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  I consider this. “I guess. I want to look nice, though—it’s too late for surgery and I can’t imagine a diet that works in less than—”

  “It’s never too late for surgery, but diets are fads, and fads come and go. I have a thought.” Ruby clicks the stove off, pops the salmon into the fridge, and unties her apron in one swift move. It swirls onto the cupboard in a mass of bright pink flowers. “Let’s have a decent chat out on the dock and enjoy the sunset properly.”

  “Let’s do.”

  We’re snuggled in blankets and surrounded by big fluffy pillows, sipping wine and enjoying a smoke. The dock juts out a good twenty feet and has a panoramic view of Lake Superior—our front yard. It’s a special place that brings me such peace. The sound of the waves lapping the shoreline either lulls my mind—or sometimes sends me to the potty! But I do a lot of my finest thinking out here and with winter not too far away—God, I’ll really miss it.

  “From the tone of her rather formal note—I bet she’s intelligent,” I offer, as a smoke ring swirls up and away. “I’m going to e-mail her in the morning—I want to muddle over what to say for—”

  “Don’t you mean you want to worry and fuss—perhaps chew your nails to the quick?” Ruby admonishes me with a poke on my elbow.

  “Hey—I bruise easy.” I slump back onto a pillow. “All those years I’ve spent putting her in the backseat of a station wagon or picturing her in a Girl Scouts uniform, knocking on doors with that ridiculous box of cookies in tow. All those years of wondering.”

  “It’s quite possible, darling, she’s been dreaming of you—too.” She punches several pillows up a bit and then lies back, next to me. “Could be, Helen’s been imagining you as the one who will rescue her.”

  “I can’t imagine a thirty-year-old woman needing rescuing. I’d settle for a friendship of some sort. Maybe she’s married and has kids—oh no! I’m too young to be a grandma!”

  Ruby chuckles and so do I. I’d love it—wouldn’t I?

  “You’ll make a lovely gran. Hey—look, an eagle. Simply takes your breath away, doesn’t it, dear?”

  “Does—it certainly does.” I sigh all the way to my painted toes.

  Burnt orange hues splash across the sky; the sun slowly slides into the lake. Once it’s gone, the air quickly turns chilly so we make our way back up the path. Crossing the verandah, we head into the cottage. I let the screened porch door slap closed behind me; Rocky meows to be let in, too.

  “Sorry, buster, didn’t see you there.” I lift him up into my arms.

  “Who would like a delicious salmon din-din?” Ruby singsongs from the kitchen.

  “We would!” Rocky and I head toward the kitchen to investigate—such a burden.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ruby and I are down at the boathouse, getting things ready for our crew: Howard, Johnny, Sam, and Lilly. Howard is so breathtakingly handsome, the first time I met him I couldn’t get over his mane of silver hair, which is constantly falling into his chiseled face. He does all the financial and computer stuff. Johnny is our third “seamstress,” the other two being Sam and Lilly. Ruby and I have a little cottage industry that’s turning out to be a giant hit. We make aprons upstairs, above the boathouse, in the living room of what used to be a guesthouse. The living room opens out onto a balcony that faces the lake, and there’s a simple open-style kitchen, a tiny potty, and two bedrooms.

  Sam’s a sensuously ample black woman; her skin is the color of coffee and she usually has her hair stylishly braided tight with big hoop earrings peeking out from her colorful head-wraps. She has psychic abilities and wisdom far deeper than Lake Superior.

  Lilly is a tall, willowy gal whose lisp and high, swirled hair keep all of us grinning. She’s the one who gets us moving and there doesn’t seem to be a thing that woman can’t make with her sewing machine. Sam lives in Ashland, which is south of Bayfield, and Lilly lives in a big, old house in Bayfield, so they take the ferry over here together every morning.

  The aprons aren’t those KISS THE COOK kind; oh no. These are the old-fashioned sort that tie around your waist. Ours are made with sassy-patterned fabrics; some have pockets with lots of finishing work, and others are frilly as hell. It really depends on our mood and what we have to work with. They all have an attitude! We mostly sell them on the web, but earlier this month, we had a sell-out at the local Bayfield Apple Festival, where we had a booth. That, truly, is another story…

  “Where did I put that Peggy Lee CD?” I ask no one in particular while rummaging around stacks of fabric. “Ah ha—found it.” I pop it into our new CD player that sits on top of the mint green fridge. “I Wanna Be Around” fills the room. Love her.

