The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society Part 3

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 blond 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 fiance 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 fiance.

"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!"

"Ma.s.sages," Enid interjects. "With the money you'll save you'll be able to do lots of fun things. Dance clubs, windsurfing, kite-boarding, 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 doc.u.ment 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, G.o.d 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 ca.n.a.l. 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?

"Look," Enid says, sliding open her drawer. She pulls out a thick cellophane packet and pushes it toward them. "Here. An early wedding present."

The couple stops arguing long enough to look at the cellophane packet with a frown. "What is it?" the young woman asks, her nose wrinkled as if in disgust.

"It's a sc.r.a.pbooking kit. A starter kit, actually, but you can get more pages and doodads from Bettie Shelton if you want to do a whole alb.u.m." She taps a label affixed to the corner of the packet with Bettie's contact information in large, bold letters. "When you're older, even a year from now, this will be the place you'll go to relive the moment."

"We have digital cameras on our phones," the girl says smartly. "With video." She glances at her fiance as if to say, Can you believe this?

Enid is undaunted. "Pictures are only one part of it," she tells them. "And these days people take hundreds of pictures and none of them get printed or put into a photo alb.u.m. This is different-when you sc.r.a.pbook, you're evoking the memory of the feeling and the experience by the colors you choose. The little mementos you paste to the page." Enid breaks the seal of the packet and spreads the contents onto the table. "You take your favorite pictures, you look at all of this, and you think, what fits? What goes together? Not just aesthetically, but emotionally. Sc.r.a.pbook pages capture all of it. For example-how did the two of you meet?"

The couple grins shyly and Enid sees both of them soften. She thinks, Yes. This is what it's about, isn't it?

"Bowling alley," the young man says. "Her ball jumped the gutter into my lane."

"It was heavier than I thought," his fiancee protests in her defense, but she's finally relaxed, happy. She reaches for his hand and beams at him.

"Wonderful! So look . . ." Enid shuffles through the loose alphabet letters and quickly spells out at the top of the page, YOU BOWLED ME OVER. "You pick up a coaster or something with the name of the bowling alley and stick it on here, along with some of your earliest pictures."

"I still have that scorecard somewhere," he says. "I bowled a two-fifty that day."

"Perfect!" Enid exclaims.

The girl chooses a thin black border and slides it to the top of the page. "We could even make the whole page look like a scorecard," she says. "What about this?" She rearranges Enid's letters and adds a few others to read SPARES AND STRIKES. "If you get a spare or strike, it's still a perfect ten," she explains.

"Ah," Enid says with an approving nod. She watches them as they pick through random die cuts and trims, reminiscing about that day and talking about the amateur league they're both in. Then the lightbulb goes off.

"Say," she says. "What do you think about a bowling honeymoon? Playing different bowling alleys? Choose some that might be close to other points of interest, with a nice B&B nearby? Do you have any interest in that?"

The couple looks at her blankly, then a slow smile spreads across both of their faces. They gaze at each other and then at Enid, all aglow.

"Yes," they say in unison, their bodies leaning toward each other. "We do."

Chapter 4.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to keep the water off until tomorrow." Yvonne clicks off her flashlight and steps back from the large puddle of water pooling on the floor.

Her client furrows her brow. "Tomorrow? But that's not possible!"

Yvonne points to the pipes underneath the sink. "All that piping needs to be replaced-the leaks won't stop until that's done. If you put off addressing the problem, it'll only get worse."

"But tonight is the night of my sc.r.a.pbooking meeting. I'm expecting quite a crowd, you see, and I've already set everything up." Yvonne's client waves to the dining room where tables and chairs have been laid out, as if for a bridge or poker match. There are stacks of colored paper and other glittery sorts of things on every table, gel pens and scissors with odd edges. A paper cutter and laminator are on the buffet, along with some other bizarre contraptions Yvonne doesn't recognize.

"Well, it's up to you, of course, but if it were me I wouldn't wait. I'd do it right away but I won't be able to get everything until tomorrow. The best we can do is keep the water off for now and move your party elsewhere."

"Elsewhere? I'm expecting people in an hour!"

Yvonne gives a sympathetic shrug. "Sorry. It's either that or have your house under a foot of water by morning, Mrs. Shelton."

