The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society Part 13

"Oh?" the woman says, her voice loud. "Is that what you think, Mr. Big Shot?"

Mr. Big Shot. Trick squares his shoulders even though she can't see him. "Yeah, that's what I think. And I think you should mind your own business, lady. People have a hard enough time in life without having other people b.u.t.t in. People like you are the problem, not the solution. If your friend doesn't like the advice I gave, she should be calling me, not you."

"I'll have you know that one of the great blessings in life is to have people around you who care," she counters huffily. "Did you call for help when his car hit the tree? Drive his wife to the hospital, arrange a phone tree so people could offer good wishes and send food over? Are you the one sitting in the hospital room with him? Cleaning their house? Talking to the insurance company? Making sure their cat is fed?"

Trick s.h.i.+fts uneasily in his chair. "Lady, I don't even know these people."

"My point exactly." There's a smugness in her voice. "Now, I know people will keep listening to you no matter what I say. I know you live alone and keep to yourself. That's no way to live, Mr. McGaughy. We all need people. So I'll be coming by the studio-"

Trick looks at Damian in alarm. He doesn't do personal appearances and he most definitely does not want to put a face to any voice. "Don't come by the studio-" he begins.

"-and dropping off my card, along with some materials so you can come to a meeting of the Avalon Ladies Sc.r.a.pbooking Society and meet some of the people who listen to you. And this time, I think you should listen to them. You might learn a thing or two about real life and be able to give out more thoughtful advice in the future. And since I know we're live on the air, I have all your listeners as my witnesses, and the ladies of the Society will be making it their mission to call you until you come to a meeting."

"I'm not coming to any meeting and that's all we have time for today. This is Trick McGaughy and-"

"-and Mr. Moon, your mother and I go way back. She's a fine woman and a member of the Society, too. We'll be expecting both of you at our meeting tonight."

Damian looks panicked and hits the b.u.t.ton to queue the music, but it's too late. The damage has been done.

Trick pulls the headphones off his ears and stares at Damian. "What was that?"

"Man, she told my mom?" Damian says with a shake of his head. "That's low."

"Well, I'm not going," Trick says stubbornly. He doesn't like being coerced like this. This is why he doesn't interact with people directly unless it's absolutely necessary.

"Did you hear her?" Damian looks chagrined. "You have to! Plus I don't want my mom on my case-she's already threatening to kick me out."

Trick is disgusted. "I don't know what you're doing living at home anyway-you're forty, Damian."

"Hey, it's free rent, man. Not all of us get to be big radio stars. Plus she has cable . . ."

Trick just shakes his head.

". . . and she's my mom." Damian looks down. "She's been lonely since my dad died. Marcia got the house after my divorce and I didn't have a place to live-it works out well for both of us. It's kind of nice, actually." He looks up at Trick. "Look, I'd consider it a personal favor if you'd go, Trick."

Trick makes a face. He's worked with Damian for about ten years, but he doesn't mix his personal life with his work life. And a sc.r.a.pbooking meeting? Trick doesn't even know what that is. "Sorry, buddy, but I have plans tonight."

"No, you don't. And Trick, I'd do it for you." The look on Damian's face is serious, and Trick knows he's right.

"Fine," Trick finally grumbles. "I'll go." He breaks into a grin when Damian claps him on the shoulder in happy relief.

"You're a good friend," Damian says, and Trick looks at him in surprise. He doesn't keep company with anyone so this is a label he isn't used to. "My mom always brings this meatball corn stew that's really good. I'll tell her to make extra for you. Hey, you've never even been over to our place! Why don't you stop by before the meeting? I'll give you directions. You know, I bet those old ladies will have tons of questions for you. This might even be kind of fun!" Damian is babbling like a teenager.

Trick's not so sure about that, but there's no backing out now. As for fun, well, Trick's annoyance is turning a bit into admiration-it's not every day he has a caller who can steamroll him like that, and he has to admit that he's a bit curious to meet this lady who sounds like someone's grandma. Trick thinks back to his own grandmother, now long gone, and just as feisty.

"Meatball corn stew," he says with a nod. "All right. I'm in. What time do you want me there?"

Chapter 9.

"This is so typical," Isabel complains as she stirs her tomato soup. She drops in a handful of croutons, wis.h.i.+ng she'd thought to pick up some real food before coming over. Yvonne never seems to have more than soup and rice cakes in her pantry. "You find the only available guy in Avalon, and of course he's a looker."

"Make that with a capital L." Yvonne is glowing.

Isabel shoots her an annoyed look. "But he does live with his mother," she reminds her.

