at a speck of dust on the sign.

“ISABEL!”

Exasperated, Isabel scowls. “Of course I hear you! Who doesn’t hear you?” Catty-corner from her house, Isabel sees Peggy Lively
emerge from her house, dressed in her fuzzy pink bathrobe. “You hear her, don’t you, Peggy?”

Peggy stares at Isabel and the hammer for a moment before glancing down the empty street. Then she grabs the morning paper from her walk and hurries back inside, slamming the door shut behind her. Isabel hears the lock sliding into place.

Isabel shoots Bettie an annoyed look and then gives the sign one last pound for good measure. She heads back into the house, knowing that Bettie’s prying eyes are watching her retreat.

In her living room, the paint cans are laid out like a labyrinth, waiting. Isabel hesitates, tentative, suddenly unsure. Putting up the
FOR SALE
sign was easy, knowing it could be pulled up at any time, no harm done, a whim put to bed. But this is different. Once done, it can’t be undone.

She reaches for the can closest to her, uses a screwdriver to crack the lid open. She gazes at the placid pool of paint.
Whisper White
. She gives it a stir, the smell tickling her nose.

Her first stroke on the wall is uneven, streaking, her second stroke no better. But still the paint glistens, beckoning, a stark contrast to the tired gray hue that’s been there for years. Isabel dips the brush again and swirls it until the bristles are heavy with paint, then lifts and tries again. This time there’s a thick swath of white, smooth and complete. She follows with another stroke, bolder this time.

It goes faster than she thinks, and soon the entire wall is done. It’s a blank stare looking back at her, giving away nothing. Isabel leans closer, looking for a hint of the past, but sees nothing other than her own shadow as the tip of her nose bumps against the damp wall.
Ouch
. And then Isabel remembers other white walls.

There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?

No, doctor, it wasn’t
.

Of course he had asked her when she was in a morphine-induced haze, easy and agreeable, happy to talk to anyone and everyone. Bill had been by her side, stunned and sad, knowing that this was it, their last chance. They weren’t going to try anymore. It didn’t matter, he would try to assure her when she lay in bed, night after night, her pillow
damp with tears. It was enough, just the two of them. He’d hold her fingertips to his lips and kiss each one gently. A promise.

It would be a few more years before Bill would leave, that promise forgotten. They had said it wouldn’t change them, but it had, and whatever it was they lost they couldn’t get back. Isabel wasn’t happy but she wasn’t unhappy, either. It was tolerable. She still loved Bill and she knew he loved her, and yet a whole chasm spanned between them, pushing them further and further apart with each day that passed. If she had to she could live out her life this way, in polite deference to each other, a peaceful coexistence in the same space, the same life. It wasn’t ideal but it was enough for Isabel. Not, apparently, for Bill.

What is it with dentists and their dental assistants? It’s an embarrassing cliché that Isabel has to live with. My husband left me for his dental assistant, a woman ten years younger than me. At the time Isabel had thought it couldn’t get any worse, that nothing could usurp this abandonment, but she was wrong.

She hadn’t been prepared for the baby announcement, had cracked the seal of the envelope without thinking. She thought it was a belated sympathy card, a few months late. She pulled out the stiff card and saw a chubby cherub of a baby with Bill’s unmistakable bright blue eyes and Dumbo ears.

So now, at the ripe old age of thirty-eight, Isabel Kidd is alone. No husband, no children. An unsatisfying job as a customer service representative for a corrugated paper company in Rockford, about forty-five minutes away. Some money from Bill’s pension. His share of the dental practice went to his partner, Randall Strombauer, a man Isabel never cared for. He’s the one who hired the assistant with an eye, Isabel suspects, of having her all to himself. Randall was the single guy while Bill was safely ensconced in a marriage of twelve years. An open playing field with Randall as the only player. But, of course, things have a way of not working out as planned.

The remaining walls in the living room look shabby and lifeless, dull neighbors to the freshly painted wall. That’s how it goes sometimes. She could keep it as an accent wall, but she feels for the others.
They deserve a fresh start as well. After all, they were all innocent bystanders.

This time she’ll do it differently—no need to slap one stroke on after the other. After all, this is her house, her walls. She can do whatever she wants with it.

Isabel dips her brush and begins again.

Yvonne Tate checks the address one last time before shoving the scrap of paper into her pocket. The house in front of her is a modest bungalow with a white picket fence, sycamore trees lining the street. She opens the gate and goes up the walk, noticing the postage-stamp lawn and garden. Flower boxes filled with geraniums and impatiens in a summer burst of colors line the windows, butterflies dancing in the garden. It’s a sweet home.

Yvonne presses the doorbell and waits. She hears voices inside, a man and a woman arguing. A second later the door opens.

“May I help you?” The woman is in her late twenties, young and pretty. Her husband stands behind her, about the same age.

“I’m Yvonne Tate. Tate Plumbing. You called about an emergency?”

