by Darien Gee
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 space—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 scrapbooking 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. “Scrappetizers are the key to any successful scrapbooking 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 multitasking, 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 assures 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 assume 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 HELL 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 Scrapbooking 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?”
Isabel turns to Yvonne, her hazel eyes flashing. Yvonne squirms. “Well, yes, but—”
“And since I helped you move your furniture around the other day, I thought you’d be happy to extend the same courtesy to me, a fellow neighbor in need.” Bettie blinks innocently.
“You could have at least called … Wait, how did you even get in here?” A look of consternation crosses Isabel’s face. “I am hiding my key in a new place, Bettie!”
“For the record, I did call, as Yvonne will attest, but there was no answer,” Bettie says smugly.
“Because I was at work!”
“Well, I don’t have your work number, now do I? You should give it to me for next time.”
“Never.” Isabel is gritting her teeth and Yvonne notices that there’s a gallon of mint chip ice cream on top of all the groceries in her shopping bag. Yvonne’s stomach gives a growl.
“Goodness, poor Yvonne is starving. You go put your groceries away, Isabel dear, and you can join us. We have plenty of food.”
Isabel is struggling to keep her composure as the other women look on. “I was looking forward to a quiet dinner,” she says under her breath. “So if you could please tell everyone to leave—”
Bettie reaches into Isabel’s bag and plucks out a TV dinner. “Really, Isabel,” she says with a tsk. She tosses it back in Isabel’s bag. “I’m going to fix you up a plate. You can sit with Yvonne. She’s new to the Society, too.” Bettie gasps. “You can be scrapbookin
g sisters!”
Ew. Yvonne cringes. By the look on Isabel’s face, she doesn’t care much for it, either.
“I should be going,” Yvonne says. As hungry as she is, she’s had enough drama for one day. She just wants to go home.
Isabel finally looks triumphant. “Thank you,” she says smugly. “Now if everyone else could—”
“Girls,” Bettie says. Her voice is suddenly serious. “I think you would both do well to sit. We’re late as it is and the food’s getting cold.” The women hovering around them stop talking and raise their eyebrows. A second later, they’ve scattered to different parts of the room.
Isabel and Yvonne are about to protest again but Bettie says again, much more sternly and loudly, “SIT.”
Both women sit.
Bettie takes the grocery bag from Isabel and heads to the kitchen. “Lorna,” she calls, her voice sweet again. “Can you get the girls some food, chop-chop? Make sure they get some of that lovely purple cabbage slaw. And Sue Pendergast’s tomato salad. Sue, you have got to give me that recipe. I always put in too much balsamic vinegar and it turns the whole dish!”
The two young women watch as Society members descend upon the buffet, commenting on the different dishes, pouring cups of iced tea, then depositing two paper plates in front of them laden with food.
“I don’t believe this,” Isabel is muttering. Her fists are clenched.
Yvonne wants to be sympathetic but really, what’s the big deal? Obviously Bettie and Isabel are chummy enough because Bettie seems to know her way around Isabel’s house. Either way, it’s not her business. She picks up her fork, not interested in debating this particular topic with Isabel, with anyone. “Well, cheers,” she says, holding up her paper cup of iced tea.
Isabel turns and looks at her, then reluctantly picks up her own cup, knocking it halfheartedly against Yvonne’s. Yvonne quickly downs her iced tea and starts in on the food. “Wow, this is really good,” she says with a happy sigh. Everything tastes fresh and delicious. “I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in a long time.”
Yvonne is so engrossed in her food that she doesn’t notice Isabel slowly unfurling her fists and reaching for a fork. And then, like her tablemate, Isabel begins to eat.
Chapter Five
“Attention! Attention! The August meeting of the Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society is now in order.” Bettie holds a wooden mallet decorated with sequins and fabric scraps. She bangs it several times on a block of wood painted hot pink and decoupaged with printed tissue paper.
A hush sweeps the room. All eyes are trained on Bettie as plates of food are quickly finished and disposed of. The women move swiftly to their chairs, their faces all business.
Bettie peers at her notes over her reading glasses. “I’m pleased to welcome new members Emily Spiller, Thelma Talley, and Trudy Hughes. Many thanks to Bev Smitts for sharing her album, ‘The Great Outdoors,’ where she scrapbooked about husband Roosevelt’s hunting trip last fall. And Georgia Wellington’s album, ‘A Day at the Zoo,’ gave us lots of wonderful ideas on how to incorporate found objects into our pages—I thought the peacock feather was a particularly nice touch. Edie’s feature of last month’s meeting in the ‘Out and About’ section of the Avalon Gazette was well received, thank you, Edie. Based on an eighty-three percent response from Society members we saw a rise in the use of distressed ink, a decline in the use of patterned brads. Now on to the Treasurer’s report …”
Isabel takes a bite out of the remaining cracker on her plate. Several heads turn around and frown.
Annoyed, Isabel puts down the cracker and mutters, “Well, I’m done. Think I’ll go home now.” She gives the women in front of her a pointed look. “Oh wait. I am home.”
Yvonne stifles a laugh.
“… And finally, I’d like to thank Isabel Kidd for opening up her home to us tonight. Isabel, stand up so we can give you a round of applause!” Bettie gestures for Isabel to stand up.
“Pass,” Isabel says flatly, a disinterested look on her face.
“Oh, come on,” Yvonne says, grinning. “It won’t kill you.” A few women seated around them nod in agreement.
