The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society Part 9

Isabel feigns indifference. "Okay, the Avalon Grill it is. I mean, if you're sure . . ."

Yvonne is already at the door, keys in hand, and for a second Isabel sees her face tighten, but maybe it's her imagination. A second later Yvonne bounds forward and grabs Isabel's hand, laughing, pulling her down the hall. They pa.s.s a mirror on their way out and Isabel is pleased to see she doesn't look as dowdy as she thought. While she's no Yvonne, she doesn't look so bad, either. Isabel's so caught up in the thought that she doesn't hear Yvonne mutter under her breath.

"Oh, I'm sure."

What did Isabel see? Yvonne couldn't tell for sure, but when she walked in Isabel had turned to her with a face full of curiosity, questions. She might have been flipping through the magazine, looking for a way to pa.s.s away the time. Nothing more, nothing less. Yvonne doesn't need to read into it, doesn't need to make it into a big deal. Even if Isabel saw the article, she might not have had time to put two and two together-Yvonne wasn't gone that long. Anyway, she'll know soon enough if Isabel saw something. People can't help themselves from asking questions once they know who Yvonne is.

But either Isabel is showing incredible restraint or Yvonne's past isn't as intriguing as she thinks. They settle at the bar, both opting for a beer even though Isabel orders a "lite." They proceed in typical girl fashion to discuss what they should order for dinner.

"They do a mean beef brisket," Isabel says, perusing the menu. "Oh, and the artichoke dip! I'm putting on weight just sitting here."

"Go for it," Yvonne says, running her finger down the list of appetizers. "What about-"

"Whatever you say, please don't tell me you're getting a salad," Isabel says, a hint of warning in her voice. "Because I'm starving and it's bad enough you're wearing a dress that I couldn't fit into in a million years."

"You look great, Isabel. I don't know what you're talking about." Yvonne tosses the menu onto the bar. "And I am getting a salad. With dressing on the side."

"G.o.d, no. Really?" Isabel wrinkles her nose.

"Yeah, for my appetizer!" Yvonne laughs, reaches for her beer. "And then I'll get the catch of the day and the veggies. Comes with a ma.s.sive side of pasta. And a bread basket."

"Where does it go?" Isabel demands. "That's what I want to know. All those carbs-are they somehow magically transported to someone else's body? Like mine? That would explain a lot."

"If you want to burn calories, get into plumbing. I don't even have to bother with a gym membership anymore." One of the many perks of the job, Yvonne has discovered. Her arms have never been so toned.

"Um, Yvonne, I've seen plumbers, and they most definitely don't look like you."

"Some do," Yvonne insists.

"None of them do. You must have good genes."

Yvonne gives her a blank smile but doesn't respond. Instead she says, "What are you going to order?"

Isabel looks longingly at the menu. "I want the beef brisket. Of course I would be wearing white-we know how that's going to go. I can picture a chunk of beef falling off my fork and landing in my lap."

Yvonne reaches for a handful of bar nuts, picks out the cashews. "I didn't want to say anything, but you know it is past Labor Day. In case you wanted to wear, I don't know, any other color other than white. Unless you're making some kind of fashion statement?"

"I like white," Isabel says smugly. "It's straightforward, it is what it is. I'm sick of all this teal, aquamarine, chartreuse or whatever business. Just call it blue, you know? Green. Yellow." She sighs. "Though I'll admit I wish I wasn't wearing white now so I could get that beef brisket."

"It's called a napkin. Get the beef brisket, Isabel."

"I'll regret it tomorrow."

"Sounds like you're regretting it already. Come on-life's too short."

Isabel sighs. "Life is too short so I should eat beef brisket? Maybe I should put that on a b.u.mper sticker."

Yvonne grins. "Why not? Just don't make it a question. Make it a statement: Life is short-eat beef brisket!"

The women laugh as the manager, Arnold Fritz, emerges from the kitchen looking distraught. "Sorry, folks, but we have to close early tonight. I'm going to have to ask you all to leave."

There's a collective groan, the loudest one being from Isabel.

"How come?" someone demands.

"What about my skirt steak?" someone else wants to know.

"Can I still get dessert?"

"What about my beer? Can I finish my beer?"

Arnold holds up his hands. "It's a plumbing issue, folks. Nothing major, but it'll shut us down for the night. I can't get anyone to come out and take a look until the morning and I'm not comfortable having a full house under the circ.u.mstances. The waitresses will hand out rain checks-fifteen percent off the next time you come in. Sorry for your trouble."

There's more grumbling as patrons begin to gather their things.

"There's always the Pizza Shack," Isabel says with a sigh, tossing the menu aside. "Or McDonald's."