The couple stares at her. The wife looks past Yvonne for another person, presumably the “real” plumber, while the husband gawks at Yvonne, his mouth slightly open in surprise.

“It’s just me,” Yvonne tells them good-naturedly. She knows she doesn’t look the part. She’s slender and athletic, her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. She has the requisite T-shirt, jeans, and work boots, along with her toolbox, but even with these accoutrements and no makeup she is still often mistaken for a model. “We spoke on the phone an hour ago?” she reminds the woman. Yvonne pulls out the piece of paper. “Megan and Billy Newman, right?”

Megan Newman stares at her. “Yes, but I thought you were the receptionist.”

“I am the receptionist. I’m also the bookkeeper, sales director, and
of course, plumber. I’m a one-woman show.” Yvonne glances at her watch. “Now, why don’t you show me the problem?”

Megan doesn’t look convinced but her husband is quick to step aside and invite Yvonne in, earning him a glare from his wife.

“How long have you been doing this?” Megan asks, a skeptical look on her face.

“Ten years, though I’ve only been in Avalon about six months. I’m licensed in three states and have a flawless track record.” Yvonne takes in the honey-colored hardwood floors, the gingham curtains, the slipcovered couch and loveseat. Fresh flowers in glass vases are dotted throughout the house, wedding pictures everywhere. “So what’s the problem again?” she asks.

Megan and Billy exchange a look. “It’s probably easier if we show you,” Billy says.

Yvonne follows them into the master bathroom. Once in the bathroom, she lets out a small giggle but quickly composes herself. “Oh,” she says. “I see.”

Pots and pans are stacked in the bathtub.

“It’s temporary until we figure out what happened in the kitchen,” Megan says hurriedly. “We’ll show you that later. This is the problem in here.”

The bathroom sink is new, with two antique faucets, one labeled
HOT
and one labeled
COLD
. Megan turns the knob on the left for the cold water, but water shoots out from the faucet on the right, and vice versa.

“I thought I installed it right,” Billy says, scratching his head. “But obviously it’s a bit messed up.”

Yvonne points to the piping below the sink. “You’ll also want to install some shut-off valves.”

“I was going to do that next,” Billy says, unconvincingly.

“I told him we should hire professionals for the plumbing and electrical projects, but no, he had to do it himself.” Megan shoots her husband a look. “And that’s not all. Come on.” She motions Yvonne to follow her.

In the kitchen Megan opens the doors beneath the sink, revealing a maze of bizarre piping, including a cut-up milk jug attached to the P-trap with zip ties and duct tape. “The kitchen sink leaks so bad that we can’t use it at all,” Megan says. “Billy rigged up this contraption to catch the water but there’s so much we don’t even bother. It was supposed to be a temporary thing but we’re coming up on three weeks. I can’t take it anymore!”

“It’s not so bad …” Billy begins.

“We’re doing our dishes in the bathtub, Billy!”

Well, that explains that. “These are pretty easy fixes,” Yvonne assures her. She turns to Billy. “Why didn’t you put a bucket underneath, by the way?”

Billy opens his mouth to respond then scratches his head. “Yeah, that does make better sense,” he says sheepishly.

Yvonne grins. “I should be able to take care of everything today,” she tells them. She quotes them a price and Megan nods enthusiastically.

“Yes,” she says. “Please start right away.”

“I thought it would be more expensive,” Billy says, surprised. “The other company we called quoted us almost double.”

Yvonne shrugs. She doesn’t worry about the competition, has always had an attitude that there’s enough business for everyone. “I’ll give you an itemized invoice of the work when I’m done, too.”

Megan is humming happily as she goes to the fridge and pulls out a carafe of iced tea. She pours each of them a glass, then nods to the backyard. “I’ll be outside.” She gives her husband a pointed look before leaving.

Yvonne opens her toolbox. Billy shoves his hands into his pockets, shifting his weight from side to side.

“She’s mad at me,” he says. “I guess I’m a dope for trying to do our own plumbing.”

“You’re not,” Yvonne tells him. “It’s great that you tried, Billy.” Yvonne is used to coming to the rescue after disastrous DIY plumbing projects—this is nothing. She’s all for people learning how to take care of their homes and perform simple home maintenance tasks, but
you have to do your homework, have to put in a little more time beyond watching a three-minute YouTube video on how to seal your tub. “I’m sure you would have figured it out eventually,” she says kindly.

He smiles, grateful, then casts a longing look toward Megan who’s leaning back on a lawn chair, her hands shading the sun from her eyes.

“Go join your wife,” Yvonne encourages. “She’s just ready to have your house in working order. You’ve been married about a year?”

Billy looks at her in surprise. “Eleven months,” he says. “How’d you know?”

Yvonne gives a nonchalant shrug as she digs through her tools for a crescent wrench. Yvonne doesn’t tell him what else she thinks, that Megan is clearly nesting. And slightly hormonal. She’s seen it in clients before. She’s not sure that Billy knows yet, or maybe not even Megan, but Yvonne would bet her bottom dollar that Megan is pregnant.