Laura Childs: Photo Finished

Carmela nodded and gave an appreciative gaze about her scrapbooking shop. Truth was, she was utterly thrilled at the turnout for her first all-night scrapbook crop. Besides her regulars like Tandy, Baby, and Byrle, another sixteen women had shown up. Hunkering down at the tables and ponying up twenty dollars each for unlimited use of Carmela’s ample stock of stencils, punches, sheets of peel-off lettering, colored pens, and fancy-edged scissors.

As a lucky strike extra, Carmela and Gabby were also planning to serve steaming mugs of homemade shrimp chowder, as well as all the pecan popovers and honey butter a hungry scrapbooker cared to snarf.

After getting Tandy settled in, Carmela threaded her way back through the tables, giving a suggestion here, passing out pens and scissors there. She couldn’t help but feel a burst of pride at how well her little scrapbooking shop was doing. She’d logged long hours and suffered sleepless nights to pull off her business venture. And now that she had eighteen months of real-time business ownership under her belt, she was feeling a lot more confident, a lot more hopeful that she’d be able to continue eking out a small but respectable profit.

But being an independent woman had recently taken on a new meaning for Carmela. Because besides being financially independent, she’d been forced to reclaim her independence as a single woman, too, when Shamus Allan Meechum, her husband of barely one year, had walked out on her. Had literally slipped out the back door of their Garden District home one afternoon and boogied his way into seclusion at the Meechum family’s camp house in the Barataria Bayou.

Had Carmela been shocked by this turn of events? Truth be told, she’d been rocked to the core.

Had she subsequently been filled with doubt, self-recrimination, and guilt over her part in the breakup? Hell no.

Carmela’s estranged husband had always been a strange duck. The youngest one in the Meechum clan, the same Meechums who’d owned and operated the high-profile Crescent City Bank for the past hundred and twenty years, Shamus had been born with a silver shoehorn in his Gucci loafers. He’d been a trust fund kid who’d coasted blissfully through most of the major chapters of his life. Shamus had attended the right school (Tulane), played the right sport (varsity football), lived in the right part of town (the Garden District), and celebrated life’s holidays, holy days, and personal triumphs at the right restaurants (Antoine’s or Galatoire’s-jackets and reservations always required).

Carmela had been the one wild card aspect in Shamus’s life. Unlike Shamus, she was not descended from old French and English families, but instead laid claim to being half Cajun and half Norwegian. Or Cawegian, as her dad had always joked. Plus Carmela had been born and bred in the more blue collar city of Chalmette.

But their courtship, seemingly unhampered by social conventions, had been passionate, romantic, and swift. They were both people who spoke their minds freely, were fiercely independent yet ruled by deep-seated emotion, and were, in general, prone to acting impetuously.

Only, to Carmela’s way of thinking, Shamus had been a little too impetuous.

Because, unlike most members of the Meechum clan, Shamus hadn’t fallen in love with the variances and vicissitudes of the banking business. Shamus was moody, some would say a dreamer. Shamus had an artistic bent, as did Carmela. In fact, Carmela had always figured the “art factor” was what had attracted them to each other.

Still, Shamus had gone into the banking business per his family’s wishes, diligently learning the ins and outs of mortgage banking, calmly dealing with slightly nefarious real estate developers, carefully parsoning out loans, and, along the way, building a solid reputation and nice little fiefdom for himself.

Then all hell had broken loose. First, Shamus left banking. Two days later, he left Carmela.

Carmela suddenly blinked back tears at the searing memory of Shamus’s unexpected departure.

Good heavens, don’t let the waterworks turn on now, Carmela told herself as she quickly bent down at the nearest table, where Dove Duval and Mignon Wright were busy with a craft project that involved Chinese paper fans. After all, the man’s been gone for over a year.

“These look fantastic,” Carmela told the two women. Dove and Mignon had rubber-stamped various Chinese characters onto heavy white card stock, tinted those images with bronze and gold paint, then cut them out and adhered them to bright red Chinese fans. As a finishing touch, they were adding more stamped images and attaching old Chinese coins and red tassels to the fans’ black lacquer handles.

“The fans are announcements for a party I’m throwing in a few weeks,” Mignon told Carmela. “Aren’t they fun?” She smiled up at Carmela, eager for approval.

“Your invitations are absolutely delightful,” Carmela told Mignon and Dove. “But the two of you are almost finished. What are you planning to work on the rest of the night? I hope you brought along lots of photos so you can work on a few scrapbook pages.”

“Oh, we have to leave early,” explained Dove, who was already making motions to pack up her craft bag.

“But we’ll be back next week,” Mignon assured Carmela. “I’m thinking of decorating some little tins to match. You know, to hold party favors?”

Carmela was always amazed at how the whole scrapbooking thing spilled over so wonderfully into dozens of other projects. Scrapbooking itself was fantastic, of course, what with all the album choices and gorgeous papers that were available. But enhancing your page layouts with stickers, rubber stamps, tags, tiny charms, and ribbons inevitably led to so many more craft projects. Carmela noted that tonight about half the ladies were working on scrapbooks per se, while the other half were creating cards, invitations, tags, and stamp collages. One woman had a tea party planned for the upcoming holidays, so she was crafting darling little invitations that also featured a small side pocket. When her invitations were finished, she’d be able to tuck a small tea bag inside as well.

Darling, really darling, thought Carmela. I should do some of those pocket-style invitations for my Christmas window display. Didn’t I just see some boxes of spiced holiday tea down the street at the Ashley Place Gift Shop? Sure I did. Those would work perfectly.

Carmela squeezed past the two folding tables back to where her regulars were holding court and sat down.

“Look at this, Carmela,” said Gabby. “Tandy brought jars of strawberry jam for us.” Gabby was her usual prim-looking self tonight, attired in a silk blouse and wool slacks, her fine brown hair held back in its inevitable pageboy by a black velvet ribbon.

Tandy continued to unearth jars of strawberry jam from her seemingly bottomless bag and slam them down on the big wooden table that normally served as the epicenter for Carmela’s “craft central.”

Gabby picked up one of the jars and studied the viscous red contents. “This looks absolutely delicious.”

Tandy nodded her head of tight curls and squinted at Gabby. “It should be, honey. Ponchatoula lays claim to being the strawberry capital.”

“Of the state?” asked Gabby, who was the only one sitting at the table who was, as they say, “from not here.” In other words, not a native of Louisiana.

“Of the universe,” cackled Tandy. “Every place I went people plied me with strawberry goodies. I came home with strawberry jam, strawberry sauce, strawberry preserves… why, one of Elvira’s cousins even presented me with a bottle of homemade strawberry vodka. The darn stuff is candy apple pink!”

“I bet that strawberry vodka would make one heck of a Cosmopolitan,” offered Baby. Baby Fontaine was fifty-something, very pixieish. And, with her immaculately coifed blond hair and bright blue eyes, she was still a stunner. Carmela thought Baby still possessed the vivaciousness of the sorority girl she’d been when she’d gotten her nickname. And, of course, her nickname still suited her perfectly.