Her client huffs. "It's Ms. Shelton, but don't call me that, it makes me feel old. Call me Bettie." She purses her lips, thinking.

Yvonne starts to put her things away. There's nothing she can do right now, and it'll be up to her client to make the call. Avalon is filled with these lovely old bungalow-style homes but Yvonne's seen the same problem in three other houses and expects it'll be an ongoing issue for many Avalon homeowners. The houses have so much history but the plumbing and electrical are dated, and most people don't bother to fix anything until it's a problem or already too late.

Bettie reaches for the phone and dials a number. She covers the mouthpiece as it rings. "What do I owe you?"

"Nothing. I haven't done anything yet."

"What? Nonsense," Bettie scoffs. "Surely you have some sort of service fee."

"Yes, but this was quick and on my way home. Besides, I can't do anything today so don't worry about it for now." In fact, Yvonne has yet to charge anyone in Avalon for a service call. She knows many people are having a hard time but she's doing okay. She can afford to give a little as long as she's paid for the actual work.

Bettie puts a finger to her lips, shushing Yvonne. "Connie? It's Bettie." She smiles sweetly into the phone. Yvonne is about to leave but Bettie motions for her to wait so she leans against the counter.

The smile quickly fades from Bettie's face, replaced by one of irritation. "BETTIE SHELTON. I know you know it's me, Connie Colls, so don't pretend you don't recognize my voice . . . I do so sound the same on the phone . . . Yes, I most certainly do-oh, forget it. Is Madeline there? . . . Well, where is she? . . . Two hours? . . . Well, I suppose I could talk with you. I wanted to let you know that I thought it would be a lovely thing if we held the meeting of the Society at the tea salon tonight. Give you a little business, though of course I expect some sort of group discount . . . What do you mean you have a book club group tonight? . . . Well, what about the dining room . . . What? A rehearsal dinner? For who? Oh, that's right. I suspect she's pregnant, don't you? . . . No, I am not gossiping, I am merely stating an observation . . . fine. Goodbye." Bettie hangs up the phone and stares at it indignantly, her hands on her hips. "That Connie Colls thinks she runs the place! Madeline would be shocked if she knew how she treated me. She almost ruined a sale the last time I was there."

"Do you have an old towel?" Yvonne asks. "We should wipe this water up. I don't want you to slip."

"Now this is what I'm talking about!" Bettie declares as she heads toward the hallway closet. "Such good manners. It's appalling how rude people are these days, Yvette, wouldn't you agree? I wish more young people were like you!" She hands Yvonne a faded beach towel, beaming.

"It's Yvonne," Yvonne says with a smile. "And I'm not that young."

"Twenty-two?" Bettie guesses.

Twenty-two. Yvonne wishes. Then again, twenty-two was her worst year, the year when everything fell apart, when it was clear she was as lost as lost could be. Things are better now that she's had the time to put it all behind her, to start anew. "More like thirty-two." "Thirty-two? Really?" Bettie looks impressed, as if Yvonne has done something quite remarkable.

Yvonne quickly mops up the water. "Where should I put this?" she asks when she's done, holding up the sopping towel, but Bettie is on the phone again.

"Isabel?" Bettie calls loudly into the phone. "Isabel, are you there? Pick up the phone." Bettie taps her foot impatiently, waits a few seconds longer. Eventually she hangs up, a grim look on her face. "Well, I suppose that's how it's going to go. What's your name again, dear?"

"Yvonne."

"Right." Bettie squinches her eyes, thinking hard. "Yvonne, Yvonne, Yvonne. Got it. So Yvonne, would you mind helping me a few minutes more? I think you're right-it's best we move the meeting to another location. My neighbor next door has a nice open s.p.a.ce-she's redecorating-and her living room will be perfect. It shouldn't take too long to move everything over."

It's the end of the day and Yvonne was only planning on going home and watching a little TV, grabbing a little something to eat. She can spare a few more minutes.

"Sure," she says.

Except that it's not a few more minutes. A half an hour later she's still bringing things into the house next door-the tables and chairs, all the sc.r.a.pbooking supplies, the generous hors d'oeuvres Bettie has prepared. Yvonne's starving now, unable to keep her eyes off the cauliflower crostinis, the deviled eggs with scallions and dill, the stuffed artichoke hearts.

