The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society (9 page)

“What? Don’t be ridiculous,” Bettie scoffed. She looked around the studio, took in the pictures on the walls, the books of photographs in the seating area. “It’s a matter of adjusting to the times, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well, if you figure out how to do that, let me know.” Christopher turned his attention back to the mess on his desk, but not before he saw her scowl.

“What, you’re throwing in the towel already? You haven’t even begun to figure this one out.” Bettie shook her head, obviously disappointed. “For instance, I’ve been noticing that more people are using stock images these days. You should as well.”

“But everyone’s doing that,” he told Bettie. “I don’t see why anybody would want to buy stock images from me when they can get them from lots of other places online.”

“Holy smokes!” she retorted. “With that attitude I’m amazed you’re still in business at all!” She pointed to one of his favorite photos on the wall, an image of a man with his grandson, sitting on a bench in Avalon Park. “Look at that. You capture not only the connection between the two of them, but
where
they are. That boy will always have special memories when he goes to the park—he’ll always think of his grandfather. Or why not spend your free time taking pictures of landmarks around Avalon? I’m sure lots of businesses might
like you to get photos for them, too. Proprietors standing in their doorways, for example. Like Hal at the butcher shop, swinging his cleaver. Or Mason Cribbs, driving his snow plow in the winter. Or Tessa Bridges when she’s taking out a fresh loaf of bread from her oven. We’re always telling people to buy local, maybe
show
them what buying local means, you know?” She played with the ribbons on her business card holder, trying to figure out how they’d look best.

Christopher was skeptical, but intrigued. What was he doing moping behind a desk, waiting for someone to call with business? He should be doing what he does best—standing behind a lens.

And then he got discouraged again. “But who would buy those?” he asked.

“I would,” Bettie said, standing tall. “In fact, I’d like to commission you to take a photo documentary of me and my scrapbooking society. A few nice black-and-white photos from our meetings that we can save in our archives. I might also use them for Christmas cards.”

Bells started going off in Christopher’s head. Not warning bells, but the kind that let you know that inspiration is brewing.

Christopher thought about what Bettie said, about putting a face to a name, about encouraging small business owners to show their customers what they were about. He knew he could capture this better than anyone else. These people put their hearts into what they did. It was their passion. And it was up to Christopher to show that to everyone else.

He started with Bettie and the Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society. He took pictures at a meeting, then went to the homes of some members and took pictures of their craft spaces, their albums. The result was four more jobs, and he started shooting pictures for people who wanted to get grants for their nonprofit organizations, who were chronicling their businesses, who wanted compelling, well-shot images for their own marketing and promotional purposes. He used this same approach with his own business, setting up self-portraits so people could see him in action. Six months later, he was out of debt.
Nine months later, he’d made almost as much money as he did the previous year. By the end of his second year, he’d had his best year ever.

Anyone can take a picture, and that’s the truth. But what he tells prospective clients is that not everyone can capture a person, or an image, or an emotion. There’s a creative engagement that happens when you look through the lens. This is not a haphazard endeavor, but one that you enter into with great care and focus. You see what matters most, and then you snap a picture of it for all the world to see.

Chapter Six
 

Frances gazes dreamily at the pink petticoats, the white lace. She’s standing outside Margot West’s new store, a catchall gift shop selling beauty and body care, wooden toys, knitwear, and baby clothes. There’s a sign in the window,
AVON PRODUCTS SOLD HERE
, and Frances is reminded of her own childhood, the round boxes of talcum powder her mother used to buy from their neighbor, Mrs. Granger. Frances herself had a small yellow pin, a bird whose tummy would pop open to reveal a small pot of lip balm. It was a silly thing but she loved it, and she wishes now she had more keepsakes from her childhood.

Brady is having a full-on conversation with himself, still on a sugar high after the ice cream cone from lunch. Frances couldn’t help it—he didn’t want the chicken fingers, didn’t want the macaroni and cheese, refused a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He pointed to another young child sitting in the booth next to them, a child who had already eaten her lunch and was now enjoying a chocolate cone with sprinkles. Nick and Noah were in school, Noah having started kindergarten this fall. So it’s now just the two of them, Mom and Brady, having this time together. Frances didn’t want to spoil it.

She had tried several times to talk to him about his baby sister
who was on her way to joining the family, but Brady had stared at her blankly, as if she were from another planet.
Baby who? Baby what?
his expression seemed to read.

Frances sighs. She should know better than try to put this on a three-year-old. She drew a picture the other day with him, making six smiling faces for their family instead of five. Brady had shaken his head and crossed out the smallest one, his fingers wrapped tightly around the crayon, then passed the picture back to her, satisfied.

He’ll figure it out when she gets here
, Reed had reassured her when she called him at work upset.
Let him be
.

Let him be, let him be. Frances had agreed but now, standing in front of Margot’s shop, she has an idea.

“Brady, let’s go get some things for Mei Ling’s care package!” she exclaims, her voice more animated than usual.

Brady points to a toy train in the window. “Train! Train! I want to see!”

“Yes, a train,” Frances says as she pushes the door open and ushers him inside. They’re greeted with a blast of cold air and Frances catches a whiff of lavender. She feels herself begin to relax as Margot looks up and waves from the register.

“All blue-dot items are ten percent off today,” Margot says. “And I have a special bath and body care promotion going on. Buy one, get one free.”

“Thank you,” Frances says as Brady makes a beeline for the train set in the window.

“That’s just for display,” Margot tells her. “Been in the family for years.” She picks up a smaller wooden train set, painted in primary colors, tucked safely behind the cellophane packaging. “Look, a blue dot!” The look on her face is pure surprise, as if she had no idea.

Frances nods politely. “We’ll think about it,” even though she knows there’s no way she’s bringing another train set into their house.