  “Have you sent off your reply to Helen, darling?” Ruby asks, chrome percolator in one hand, the other firmly planted on her well-dressed hip. “Thought not—get in there, or do I have to dictate?” She points to the back of the boathouse, which used to be bedrooms, but we converted them into an office and a shipping and receiving room.

  I head back, but the phone rings on the way, so I reach up and pull it down. Ruby’s late husband, Ed, had some “interesting” ideas. To use the phone in the sewing room, you open the mounted deer-head’s mouth and a phone drops into your hand. There’s lots of cord, so you can walk over to the kitchen with it. Go figure.

  “Ruby’s Aprons,” I chirp into the mouthpiece.

  “Hello, I’m looking for Eve Moss, might she be available?” A deep woman’s voice, full of authority.

  “This…is she.”

  “Oh—this is Helen—Helen Williams.” I notice her soften.

  My heart takes a leap. “Helen—the note—Helen? I mean the woman-from-the-note-of-Duluth—Helen?”

  “Yes, I suppose you could put it that way,” she chuckles, but carefully.

  “I was just going to e-mail…how the hell are you—anyway?” I relax, a tiny bit. Palms are awfully sweaty, though, and boy, would a smoke be nice, but it’s not allowed inside the apron “factory.” Who wants a smoky-smelling apron?

  “I’m fine—thank you.” She pauses. “Ruby’s Aprons…I’ve only looked briefly at your website; are you two a comedy team or…?”

  “Oh no,” I giggle and relax more. “It’s a business that me and my best friend run.” I look over toward Ruby and she’s all beamy. “You see, we make aprons—you’ll have to come and see it sometime.” I can’t believe I said that, but why not?

  “That’d be great. Um, listen, I’ve got class in a couple of minutes, but about lunch—would you—like to—sometime?”

  “I would love that—yes. That’d be great!”

  “I’ve not been to Bayfield forever, is there a…”

  “Greunke’s.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Greunke’s—it’s a restaurant in Bayfield.” Is this really happening? “By the way, do you like Whitefish liver?”

  “Good grief—no.”

  “Perfect. When would you like to meet? I’ve got a pretty open schedule here.”

  “How would…” I hear tapping on a keyboard. “Thursday work, say around one?”

  “Sure, fine.” That’s this Thursday. How can I lose twenty pounds by then?

  “I’ll look forward to our meeting, then…” She hesitates. “Lunch, I mean. By the way, how will I recognize you?”

  “You can’t miss my red hair—it used to be really red—now it’s chemically…altered, shall we say.” I peek at myself in the mirror next to our Chippendale calendar.

  “Whose isn’t?” She laughs. “I’ll look forward to seeing you soon. Bye—Eve.”

  “Okay then, bye.” I let the phone go and watch it slide back up into the deer’s mouth. The jaw snaps noisily shut. She said she “had a class” I wonder if she’s a student—or a teacher?

  “Child,” Sam says with a big ol’ grin. “Too bad it’s only morning, you look like you could use a drink.” Then we all laugh.

  Maybe a really supportive girdle?

  Later that day, we’re
all gathered in the sewing room. Sam, Lilly, and Johnny are revving their sewing machines, attaching the various parts that I—the chief cutter-person—have “expertly” provided for them. I use these really fast electric scissors and cut through several layers of material at a time along cardboard patterns that Johnny made from his Ouija Board box.

  Ruby’s curled up on a cozy chair, sewing buttons on aprons. Her red-framed bifocals are perched on the end of her nose, making her look very “bookish.” The chain attached to them is made of crystals and they twinkle with morning sun, little blobs of color dancing around the pine-paneled room. Rocky is in the back office, keeping Howard company.

  “Girl.” Sam looks up from her machine. “Sure do look happy and all, but don’t go getting your hopes up about suddenly becoming her momma. Lord, who’d imagine our Eve a momma?” Sam shakes her head, her huge ringed earrings smacking her cheeks. “Not a job I’d ever want…no sir.”

  “You’d be great,” Lilly chimes in. “I honestly was petrified when Lud and I had our first. I kept thinking I was going to break her—imagine.” How she gets her silvery-white hair so high is beyond me.

