The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society (5 page)

She touches the picture on the fridge. Maybe Max said it right the first time.

Free
. Ava wants to be free, wants the same for Max.

“Mommy?”

“Okay,” she says. “Bubbles it is!” She rushes up after him, giving his naked torso a tickle as Max bursts into peals of delighted laughter.

Isabel lays on her back in the middle of the living room floor, staring up at the ceiling. The smell of fresh paint has yet to fade but Isabel doesn’t mind—on the contrary, it reminds her that things are no longer the same. Her walls are so pristine that she’s reluctant to put anything back on them. Calendars, pictures, paintings, it doesn’t matter. She likes how spare everything feels. If anything, she should take more out. The furniture, the end tables, the floor lamps. Strip it all bare. Start from scratch.

Isabel laces her fingers together, rests them on her chest. For once her mind isn’t with Bill or that homewrecker, but with the freshly painted walls, the past slowly being replaced by the present. What should she do next? Tackle the exterior? Wash the screened windows? So many choices. Isabel notices how pale her skin looks against her white blouse and the white cotton cuffs of her shorts, the only clean things in her closet. She hasn’t had a tan in years.

Plain vanilla
, she thinks. That’s what Bill used to call her. He meant it affectionately because she was so fair, so even-keeled, so go-with-the-flow, but Isabel always felt struck by the comment, as if he were saying that she was boring. Colorless. When he left her for Ava that was the first thing to cross Isabel’s mind. Ava, with her brightly colored dresses, her painted toenails. Ava, full of color, while Isabel was the sort of woman who blended in with the walls.

She hears the sound of someone walking up the steps to the porch. Then a crack, a splintering of wood. Isabel sits up, her ear trained to the door. There’s muttering, then a knock.

“Isabel? I know you’re in there. Open up.”

Bettie Shelton. No surprise there. It’s either her or the Jehovah’s Witnesses as the rest of the neighborhood has taken to leaving Isabel alone.

“Isabel? I’ll have you know I practically put my foot through a rotted board on your stairs. I could have fallen straight through! I’m not going to sue, but you’re going to have to find somebody to fix that thing.”

Yeah, that would have been Bill. The weekend he left her he was going through his list of honey-do’s—cleaning the gutters, power washing the windows. He was in the middle of mowing the lawn when he stopped. Just stopped. Isabel was in the kitchen, scrubbing out the oven, when he appeared in the doorway and told her he was leaving.

He seemed genuinely full of regret. He loved Isabel, but he loved Ava, too, and she was pregnant. He looked so sorrowful that Isabel almost felt sorry for him.
Almost
. He packed his things fast, as if he knew exactly what he was going to take and what he was going to
leave behind. He left the lawn mower by the maple tree and it was a week before Bettie Shelton eventually rolled it into the garage.

The house is in sorry shape and Isabel knows this—she’s let a lot of things go. It’s not only the money but the time, the brain power needed to figure out what to fix and what to replace. She just doesn’t have it. She’s managed the past four years with things being the way they are, so what’s a couple more?

Maybe the house will sell. She hasn’t had any calls yet, not even a nibble, but she only needs one buyer, right? Maybe she’ll downgrade to a condo somewhere. Clean and simple, no gutters to worry about, no rotting porches. Maybe she’ll leave Avalon altogether and start over someplace new. It’s a thought. There’s nothing tying her down here, after all.

“Isabel?” There’s a rap on her window. “I can see you lying on the floor. Are you going to answer the door or what?”

Isabel holds her breath, doesn’t move.

“Isabel?”

Isabel wills Bettie to magically disappear.

“Isabel, I know where your spare key is.” Bettie Shelton’s head peeks through the side window.

Damn it all. Isabel sits up and glares at the door. “It’s open!”

The doorknob turns and Bettie steps in. She’s wearing a house dress and flip-flops, her silvery-blue hair fuzzy from the heat. She frowns when she sees Isabel sitting on the floor, then looks around. “You painted?”

Isabel manages a nod. She’s never been particularly friendly with Bettie, who’s a bit too scrappy for someone as plain vanilla as Isabel.

