Charlotte worked hard all week to prepare for this weekend. She’s planned each meal so that the kids and her husband will hardly notice her absence. She’s left separate lists of “to dos” lest anyone feels overwhelmed and therefore might be tempted to ignore the chores that must be completed in anticipation of next week. The youngest has a project about Japan due on Tuesday. The oldest has to sign up for Little League or else there will be hell to pay. And Dan must at the very least put in an appearance at the PTA Talent Show and applaud loudly once or twice so that others know he’s there. All this so that she can step away for forty-eight hours to scrapbook in the Harvest Ballroom at the La Quinta Inn. Midway through Friday evening with all her supplies laid out neatly on the table and the stack of mementos, pictures and clippings flanking either side of her work area, Charlotte sighs with pleasure. Two days of cutting, gluing and arranging stretch before her like a fresh bottle of red wine. She’d kill for a glass. But that is not the way to scrapbook, her girlfriend whispered to her on her first outing.