Isabel gives Yvonne an incredulous look but reluctantly stands up. The women clap heartily and Isabel sits back down. Yvonne gives her a pat on the back and Isabel smiles sheepishly.
“Okay, we have a lot to do today and I know I promised that we’d get to the new fall layouts.” Bettie peers out at the group. “Anyone? Anyone?”
There’s an excited buzz as hands immediately shoot up.
“Didn’t you say we’d be working with chipboard? I’ve been waiting to make one of those coaster albums for the grandkids. And have you seen the new Pebbles Chips? They’re adorable!”
“I’m hoping we’ll be making page pockets and incorporating family mementos. I want to scrapbook my sister’s baby shower before she delivers.”
“The Jenni Bowlin alpha letters in oranges and browns would be perfect. Oh, and the new Prima flowers …”
Isabel exchanges a bewildered look with Yvonne.
“It’s Greek to me,” Yvonne says. “But I have to admit, I’m curious. I overheard someone saying they paid over two hundred dollars for a cricket. Is that for real?”
“A Cricut, a die-cut machine,” someone whispers from behind them. “You can cut anything with it. Paper …”
“Fabric …”
“Vinyl …”
“Felt …”
“Yes, we get it, thank you,” Isabel says.
“Bettie hosts swarms twice a year,” the woman continues. “It’s like a crop, when we all get together to scrapbook, except a swarm is when we share our Cricut machines and cartridges with scrappers who don’t have them. You can cut any shape or pattern, letters, and in every size …”
Isabel closes her eyes and pretends this is all a bad dream while Yvonne listens with interest.
Claribel Apple, a neighbor from down the street, digs through her bag and hands something to them. “I made this card at the last swarm. I’m giving it to my husband for our anniversary next month.”
“If you don’t end up keeping it for yourself,” her friend chuckles.
“I know!” Claribel exclaims. “I love it so much I don’t know if I can give it away. You know he’ll just stuff it in his sock drawer.”
Yvonne nudges Isabel and nods at the card. “Hey, this isn’t so bad. Look.”
Reluctantly Isabel looks over. The card’s a bit sappy (“In your arms is my favorite place to be …”) but she has to admit it looks all right, like an expensive card you’d buy in one of those stationery stores in the city. “Nice,” she mutters.
Yvonne hands it back to the woman and turns back toward Bettie, her eyes glowing with renewed interest.
“Those were all good guesses but we’re going to have even more fun,” Bettie is saying. She pauses for effect and her eyes grow wide, the women in the room leaning forward in nervous anticipation. “We’re stitching our layouts this month!”
There’s a delighted gasp and another round of applause.
Isabel claps her hands over her ears and looks at Yvonne. “I’m going crazy.”
“Now, I have six-page layout packages here for those of you who want to take a shortcut,” Bettie is saying as she walks around the room. “It includes borders, tags, paper, some adorable brads and rub-ons, cutouts, and of course suggestions for how to lay everything out and then stitch it up by hand or machine. Otherwise you’re welcome to use your own papers and ideas. The kit is free to Society members and $9.99 for guests.” She stops in front of Isabel and Yvonne and hands them each a pack, then places a finger over her lips in a secretive smile. “We have extra tools at our Scrap Station over there …”
Isabel glances over. “My dining room table, you mean?”
“… and don’t forget to swing by the swap table. Members bring supplies they no longer need or want and swap them for something that might work better. Most of the time people are glad to get rid of
stuff so help yourself if you see something you like.” Bettie turns and hollers, “Okay, ladies. We have two hours left. Let’s get scrappin’!”
The women begin to assemble themselves around makeshift tables. Rolling file boxes and organizers are opened and items immediately placed on the table—cutting boards, pens and markers, adhesives, plastic containers of embellishments, stacks of paper, loose photos.
“Are we cropping or scrapping?” Yvonne whispers. “I’m confused.”
“Maybe we’re crapping,” Isabel suggests, but no one bites. She looks at the packet in her hand. “Oh, scrap! I don’t have any pictures.” She snaps her fingers, feigning disappointment.
“You live here.” Yvonne helps open a portable camping table and sets it up in front of them. “I’m sure you have something. Don’t you have a big box of unsorted photos somewhere? Everyone does.”
Isabel does have a box like that but it went into the attic when Bill left, along with all the photo albums and framed prints. When he died, Isabel could only bear to be up there long enough to find a good photo for the memorial. She hasn’t looked at the boxes since then and doesn’t intend to anytime soon. Instead she says, “I just painted so I moved a bunch of stuff around. I can’t remember where I put anything.”
“You can always put the layout together and add your photos at another time,” Lorna says as she walks by. “That’s what most of us do anyway. You can’t get it all done in one evening, after all. What would be the fun in that?”
There’s a chortle of laughter as Lorna walks on.
“It took me a whole weekend to scrapbook the trip Jazz and I took to the San Diego boardwalk last year,” Cyndi Bloom remembers.
“I love San Diego!” Yvonne exclaims. “How long were you there for?”
Cyndi is looking through an assortment of edged scissors. “Three days.”
“Wait,” Isabel says. “It took you the same amount of time to scrapbook a trip you went on?” Isabel can think of lots of things she can do in a weekend, and scrapbooking isn’t one of them.
Cyndi thinks about it. “You’re right, it took me longer. I spent two days power-planning my pages before I started. But I don’t really count that because I usually watch TV at the same time.”