“Huh, you painted your walls white. All of them.” Her eyes bug out when Isabel stands up. “And you
match
.”

“I’m redecorating,” Isabel says, hoping that will get Bettie off her back. “Getting the place ready for the new owners.”

Bettie gives her a hard look. “Did you sell it?”

Isabel squirms. “Not yet, but I will.”

“Well, you’d better fix that busted step,” Bettie declares. “I could have killed myself, I’ll have you know.”

No such luck
, Isabel wants to say, but instead she asks, “Is there something you need? Eggs? Flour? You know where everything is. Have at it.” Isabel waves in the general direction of her kitchen. Last year when the town was baking Amish Friendship Bread, Bettie was coming in unannounced, borrowing ingredients at will. Isabel didn’t notice at first, too mired in her own problems, until she found her flour container suddenly empty, the small jar of vanilla upended, grains of sugar crystals dotting the floor. Her supply of gallon-sized Ziploc bags was disappearing at an alarming rate. It wasn’t until Bettie complained that Isabel was out of cinnamon that she finally figured it out.

Bettie surveys the living room critically. “I wanted to invite you to join our next meeting. Second Thursday of the month. No previous experience necessary.”

Isabel reluctantly stands up. “Previous experience for what?”

“Scrapbooking.” Bettie straightens up to her full height, 4’11”. “I’m president and founder of the Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society, in case you didn’t know.”

Isabel does know, as does half the town—Bettie won’t let them forget it. Their street is clogged with cars whenever there’s a meeting. “Thanks, but I have plans.”

“What plans? You don’t have any plans. You never leave this house, Isabel Kidd. I’ve been watching you.” Bettie points two fingers to her eyes then points them at Isabel. “You don’t go anywhere.”

“Untrue. I go to work and last week I bought paint.” Isabel studies the rug on the floor. God, how old is it? She and Bill had bought it together—it was one of the first purchases they made when they got married. There’s history in this rug, history Isabel doesn’t care to remember. She starts to push a couch against the wall, almost running over Bettie’s toes.

Bettie frowns, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at Isabel. “I am even willing to waive the membership fee for the first month. It’s normally fifteen dollars and includes a starter pack for the monthly theme. But, under no circumstances are you to tell anyone that I am doing such a thing. It would look like nepotism.” She jumps out of the way as Isabel drags a coffee table across the floor.

“Like I said, I have plans.” The furniture out of the way, Isabel crouches and tries to roll up the rug. It’s long and wide, too heavy and unwieldy for one person. Isabel starts from the middle, the sides, the corners—none of it matters. The rug is stubborn and lies limp in her arms, unwilling to move.

Bettie is watching her. “Would you like some help?” she asks.

No, Isabel most definitely does not want help from Bettie. The thought of being indebted to this woman in any way is more than Isabel can bear.

“No,” Isabel huffs, lifting an end and attempting to fold it over. “I got it.” The rug rebels, heavy with dirt and memories. Isabel falls back in defeat.

“Oh, this is ridiculous.” Bettie marches over and stands next to Isabel. “You roll from there, I’ll roll from here. You just need to gain momentum, that’s all. Let’s go. One, two, three!”

Together they push and roll the rug until it’s no more than a fat cylinder of fabric at the end of the living room. They stand up and Isabel looks at the lustrous hardwood floor that’s been covered all these years. She suddenly feels buoyant, encouraged. She’s going to call Goodwill to come and get the rug. She casts a look around. Maybe she’ll give them the couch, too. Maybe she’ll give them everything.

“Next meeting is tomorrow night, at my house, from six to nine. Bring your own refreshments and a pair of good scissors, if you have them.” Bettie bats the dust away from her face. “Come five minutes early. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to come to another meeting. I’m all about one-hundred-percent customer satisfaction, and that includes Society members, too. See you at six!” And before Isabel can protest or argue, Bettie turns and walks out the door.

Enid Griffin, 56
Travel Agent, Avalon Travel
 

Enid Griffin peers into the pot of Gerbera daisies and wrinkles her nose. The brown streaks on the once-red petals are a dead giveaway.