Yvonne notices the manager talking with the bartender. She eats another cashew, then slides off the stool and walks over. "You're having plumbing problems?"

Arnold nods. "Really slow drains. Company came out last month to clear the grease traps but something's going on. I'd rather lose a little business than have a major problem on my hands."

"Same thing happened at the last place I worked in Barrett," the bartender says. He starts to clear the discarded gla.s.ses on the bar, waves to a few customers as they pa.s.s by.

"I'd be happy to take a look," Yvonne offers. "No promises, but I can see if your grease trap is the culprit."

"The grease trap?" Arnold chuckles, amused. "While I appreciate your offer, miss, the grease trap is not some little doohicky inside the kitchen."

"I know what a grease trap is," Yvonne says. It doesn't bother her that the manager of the Avalon Grill a.s.sumes she doesn't know a thing about plumbing. "I'm a licensed plumber in the state of Illinois. Yvonne Tate, Tate Plumbing." She digs in her purse, a small glittery thing that seems a bit impractical at the moment, and hands him a business card.

"Let her take a look, Arnold," the bartender suggests. "In Barrett it backed up into the kitchen-it was a real mess, shut us down for two weeks. We had to have the health inspector come out again."

Isabel is behind her now, looking as flummoxed as Arnold. "What's going on?"

Arnold looks at her and back at Yvonne, who is holding out her hand. He shakes his head as he shakes her hand. "I'm not sure, but I think this little lady is going to look at my grease trap out back."

"This little lady is," Yvonne confirms, reaching for another handful of nuts. Isabel seems less enthusiastic but Yvonne tugs her along, following Arnold through the kitchen and out the back door.

It takes her all of five minutes to conclude that whoever pumped their grease trap did a lousy job. "If they pumped a month ago, it shouldn't be this full," Yvonne says. Isabel is next to her with her nose pinched. Generally restaurants the size of the Avalon Grill would need to have their grease traps cleaned four times a year, so missing a cleaning or doing a lousy job could end up with disastrous results. "Are they snaking the lines into the kitchen, too?"

"I thought so," Arnold says. "But obviously not. I don't want to bad-mouth anyone, small town and all, but I'm not happy with the company we're using. They're the biggest outfit around but I guess that doesn't mean they're the best."

"I'd look into another company," Yvonne advises. She doesn't do grease traps, doesn't have the tank or equipment to properly flush the lines or pump out the fats and other food solids that have to be treated after they're removed from the premises. But she knows what a clean grease trap looks like, and this isn't one of them. "You made the right call, Arnold. If left for too long you'd be looking at hydrogen sulfide gas, which is not only dangerous but could accelerate decay of the trap itself." If Arnold is able to get a company out first thing in the morning, it will take all of thirty minutes to get the grease trap properly serviced and maintained.

"Thank G.o.d, I was worried there for a second. I can't afford to lose this job and-" Arnold lets out a deep breath, offers them both a sheepish smile. "I guess there's always that not knowing, huh? If you made the right choice or not? It's a relief to know you made the right decision."

The two women look at each other, then look away, each lost in their own thoughts.

"Yeah," Yvonne says, and suddenly she can't wait to get out of there, to end this conversation, to crawl in between the sheets of her own bed, to close her eyes to this day that's beginning to fill with old memories she'd rather forget. "You're lucky. Because sometimes you never get to know."

"Fran, what are you doing?" Reed looks bewildered as Frances bursts through the door with the boys in tow, their arms laden with shopping bags. Reed puts down the book he is reading.

"Mom is nuts," Nick says, dropping his load onto the couch. "She bought everything in the store."

Frances shoots her oldest a look. At eight, Nick is already tall and gangly, still a boy but with occasional glimpses of becoming a young man. It's too fast, Frances used to think, but now she's just annoyed. "Nick, that's not true."

"It is true," Noah declares, lugging a large plastic bag behind him. "Me and Nick were bored. Right, Nick?"

"Yeah, whatever." Nick is quick to disappear to his room.

Brady trails in last, sucking on a lollipop. Reed scoops him up, then frowns. "His tongue is blue."

"Well, the lollipop is blue." Frances hurries to put things away before Reed can get a good look.

"Didn't Dr. Tindell say Brady needed to lay off the sweets?" he calls after her. "He already has one cavity."

"I know, I know. But they were giving them out at the shoe store. I couldn't exactly say no." The truth is that she could have said no, but it was easier just to give in. She gives her youngest a hopeful smile. "We'll go brush our teeth, won't we, Brady?"

Brady gives a solemn nod. Reed deposits him on the ground and Brady takes off for the living room. "Hey, champ, I need you to stay in the kitchen with that," he says.

Brady ignores him.

