The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society Part 21

"That will be up to me to decide," Connie says. She doesn't want him thinking she's easily bullied.

"No, missy. City ordinance. I don't want to have to bring this up at the next town meeting, either. It's bad enough you have all these people coming and going . . ."

"The tea salon is a legitimate business," she interjects.

"But keeping a goat in a residential area, even if you have a commercial license, isn't. I looked it up, missy."

"My name is Connie, Mr. La.s.siter."

"I'm telling you this first, missy, because I know you're doing your best and I appreciate the ca.s.seroles. But the minute I do a sit-down with Madeline, that goat is history. Again, nothing personal. I don't have any intention of spending my retirement years living next door to a goat. There's enough commotion going on as it is."

Connie is suddenly weary. "I hear you, Mr. La.s.siter."

"And I'd get that goat to a vet, if I were you. Something's not right with her." He grunts and heads back to his house.

Connie pushes the wheelbarrow toward the trash and compost area, then goes over to Serena's pen. "Hey, girl," she says. She unlatches the gate and walks in. "How are you feeling?"

Serena gets up and walks over to Connie, nuzzling and leaning into her. Connie looks around and sees that she's due to rake out the pen again, lay down some new straw. She read that male goats stink up their pens but female goats aren't so bad. It's just manure, after all, and it's good for the compost heap.

Serena wanders away, then flops down, forlorn. Connie hesitates. They have a busy day ahead and then a busy evening with a monthly book club meeting in the sitting room. There's no time for Connie to squeeze in an emergency visit to the vet.

Inside the kitchen, Madeline is covering a large container of fruit salad with plastic wrap. "I was hoping for a quiet morning but we already have quite a few call-ins. I also thought we'd be able to serve a b.u.t.ternut squash soup for the daily special but now I'm thinking we should use up the tomatoes instead . . ."

"I think Serena's sick," Connie blurts out. She scrubs her hands in the sink, suddenly anxious. "She hasn't been herself lately."

Madeline puts the fruit salad into the fridge just as the oven timer goes off. "Yes, I was noticing that myself." She slides on her oven mitts and opens the oven door.

Connie reaches for her ap.r.o.n, then stops. "What should I do?" she asks Madeline.

"Depends." Madeline pulls out a baking tray of blueberry Amish Friendship Bread scones and sets it on a rack to cool. "What do you want to do?"

"I want to take her to the vet," Connie says. She lines up the empty b.u.t.ter dishes on the counter. "But there's no time. And I can't leave you here alone."

"Oh, pshaw," Madeline says. "I did run this place for a while on my own, you know." Then her face lights up. "Hannah!" she exclaims, snapping her fingers. "We could call her and see if she's available to help us today. I'm sure she'd be delighted."

Again? Connie grimaces. She's been paying closer attention to the times Hannah joins them in the kitchen and was dismayed to discover that Hannah has the same sensibilities and preferences as Madeline in the kitchen. No Mountain Dew dumplings for her.

"I can take Serena later," Connie says, reaching for the ap.r.o.n again. She doesn't want Hannah coming in to help. Call her insecure, but she just doesn't.

Madeline gives her a stern look. "Put that back," she orders, referring to the ap.r.o.n. "And I'm calling Hannah. You call the vet and get your goat squared away."

"But . . ."

The bell over the door tinkles as the first customers trickle in. "Taking care of an animal comes with certain responsibilities," Madeline says as she heads out of the kitchen to greet them. "Go and make sure she's all right."

But when Connie calls the vet, the receptionist tells her Dr. Ballard is completely booked.

"Please," Connie begs. "Could he just take a quick look? I need to know that she's all right."

The woman sighs. "Well, if you come now I can try to squeeze you in between appointments."

"Thank you," Connie says with relief, already reaching for her keys and wallet. "I'll bring her right over."

She updates Madeline before heading to the backyard. Serena looks up with mild interest as Connie approaches, and Connie feels hopeful that everything will be fine. She's probably worried about nothing. She'll get Serena into the car, drive to the vet's, get some vitamins or whatever, and come right home.

Twenty minutes later, Connie is still standing in the driveway tugging unsuccessfully at Serena's leash as she tries to get her into the car. Serena seems to know what's going on and wants no part of it.

Hannah walks up, her purse slung over her shoulder, her long dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. She's dressed in khakis and a pressed white shirt, ballet flats on her feet. "Hey, Connie," she begins, and then stops when she sees Serena. "Oh."

"I'm . . . trying . . . to . . . take . . . her . . . to . . . the . . . vet," Connie grunts. She finally collapses against the car in defeat.

Hannah glances at the tea salon, then back at Connie, her eyes filled with concern. "Do you need help?"

No, Connie wants to say, but she doesn't have much of a choice so she nods.