  “Howard and I never wanted kids,” Johnny sighs. “I kind of did, but it’s such a huge commitment. But if Howard had had kids, you know, with a wife or something—then…”

  “You’d be the—uncle?” I ask, thinking he’d make an awesome one. “This is different. I mean it’s like we’ve never met. But trust me, I remember the birth part.” I pat my tummy. “It’s weird, I used to talk to her—when she was inside—all the things I imagined we’d do. You know, like kite-flying or sledding or reading together. I used to read stuff to her.”

  “Like what?” Lilly asks, threading her machine’s needle.

  “Harriet the Spy.” I think, for a second. “The Secret Garden, Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex—the usual fare.” Everyone chuckles; they know it’s true.

  “Hmm.” Sam scratches her corn-rolled braids with a long, long purple-painted nail. “That would explain why your Miss Helen maybe isn’t…”

  “Stop!” I hold up my electric shears for emphasis. “I don’t want to know, I want this to be a complete surprise—you promised.”

  “Oh I know I did.” Sam waves her big hand around. “I was just pulling your chain—land—you sure are on the jump since daughter Helen done rung your bell.”

  “Ever since ‘Miss Helen’ rung her bell,” Ruby says, over her bifocals, “Eve has been all a bundle of nerves—happy nerves, though.”

  “Sounds pretty normal to me,” Johnny adds, then revs up his machine so he can’t hear me call him a bad thing.

  “Bitch,” I mutter in his direction anyway.

  “Hey, you guys.” Howard lumbers into the room, so everyone stops their machines. “We just got an order from a new business called Windrow Café in Prairie Farm, Wisconsin. The owner wants a hundred aprons for some charity event, the theme is Dairyland Dairy Days, and there’s even going to be a butter-carving contest.”

  “That there paper Howard’s got,” Sam drawls in her rich voice. “That’s not an apron order—no sir—that’s job sec-ur-i-ty, um-hmm.”

  “Good heavens,” Ruby declares, heading over to the kitchen area. “It’s practically lunchtime and I’ve not set a thing out. Oh my, who made—Lilly, of course, this casserole smells divine, darling.”

  “It is,” Lilly lisps with obvious pride. “Tuna, fresh peas and egg noodles with crunched-up potato chips on top. Couple of smacks with my trusty Absolut bottle and the chips are ready to go. Only thing is, I end up eating what I can’t fit on the casserole, not to mention the highball necessary for the cook.” If you peek into her purse, there are two, maybe three bags of BBQ potato chips in various stages of consumption.

  “Sound cooking advice,” Johnny says. “Even if the recipe doesn’t call for wine, I always add some to the cook.”

  Everyone stands and stretches. In the beginning, Bonnie, the owner of Al’s Place in LaPointe, was sending us lunch. But she’s gotten too busy, so now we all bring a dish to pass for lunch and it’s really great, except that everyone’s such a talented cook—I have the waistline to prove it! God, maybe I’ll just meet Helen in a muumuu.

  “Sam, darling,” Ruby says, her head poked in the fridge. “I can’t get over the salads you create—this looks exquisite.” She holds up an enormous bowl in the shape of a cabbage. Lilly and Johnny cluck their tongues.

  “Don’t know what all’s in there.” Sam comes over to help Ruby put things out. “Cabbage, a ’course, all shredded up good, couple of carrots, for color and all, some raisins and an apple I had on hand, and a simple maple-vinegar dressing I got from Martha’s rag.”

  “That’s one woman,” I comment, taking plates from Sam and setting up our buffet line, “I have always admired.”

  “I’ve heard she’s such a fussbudget,” Lilly adds, taking her casserole out of the microwave. The oven mitts she’s wearing are pink flamingos, compliments of Maggie’s restaurant in Bayfield. “I’ve not had the best of luck with some of her recipes myself.”

  “People gripe about her all the time,” Johnny says. “She and Oprah get so much crap thrown at them. It’s only because they’re women.”

  “Very rich women,” Ruby adds. “With the best hair…some of the best hair I’ve seen.” She looks at me and winks. I used to own a hair salon in Eau Claire and Ruby was my first and then became my best customer—and friend, too.

  “I think it’s nearly impossible,” I say, taking a generous helping of Sam’s salad, “to put women in a category like everyone seems to so desperately need to do.”

  “What you talking about?” Sam asks and Lilly’s eyebrows ask, too.

  “We don’t have the roles anymore.” I think for a moment. “I mean, maybe it’s just me, but I personally don’t feel compelled to be what I do. Like, I bet there’s a lot to Martha besides her fricking glue gun and electric staple-thing.”