"There," Bettie finally says, satisfied. She looks around the room, nodding her head in approval. "Sc.r.a.ppetizers are the key to any successful sc.r.a.pbooking event, Yvonne. It's a little-known fact, but crafters always work better on a full stomach. That's certainly true for me, at least. Now where did I put those serving spoons?"

Yvonne collapses into a folding chair. She's a whiz with the wrench, can unscrew even the tightest of bolts, can lie in uncomfortable positions for long periods of time while working in the underbelly of a house or building. But this home-entertaining stuff? It's exhausting. The mult.i.tasking, the timing, the attention to detail and overall presentation. She thinks of her mother, then pushes the thought away.

Bettie's already put a sign up on her door instructing the members to come next door, and soon women are drifting in, delighted by the unexpected change of venue. More covered dishes and plates arrive. Yvonne can't bring herself to get up from the chair, unaware of how truly exhausted she was until now. And hungry.

"Yvonne, you must stay," Bettie insists as she introduces Earlene Bauer. "Earlene is the dispensing optician at the Avalon All Eyes Vision Center. Fixed me up nice and proper with my bifocals though I only need them when I'm reading."

"And driving," Earlene reminds her. "I've seen you driving without them."

"Oh, I always drive with them, Earlene," Bettie a.s.sures her earnestly.

Earlene gives her a knowing look. "Bettie . . ."

"It's Missy Parks!" Bettie exclaims, turning away from them. "Missy, come meet Yvonne. She's my fabulous in-house technician!"

"Oh, how lovely," Missy says, walking over. Her face is lit up with interest. "Now what exactly is an in-house technician?"

That's what Yvonne was wondering as well. "I'm a plumber," she says, holding out her hand. She doesn't believe in mincing words, in recategorizing what she does to make it more palatable for other people. Day-to-day living depends on good plumbing, and Yvonne knows this even if they don't. Still, Earlene and Missy suddenly shrink back, glancing at Yvonne's hands, which they a.s.sume have been swishing around the inside of a toilet bowl. It's one of the biggest fallacies out there-that plumbers only work on toilets or leaky sinks. In fact, Yvonne's made most of her money working with heat and air-conditioning fittings as well as the piping for new construction projects and housing developments.

"Gosh, I completely forgot! I'm just getting over a cold." Missy safely tucks her hands behind her back. "I wouldn't want you to get all germy."

"A cold in August?" Bettie frowns.

"Are those the new theme packs?" Missy asks, stepping over to one of the tables. "So nice to meet you!" she calls to Yvonne over her shoulder.

Bettie pats Yvonne on the arm. "They're not all as open-minded as me, I'm afraid," she says with a shake of her head.

"Bettie, I've brought friendship bread," a lady says, holding up a four-layer cake that makes Yvonne's mouth water. "Hazelnut Cappuccino Royale! I have to admit I was a bit liberal with the instant coffee mix, but it turned out wonderful, don't you think?"

"It's divine, Lorna. Go ahead and place it right over there. Well, we may as well start eating. We have a lot to do tonight." Bettie claps her hands for attention. "Ladies! Fill your plates and take a seat. The program will begin soon!" She loops her arm through Yvonne's and steers her toward the food. Yvonne can't wait to dig in.

"Bettie, is there any ice?" someone calls out.

"In the freezer, Claribel," Bettie replies. "Second shelf."

"Bettie, where's the bathroom?" someone else asks.

"There's one in the hallway, first door to the left. There's also one in the master bedroom, but it may be best to-"

"WHAT THE h.e.l.l IS GOING ON IN HERE?!"

The women stop talking and turn to see a woman in her late thirties standing in the doorway, a bag of groceries in hand.

"Isabel!" Bettie hurries forward, unwittingly dragging Yvonne along with her. "You made it!"

"To my own house? What's going on?"

"Society meeting, dear. Monthly get-together of the Avalon Ladies Sc.r.a.pbooking Society. I know I told you!"

"Yes, but you didn't tell me you were going to have it here." Isabel glares at Bettie.

Yvonne tries to disentangle herself from Bettie's grip but Bettie's holding on, steadfast.

"There was a last-minute crisis, wasn't there, Yvonne? Yvonne is my in-house technician-"

"Plumber," Yvonne corrects.

"-and she wisely suggested I move the party elsewhere as my house is in no condition to entertain. Isn't that right, Yvonne?"