"Okay." Hannah slips off her purse and looks at Serena uncertainly, unsure of what to do. "Do you want me to push? From, uh, behind?"

"That would be great. Steer clear of her kicking zone, you know, in case." But even with Connie and Hannah at opposite ends, Serena doesn't budge.

"Oh, come on now," Madeline says, stepping out of the tea salon, looking exasperated. "We have work to do." She holds up a bran m.u.f.fin. "Let's go, Serena!" She tosses the m.u.f.fin into Connie's car.

"I don't think . . ." Connie begins, but then Serena breaks away from her and hops into the backseat.

Madeline looks satisfied. "There we are! Now let's get inside, Hannah, I need your help in the kitchen. Connie, you better get on your way before she polishes off that m.u.f.fin and starts in on your upholstery."

Connie gives them a wave, then carefully backs out of the driveway. Serena finishes the m.u.f.fin before they've reached the end of the block. She starts to stand up, wobbling as Connie takes a corner a little too sharply. She looks unhappy at being inside the car and starts b.u.t.ting the door in an attempt to get out.

"Serena, sit!" Connie commands, even though she knows Serena doesn't know what that means. Fortunately, like most things in Avalon, the veterinarian's office is only a few minutes away.

As promised, the receptionist has penciled her in and after half an hour leads them to an examination room. While they wait, Connie glances at the pictures on the wall. Dr. Ballard looks to be about sixty, his hair all gray, a kind smile on his face. He's standing next to a horse while wearing a short-sleeved shirt and necktie. There are other pictures, too, with different animals and owners. Connie can tell that he loves what he does.

So when a young man with dark hair walks into the room wearing a white lab coat with "Dr. Elliot Ballard, DVM," Connie is confused.

"Where's Dr. Ballard?" she asks.

"I'm Dr. Ballard," he replies. He looks at her and gives her a friendly grin, and Connie feels her cheeks flush. When he holds out his hand, Connie goes to shake it and feels a tingle that shoots straight up her arm and into her chest, resonating throughout her body. For a second her mind is a blank-she forgets about Serena, about the tea salon, about everything. All she can think about is the man standing in front of her and notice that her heart is doing flip-flops in her chest.

He smiles at Serena. "So what seems to be the problem?"

"I'm not sure," Connie says. She glances at a mirror on the back of the door, relieved to see that she doesn't look as fl.u.s.tered as she feels. "I'm sorry, but you don't look anything like your pictures."

"That's because those pictures are of my father-he retired last year. But you can call me Eli. Most people do." Eli looks at his chart. "So you haven't been in before, Connie?"

Hearing him say her name sets off that tingling sensation again. She shakes her head.

"Usually I refer farm animals to Doc Handley," Eli says. "He handles the larger animals and livestock. I see more of your domesticated animals-dogs, cats, the occasional parrot or turtle. Though I have been seeing quite a few chickens lately . . . Anyway, I'm happy to take a look and refer you to him if necessary."

"Thank you." The thought of having to get Serena back into the car and to another vet is overwhelming.

"We used to have goats when I was growing up, LaManchas and a few Pygmies. Always wanted a Nubian, though." He checks Serena's eyes and ears.

"I figured that's what she was," Connie says. "But I wasn't sure."

"They're great goats," Eli says. "But they can be a handful. I'm surprised she's not kicking up a fuss." He checks her hooves. He runs his hands over Serena's coat, her throat, her underbelly, her legs. "Hmm. She eating well?"

Connie nods.

"I'd like to draw some blood. I should get a fecal sample, too. I'll have one of my lab a.s.sistants come in and help. I'll also check her mouth for any ulcers and do a physical to see if there are any lumps or sore spots."

Connie swallows, hard. If there's anything wrong with Serena, she doesn't know what she'll do.

Eli notices her unease and pats her arm, his touch warm and comforting. "Don't worry. She seems healthy but I'd like to get her checked out. Sound good to you?"

Connie finally finds her voice. "Yes."

Eli turns back to Serena. "She's a nice-looking animal. What's her name?"

"Serena."

"Serena. It's Latin, right?"

For the first time in her life, Connie wishes she'd gone to college. "I don't know."

"It means serene, but you probably knew that. Connie is Latin, too, short for Constance. Means steadfast." Eli puts on his stethoscope and listens to Serena's heart and lungs.

"You speak Latin?" Connie asks, impressed and a little intimidated. She only knows a handful of words in Spanish that she's picked up from television or the movies.

Eli drapes the stethoscope around his neck and rubs Serena's back. "Not really. I studied it for four years but it's not like there are a lot of people who speak Latin in Avalon. Or anywhere, for that matter."

There it is again, that grin. Connie figures he's a few years older than her, mid-or late twenties, but she likes that he doesn't take himself too seriously. He seems like the kind of person who would be a good friend, someone nice to hang out with. When he looks up at her and catches her eye, Connie feels herself flush.