"Yeah, the jury's still out on that one. But maybe he's got a good reason, like she's sick or something." Yvonne's brow furrows. "Although she looked pretty healthy to me. So that's probably not it."

"Maybe he's gay," Isabel suggests a bit too hopefully.

"Nice try. I don't think so." Yvonne is smirking.

Isabel points her spoon at Yvonne. "I got it. He's the devil in disguise."

Yvonne rolls her eyes.

"What? I'm saying it seems a bit too good to be true, you know?" Isabel has lived in Avalon long enough to know that even though the town is growing as retirees and small families move in, it's still not a place where good-looking single men tend to flock to. "What did he say he does? For a living?"

"Some kind of family business. We didn't have time to get into it." Yvonne stirs her soup dreamily. "Anyway, one date won't hurt. And maybe if it goes well and we decide to go out again, we could double date." She looks at Isabel. "Hey, that would be fun!"

"Now I know you're joking." It's bad enough that Yvonne is oozing giddiness like a schoolgirl, but Isabel doesn't want to get roped in, too.

"I'm serious. Look at it this way: we double date, you can check him out, save me from certain disappointment. Unless, of course, he turns out to be as perfect as he looks."

"Doubtful."

Yvonne can't be dissuaded. "You never know," she sings as she scoops up Isabel's almost-empty bowl.

"Hey, I wasn't finished with that!" Isabel protests, spoon still in hand.

"We both need to be eating better," Yvonne declares, dropping the bowls into the sink. "Let's go out and get a salad." She plucks the spoon from Isabel's hand and tosses it into one of the bowls.

Isabel pouts. "In case it's escaped you, I don't have anyone I need to stay in shape for."

"It's not just what we eat, Isabel. I'm talking about making changes from the inside out."

"Oh great. Next you're going to tell me you're a lifestyle coach."

"I'm serious, Isabel. We've both been in a bit of a rut lately, kind of going through the motions with life. Maybe we should be doing more to feel better for ourselves."

"I don't want to do all that for some guy," Isabel says. "I did that with Bill, and look where that got me."

"We wouldn't be doing it for some guy," says Yvonne. She turns off the water then sits down next to Isabel. "We'd be doing it for ourselves."

Isabel shakes her head, unconvinced.

"Look," Yvonne says earnestly. "I want to feel good about myself . . ."

"From the inside out. I got it."

". . . so I can do more with my life. I got into the trades because I wanted to make a difference, and for some reason I've been so caught up in my day-to-day life that I forgot about that. This might be a way for us to connect with ourselves again."

Yvonne is so earnest that Isabel bites her tongue, refrains from cracking another joke about breaking out the white sage or doing some weird dance in the moonlight. And it's true that she stepped on the scale the other day and nearly toppled over. She's been a rail most of her life, not lean and curvy like Yvonne, but she's put on small pockets of weight here and there, and it's been discouraging. And she used to love to cook-simple meals, at least, but her cooking was something that Bill used to love and compliment her on. Maybe that's why she doesn't bother anymore-she can't stand being in the kitchen or preparing any of her favorite dishes that used to be Bill's favorites, too. Isabel has been eating out for a long time, and could afford to continue eating out a little while longer, but she's realizing that maybe she's hungry for something else.

"Fine," she says grumpily, because she's not at all sure how this is going to go. She hopes it doesn't entail any kind of schedule or calorie counting, both of which she has little interest in. "And by the way, if we were to double date, did it occur to you that I don't have anyone to take on this alleged date?"

"Oh, don't worry about that," Yvonne says blithely. She reaches for a pad of paper, starts making out a shopping list. "Guys like Hugh always have friends. I'm sure one of them will go out with you."

"Gosh, thanks, I feel so much better now."

Yvonne laughs just as her phone rings. She checks the display, then grabs Isabel's arm. "It's Hugh! Should I answer it?"

Before Isabel can say anything, Yvonne presses the RECEIVE b.u.t.ton and composes herself. "Yvonne Tate," she says, her voice a mixture of s.e.xy allure and fake boredom.

Isabel watches as her friend goes through a round of animated conversation, laughing at something or other. So this is what dating looks like, Isabel thinks, feeling a twinge of envy. It's been so long that she's forgotten. Bill had been her first real love, and then they'd married. She hadn't planned on ever being with anyone else. Unlike him, obviously.