Or airplanes or fire trucks. Or cars of any kind.

No more marble mazes or racetracks or Legos. Frances is going to clean out and ban the eight million golf balls Reed brings back from
the golf course. Noah threw one at the oven door when he was four and it cost them $150 to replace it.

What else? No more mismatched play tool sets. No more rockets, guns (all gifts, not her idea), or Mr. Potato Heads. The boys have plenty, but Frances is ready for something more gender neutral. Something quieter. Prettier.

Her eyes drift to the miniature tea party kit. Real ceramic cups, teapot, creamer and sugar bowl, tiny spoons and saucers and plastic finger sandwiches. She wants to swoon.

“Those have no phthalates or BPA,” Margot informs her proudly. “And I have these adorable petit fours dessert toys that would go with it beautifully. They’re hand knitted by Maureen Nyer—the tops are made from felt. All locally made.”

Frances gasps at a small chocolate cupcake dotted with white stitches that look like sprinkles. “Brady, look! It’s like the real thing!”

Brady doesn’t bother to look over, and instead concentrates on pushing the train through a tunnel.

“I’ll get them all,” Frances says, even though she knows she can’t send them to China. Their adoption agency is very specific about what can go into a care package, but that’s all right. She’ll save it for when Mei Ling is actually here, add it to the growing collection of special items that Frances is putting aside for her.

Frances finds a few more items that can go into the care package—a small picture album, a doll, some fabric hair clips, a coloring book of Avalon Park. Mei Ling is in a foster home in Guangzhou instead of an orphanage, but Frances is pretty sure they don’t speak English. She passes on the board books filled with ABC’s and buys a couple of postcards of Avalon instead, hoping that Mei Ling will fall in love with this small town that will be her home.

Margot is ringing her up when a young woman enters the store.

“Hannah!” Margot exclaims. “I was wondering when you were going to come by with more brochures. People have been asking about your music classes, you know.”

Frances watches as Hannah Wang gives Margot a hug. Hannah is
somewhat of a celebrity, a former cellist with a famous orchestra in New York or Chicago, Frances doesn’t quite remember. She doesn’t know Hannah personally, but remembers her from the prior year when Avalon was baking friendship bread for a neighbor town that had been devastated by floods.

“I just added a master class,” Hannah explains as she hands Margot a stack of brochures. “And another beginner’s class, so I had to redo everything. This should last you awhile, though.” She turns and smiles at Frances. “Hi, I’m Hannah.”

“Frances Latham.” They shake hands and Frances is struck by how graceful and refined Hannah seems to be. She looks like she’s in her mid- or late twenties. Hannah has the figure of a dancer, tall and lean, her sleek dark hair pulled back in a simple chignon. “We actually met briefly last year. At Madeline’s.”

“The night we baked for Barrett,” Hannah remembers, nodding. “That’s right! It’s nice to see you again.”

“You too.”

Hannah spies Brady by the wooden train set. “Is this your son? He’s adorable.”

“That’s Brady,” Frances says. “He’s my youngest. I have three boys, if you can believe that. Nick is eight and Noah is five. Brady here is three.”

Margot lets out a low whistle, either impressed or from sympathy, but Hannah laughs. “I believe that your hands are full, that’s for sure,” she says. “My boyfriend is from a family of four boys so I know how crazy it can get. His mother’s always telling me stories about how much trouble they used to get into when they were growing up.”

“Hannah dates Jamie Linde,” Margot explains. “He drives a truck for UPS.” She takes Hannah’s brochures and walks to the front of the store where a small table and community bulletin board have been set up.

“Jamie?” Frances gasps. “Of course we know Jamie! I just put his photo in our photo album!”

“Your photo album?”

“He dropped off the referral letter for our daughter, Mei Ling. Well, she’s not our daughter yet, but she will be. We’re adopting from China. I got a picture with Jamie when he delivered the letter the other day.”

“I remember that!” Hannah exclaims, then blushes. “I hope you don’t mind, but Jamie told me that there was a family in Avalon who was going through a Chinese adoption. I think that’s wonderful, Frances.”

“Us too,” Frances says, grinning. It feels good to talk about it with someone. She’s been careful in sharing the news, not wanting to navigate the barrage of questions, not wanting to get everyone’s hopes up including her own, but now she feels almost giddy with relief. She’s thrilled that someone else knows, and Hannah looks genuinely happy for her. “We’re hoping she’ll be with us by Christmas at the latest. I know it’s only a few months away, but it feels like forever.”

“I’m so excited for your family,” Hannah tells her. “And it’s just a matter of time—she’ll be here before you know it.”

Frances smiles, grateful. “Thank you, Hannah.”

Hannah returns the smile. “I hope I’ll have a chance to see you again, maybe meet your daughter when you bring her home.”

Frances nods. “I’d like that, too.” Her eyes drift to the geometric clock on the wall and she gasps. “Oh, I’m late. The boys will be coming home from school.” Frances quickly gathers her things, wishing she could stay and talk some more. “Please tell Jamie we say hi.”

“I will.” Hannah waves as Frances bids Margot goodbye and ushers a reluctant Brady out of the store. The minute they step outside they’re met with a blast of blazing heat, but Frances doesn’t mind, not even when Brady whines and insists that she carry him the rest of the way, which she does. By the time they reach the car, both the bags and Brady are heavy and Frances is covered in sweat, but she’s too happy to care. Talking to Hannah about Mei Ling has made it all the more real. They’ve been approved, they have their referral, they have Mei Ling. Frances is going to have to practice saying that she has four
children now, because Mei Ling is going to be Frances’s daughter, and, like Hannah said, it’s only a matter of time before she’ll be coming home to Avalon.