She can't believe how unnerved she is. It takes all of her willpower to bring her back to the situation at hand. "So I was worried about her," she says, feeling heat rush to her cheeks. "She doesn't seem like herself."

Eli nods. "Well, it could be several things, but I won't know until I get the bloodwork back. If you'd like, we can keep her over the weekend for observation. It'll give me a chance to see how she does, if there's any change in her behavior. She seems to be pretty agreeable, though."

"But that's why I brought her in," Connie says. "She's not usually so agreeable. She tends to get into things. Like my neighbor's garden."

Eli chuckles. "That sounds like a goat to me," he says. He glances at the clock. "I'm afraid I have to get on to my next appointment. Why don't you let her stay until Monday morning? You can pick her up first thing. If anything comes up before then, I'll call you. Sound good?"

Connie feels a twinge of discomfort as she glances at Serena. "I don't know," she says. "I mean, will she be all right?"

"She'll be fine. I have dogs in here that are bigger than Serena. It's quiet now, so we'll be able to give her some attention." He looks at a clipboard on the table. "Is this the number to reach you at? Madeline's Tea Salon?"

Connie nods, still feeling a bit numb. "Maybe I should bring her back with me," she ventures, feeling lost at the thought of Serena not coming home with her. "I mean, in case she gets freaked out or . . ."

"It's up to you, Connie," Eli says. "Whatever you want to do is fine." The compa.s.sionate look on his face is all she needs to make up her mind.

"Okay," Connie says, because she knows that Serena will be in good hands. She takes a deep breath. "You'll call me if she needs anything?"

"I've already committed your number to memory," Eli tells her, and then he flashes her one more boyish grin before leading Serena out of the room.

It's early Sunday morning and someone is pounding on Isabel's front door, pressing the doorbell one too many times. She gropes for her alarm clock but it falls to the floor and bounces under the bed.

Isabel groans but manages to get up and stumble down the hall, half awake, half asleep. She takes a look through her peephole. There's a man, a cup of steaming coffee in hand, whistling as he looks up and down her porch. Perplexed but curious, Isabel opens the door.

"Good morning!" he says, turning to look at her. A tool belt is fastened around his waist and he gives her a broad grin.

"I hope that coffee's for me," Isabel mumbles. She rubs her eyes and sees a white truck parked on the curb. Braemer Patios and Hardscapes, she reads. "What time is it?"

"Eight o'clock, on the dot," the man says. "Just like you said. You had me worried there for a sec-I thought n.o.body was home."

Isabel shoots him an annoyed look. "That's because I was sleeping, Mr. Braemer. I said eight o'clock on the dot, Monday."

The man knits his brows. "I could have sworn you said Sunday."

Isabel gives a yawn. It's not like she's going to go back to sleep now. "I didn't, but never mind," she says.

Ian Braemer straddles the porch framing as he gives it a quick once-over. "Looks like we're talking a few tongue-and-groove porch planks," he says.

Isabel nods, watching him sip his coffee. Maybe she's still half asleep, but she can't remember the last time she noticed someone, much less someone of the opposite s.e.x, sipping coffee. It's oddly mesmerizing.

"Mrs. Kidd?"

"What? Oh. Porch planks, right. I haven't had a chance to figure out if I want to use wood or try those composite boards . . ."

"Wood," Ian says firmly. "Definitely wood. The composite decking is more trouble than it's worth, and it'll look shoddy after a while. I've installed them for a few clients and no one's happy with them. That's just my opinion, of course, but I wouldn't use composite anything on my house. They're a complete rip-off." He actually looks worked up.

Isabel grins, awake now. "Gee, tell me what you think, Mr. Braemer. And really, don't hold back."

He gives her a sheepish look. "Sorry. I don't want people wasting their money, that's all. I can give you some composite quotes if you want."

"Are you kidding? We'll go with wood. How long do you think it would take?"

"I need to take some measurements, figure out supplies. You want me to prime and paint as well?"

Isabel nods. "Sure, why not?"

"What color?"

She's about to say white when she remembers this will no longer be her home. "Whatever will match with the house," she says.

"Okay, no problem." He flicks out a business card and hands it to her. "Oh, and I can pick you up a coffee while I'm out, too. Black?"

Isabel looks at him. Ian Braemer looks about her age, his face tan and leathery from being in the sun. He's wearing a long-sleeved plaid shirt and jeans, work boots, a faded black baseball cap with the unmistakable White Sox logo. Tufts of brown hair peek out from underneath his cap. His eyes are a bright blue.

"Thanks, but I'm okay," she says. "I mean, I can make my own coffee. I just didn't know you were coming by today, that's all."

"No problem," he says good-naturedly. "So I'll measure and see you in a bit, Mrs. Kidd."