This whole Ava thing would have been easier if there hadn't been a child. The child was the wild card, the unfair advantage. Isabel, who'd had three miscarriages after years of trying and fertility treatments. Bill had wanted a family, and even though he swore the pregnancy was unexpected, it seemed a little too convenient. And now Isabel is alone, husbandless, childless, even ex-husbandless, with only Yvonne to count as a friend. What's the likelihood there will be someone out there who will want to date her?

"Oh, Hugh." Yvonne is giggling.

Isabel's never gotten used to this, the banter that goes on during the courting period. She sees it all the time at work, can spot a blooming office romance a mile away. There's the flirting and small private signals that people think no one else can notice but it's the opposite-it's so obvious you could set your watch to it. I'll meet you in the break room in 5. XOXO.

"This is a bad idea," Isabel says the minute Yvonne hangs up. "I've changed my mind."

"You can't change your mind, I've already started our shopping list," Yvonne says calmly, holding up the piece of paper.

"The only thing you wrote on there is our names, Yvonne."

"Well, it's a start. Hey, do you want to know what Hugh said?"

Not really, but she knows Yvonne is going to tell her whether she wants to hear or not, so she shrugs and says, "Tell me."

"He says that Toby missed me after I left."

Isabel pretends to vomit. Yvonne swats her, laughing, just as Isabel's cellphone begins to ring.

"Well, well. Isn't this interesting?" Yvonne says as Isabel reaches into her purse. "Maybe someone's calling to ask you on a hot date."

"Ha-ha," Isabel says, but it's curious. n.o.body other than her boss or Yvonne uses this number. Isabel looks at the display but doesn't recognize the number.

"Tell him you like chardonnay and long walks on the beach," Yvonne whispers as Isabel says h.e.l.lo.

"Isabel!" comes the screech. "I hope to G.o.d you're not being a potato couch!"

A potato couch? What? Isabel checks the display again, then puts the phone back to her ear. "Who is this?"

"I'm at Madeline's and we're about to start our meeting, but I forgot to bring my pop-up glue dots. You'd better hurry."

Bettie. Yvonne is leaning against her, curious, trying to listen. Isabel swats her away. "How'd you get this number?" she demands.

"The keys are under the mat, and the dots are in the large box on the shelf labeled ADHESIVES." There's some mumbling on the other end and Isabel hears Bettie say, "Oh, thank you, Tess, but Isabel has it all taken care of."

"Bettie, I'm not even home . . ."

"The girls and I will be waiting. It looks like we have a full house tonight. See you soon!" Bettie hangs up before Isabel can respond.

"Unbelievable," Isabel mutters. She recounts the brief conversation to Yvonne, who listens with interest.

"Well, obviously you have to go help," Yvonne says with authority.

"No way." Isabel sits in her chair, arms crossed. "I'm not her lackey."

"No, you're not. You're her neighbor." Yvonne flicks off the kitchen lights, grabs her purse. "Come on. I'll go with you. It'll be fun to see everyone again."

Isabel grumbles as she gathers her things. "And you know what else she said? She accused me of being a potato couch."

"You mean couch potato?"

"She said potato couch."

"I'm sure she meant couch potato. She's probably got a lot on her mind, trying to get ready for the meeting while coming up with a solution for the Glue Dot Dilemma. What is a glue dot anyway?" Yvonne holds open the front door.

"Who knows. Some overpriced sc.r.a.pbooking thing, no doubt."

"The only thing worse would be the Case of the Dried Out Inking Stamps."

"Or the Which Sequins to Choose Affair." At the meeting in Isabel's home, Mrs. Wingert had spent a full half hour deliberating on the right a.s.sortment of sequins for her project, fretting that she didn't want to make the wrong choice.

"Fuchsia or teal?" Yvonne remembers, laughing.

It takes the women less than five minutes to drive to Isabel's neighborhood. Isabel looks next door at her own home, dark and lonely, then turns up Bettie's walk with Yvonne at her heels.

Isabel surveys the welcome sign on Bettie's door. WARNING: THIS HOUSE IS PROTECTED BY AN AVID Sc.r.a.pBOOKER. She sighs and bends down, lifts a corner of the doormat and then the other.

"There aren't any keys here," Isabel says. She picks up the doormat and gives it a good shake. Bits of dirt and crushed leaves fall down.

Yvonne tries the front door. "Locked," she reports.

The two women look up and down Bettie's porch. There's an old wrought iron bench, a few dying potted plants. A two-foot stone statue of an angel is tucked into the far corner, its nose chipped, and covered with cobwebs.

"I wonder . . ." Isabel says as she walks over. She sneezes when a cloud of dust rises as she rocks the angel from side to side. "This thing weighs a ton."