  Sam, Lilly, Johnny, and Ruby move to the round oak table in the corner; Howard and I perch on bar stools.

  “I’d say…” Lilly moves her black bifocals up into her hairdo. “That all of us are ‘fringers.’ Read that in this book I’ve been enjoying. We are out of the loop, so to speak.”

  “Honey,” Sam chuckles. “You don’t have to read no book, just look around at all these here fringers—and we are loopy, too, oh Lord we are.”

  “Thank God,” I add.

  “Or Allah,” Howard states.

  “Or Buddha,” Ruby says.

  “I say…” Sam pulls her chair in close. “I’m thanking the talented chefs for creating all this first-class food—now let’s dig in.”

  “A—men,” I say and we do, dig in, that is.

  After we send everyone out the door, Ruby and I are in the back office. I check my e-mail, for the tenth time, just in case Helen writes to cancel. I’m not paranoid. Much.

  “God,” I sigh. “How in the world am I going to make it until Thursday?”

  “YOU?” Ruby shakes her head. “How am I going to? I’ve seen you all nerves before—many times, now that I think of it—but this takes the cake.”

  “You have to admit, it was funny.”

  “You’re a danger to us all.” She starts to giggle, and then I do, and pretty soon we’re cackling.

  “The look on Lilly’s face,” I blurt out.

  “How in the world could you cut”—Ruby smacks her well-manicured hand on the desk—“her coat—and so—quickly!”

  “I didn’t see the damn thing.” I catch my breath. “She must have folded it and left it on my cutting table and I suppose I just laid some fabric over it and off I went.”

  “When you lifted what was left of it up…” Ruby adds.

  “I’ll never live this one down,” I say, clicking off my computer as well as the lamp that hangs over it.

  “No, you won’t.”

  “Let’s have supper out,” I suggest as we head back into the front room.

  I c
lick off lights and Ruby unplugs the coffeepot. “Have you seen Rocky?” I ask and then hear a “meow.” “There you are.” I open the screen door and let him in. “There’s a nice warm heart-attack victim, all licked clean out on the balcony.”

  I pat Rocky’s proud, purring head and then take the vegetable tongs and flamingo mitts from Ruby. “How’d I get this job—anyway?” I ask as the screen door smacks me in the rear.

  “Sheer unadulterated—luck,” Ruby states from inside. I hear her tell Rocky what a brave man he is carrying around mean old mice.

  I chuck the unfortunate victim (dead mouse-ee) over the balcony. Someone else’s supper, I suppose. What if Helen is some famous professor—and here I am. I look around at the lake, the cottage.

  Glancing through the screen door, I spy Ruby, she’s still chatting with Rocky while readying the kitchen for tomorrow. Aprons of every color—some with wildflowers, others with frogs or cows or big eyes—all piled higgly piggly over tables and among the sewing machines. It’s beautiful. I take in some fresh, lake air and remind myself that this wonderful place is my life and it’s something to be proud of. I am grateful, too. Carefully retrieving the tongs and mitts, I pull the screen door open.

  Up in my bedroom, I’m zipping up black jeans and then straightening my deep-blue sweater; I regard myself in the full-length mirror. Turning this way and that, sucking my tummy in as far as humanly possible, I still look fat.

  “Damn gene pool.” Rocky rolls onto his back and watches me upside down from on top of my bed.

  “Knock, knock.” Ruby sweeps in. She tosses a loose end of her snazzy gray shawl over a shoulder. “Damn Jean’s pool? Who’s Jean—and if she has a pool—why haven’t I been invited?”

  “Never mind. Let’s hit Al’s Place, and I’m thinking we deserve a cosmopolitan.”

  “Good heavens—yes.”

  We climb into my ancient VW van. Seeing as Ruby’s still got more to learn about driving a stick—like when to shift—I’m at the wheel. Yes, it even has yellow fringe around the inside windshield, the kind with balls that jiggle as we zoom along. I reach up to adjust my leopard-covered rearview mirror and then pop the converter thing into my tape player in order to play CDs (compliments of Howard). I’m just not ready to take the technology leap and actually have one installed; CDs could just vanish, you know. I put in a new CD we found at Stone’s Throw in Bayfield. Connie Evingson starts crooning, “Gypsy in My Soul.” We love that woman’s bluesy voice.