“I knew it,” she huffs, pulling herself upright. She’s formidable, almost six feet, and full-figured to boot. At fifty-six she’s a fair blonde with only a hint of gray, her hair perfectly coiffed and sprayed into place. “Thrips!”

She marches around to her desk, which was custom-made to accommodate her large frame. She sits down, indignant, and starts rapidly typing on her keyboard.

“I know you said Napa Valley but I am telling you, wine country is overrated,” she says to the young couple sitting across from her. “You want your honeymoon to be memorable, don’t you?”

“Well, yes …”

“And these days, with divorce rates so high, I think you can’t NOT afford to invest in your marriage. New experiences, new adventures!”

The young couple looks skeptical. “All of our friends who went to California said it was wonderful, and that Napa was so romantic …” the girl begins.

Enid dismisses this with a wave of her hand. “California has an
allure, but I’m looking at you two and thinking …” Her eyes twinkle as her voice drops into a low, conspiratorial whisper.
“Texas.”

“Texas?”

“Texas! Here we are. South Padre Island.” Enid turns her computer screen toward them. “Turtle hatchlings! Palm trees! Orange groves! Wonderful fishing, too—some of the restaurants will even cook your catch. Plus you’re close to Mexico so you could cross over for a little day trip. You’ll save money and bring home lots of memories. Your own, not some cookie cutter memory downloaded from a website. I mean, do you two even drink wine?”

The young woman says uncertainly, “Well, I drink Chardonnay sometimes …” as her fiancé says, “I’m more of a Budweiser kind of guy.”

They turn to stare at each other, surprised. “You said you wanted to go to Napa Valley,” the young woman accuses her fiancé.

“I said I
would
go,” he clarifies. “But I mean, yeah, if a bottle of wine costs the same as a six pack …”

“More,” Enid says.

“Yeah, if it costs more and doesn’t even taste as good …”

The young woman’s voice is shrill. “That’s why we’re going! So we can learn to appreciate these things!”

“Why? What’s the point? I’m not going to be buying the stuff when we come back. We can’t even afford it now.”

“Maybe we will!”

“Massages,” Enid interjects. “With the money you’ll save you’ll be able to do lots of fun things. Dance clubs, windsurfing, kiteboarding, parasailing. You kids are young, you should be doing fun things together. You have the rest of your lives to be gargling fermented grape juice.” She sends a document to the printer and readies a travel folder for them. They aren’t going to make a decision today—she knew that when they first walked in. In fact, Enid is willing to wager that this will be the first of many decisions they won’t be able to agree on. “Is there any wiggle room in your budget?” she asks.

The woman says, “Yes,” as the young man says, “No.”

Enid’s right hand hovers over her drawer. She knows what this
young couple needs, and it’s not wine country or heading to the gulf coast. Still, she was planning on saving it for herself, for her own trip later this year. She finally decided to bite the bullet and take that cruise to Greece, something she always wanted to do but hasn’t, because she was waiting. Waiting, perhaps, for someone to come along that would be a good companion, a husband even, but that hasn’t happened. There are plenty of nice men in Avalon but none of them are Enid’s type, and she’s not getting any younger. When Bettie Shelton showed her the selection of new page kits, Enid decided, this is it. She marched back to her office and booked her ticket, and for the first time in her thirty years of being a travel agent she made up a travel folder for herself.

But as she watches this young couple tripping their way to the altar, she thinks,
God bless ’em
. She also thinks,
Good luck
. She knows she missed this part, this supposed happily ever after, but watching it unfold in front of her, it doesn’t always look so happy. In fact, it looks like a lot of stress and anxiety and argument and tears. The people who come to her are supposed to be going on vacation, but to see how worked up they get, you’d think you were dragging them to the dentist for a root canal. Enid thinks of Mac and Judy Mullins, regular customers of hers. They saved all their money to travel when Mac retired, but when that time came, it turned out he didn’t have any interest in leaving his Barcalounger. Each trip requires hours of cajoling on both her and Judy’s part and, boy, is it exhausting. Mac always ends up acquiescing in the end, but it’s never without a fight. Why, Enid often wonders, do people sometimes want to make things harder than they need to be?