"BRADY." Reed's voice is loud but calm. Brady does an immediate 180 and heads back to the kitchen, plopping himself down on a stool as he finishes his lollipop.

Frances breathes a sigh. It's easier managing the boys when Reed is around, all the testosterone playing off one another.

Noah is tugging at a large garbage bag filled with something almost as tall as him. "Look, Dad!" He starts to pull it off before Frances can stop him.

Reed stares at it. "Um, Frances?"

Frances clears her throat. She hadn't meant to bring it in, but she'd lost track of what was where and who had what.

"A dollhouse?" he says, his voice louder. "It's practically bigger than our house! Where are you going to put it?"

Frances feels guilty, and then defensive. The plan was to move the home office into the living room but there's not enough s.p.a.ce and they haven't had a chance to figure out how to make it work. The desk is next to the couch in the living room but the file cabinets are still in the office because Reed didn't want the younger boys getting into them. The office is already half full with a princess bed and canopy, a matching dresser, toys, and a closet crammed with clothes.

Noah crouches on his knees and peers inside. "The doors open and everything. And look!" He presses the small doorbell and there's a chime. "It works!"

Reed is shaking his head. "Frances . . ."

"Reed, I know," she begins, but then she can't help herself. "I saw an ad in the paper for a used dollhouse and I thought I'd take a look, just to get an idea. I wasn't planning on buying it, but then someone else showed up and wanted it because it's such a great deal and in good shape and . . ."

"Noah, take Brady and go play in the living room." Reed points, his voice firm. A couple seconds later, both boys are gone.

Frances slides into a chair. Their kitchen does seem dwarfed by the dollhouse, giving her a sense of being Alice in Wonderland. The euphoria that's followed her all day has dissipated and now she isn't sure where they can even put the dollhouse, much less all of the other things she bought. She wishes she could start over.

"I'm sorry, Reed. I know I've been getting a bit carried away. I've had so much on my mind lately with Mei Ling coming . . ."

Reed closes his eyes. "Frances, we need to talk."

She stares at him. "You have to travel again."

"Yes, but that's not what I want to talk about. I want to talk about Mei Ling. About her medical report." A foreboding manila envelope is in the center of the table.

Frances swallows. "Is that it?"

He nods.

Frances reaches for it, then hesitates. "It's what we thought, right? What they originally said?"

Reed opens his eyes. "Do you want me to tell you or do you want to read it for yourself?"

She doesn't know. News, even bad news, is always easier when it comes from Reed, but Frances doesn't want to find out that way. Not for this.

She picks up the envelope but doesn't open it. "Reed, we're past the halfway point now. It won't be that much longer, and then she'll be with us. There are families that have been waiting much longer than us. Most China adoptions are taking five years, some are predicting up to ten. It's a miracle that this is even happening, you know."

"It's happening quickly because we agreed to take a waiting child," Reed says. "A special needs child."

"Not that cleft palate is special needs," Frances corrects. "And you saw her! She looked wonderful, the surgery had obviously gone well."

A shadow crosses over Reed's face. "Mei Ling didn't have surgery for cleft palate, Fran. That wasn't-isn't-her condition."

"What do you mean?" Frances frowns. She lifts the flap of the envelope and pulls out a thin sheaf of doc.u.ments. The original medical report, written in Chinese, and the translation. Frances skims it, the color draining from her face. Her hand flies to her mouth and she finds herself gasping for air, unable to breathe.

"I'm sorry," Reed says, leaning toward her, but she pushes him away, shakes her head.

"No," she whispers. She's shaking.

"I called the agency as soon as I read the report. I'm sorry, but I couldn't wait. I had to know." He gets up and goes to the sink, pours her a gla.s.s of water. When he comes back, he crouches next to her. "Mei Ling has congenital heart disease. She's going to need open heart surgery, among other things, and even then her prognosis . . ." His voice trails off.

Frances shakes her head, still unable to believe it. "But how . . . I mean, I didn't-we didn't . . ."

"The agency doesn't know how it happened, but it happened. They a.s.signed us a child with a complicated medical history that is far beyond what we said we were able to take on."

"Is there another family waiting for her? Or another child waiting for us?"

A pained look crosses Reed's face. "Frances, don't do this. This was a mistake, that's all."

"Is there? Was she supposed to be referred to someone else?"

He sighs. "No."

"Is there another child that was supposed to be referred to us?"

Another sigh. "No, but we're still at the top of the list and it shouldn't take long to get a new referral. The agency will straighten it out with the Chinese government so we're not penalized in any way because they gave us the wrong child."

At this Frances jerks up. "She is not the wrong child, Reed! She's ours. You know she is!"

Reed doesn't respond, but moves to the chair next to hers and falls into it heavily.