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  “I should think, when you’re good and ready and not a moment sooner.”

  It’s going on toward eleven. Ruby and I had a light supper of pasta with a pesto sauce that we made together last summer and froze. It was great. Ruby’s great, what a gem. I can hear her say, “duh.” Get it—Ruby—a gem. Never mind.

  Rocky and I are heading down the basement stairs. Ruby has gone off to bed and I’m too wound up to sleep, so we’re going to use the secret passageway to get down into the boathouse without having to step outside. This cottage used to be a front for an illegal bootlegging operation. Ed’s grandfather was quite the entrepreneur.

  All a “deliveryman” had to do (in the dark of night, of course) was pull his boat into the bottom half of the boathouse, probably blink the boat-lights to some code and presto! The back of the boathouse has a false wall that slides open, revealing a longer space that he then would pull into and unload the goods.

  There’s a passageway from the basement wine cellar leading all the way down to that backroom behind the boathouse. That’s where Johnny came from the other day. Then if you go up a spiral staircase, push up a trap door—voilà—you’re in the closet of Ruby’s Aprons. The name of Gustave’s (Ed’s grandfather) bootleg was Toad Tea. There’s a picture of a winking toad on the label of every bottle, exactly like the one in the huge stained-glass window in the cottage. Kind of explains the toads all over the place, now, don’t it? I’ve kissed a few myself, never did find the prince, well, not yet anyway.

  So, I’m heading there now. Walking past the washing machine, I pull open the metal door of our wine closet. Its shelves are filled with dusty, but full, wine bottles. The wine Ruby and Ed used to make. I reach up and yank a cord. A bare lightbulb snaps on, throwing its garish light all over. Rocky paws at the back wall. Smart cat. Pushing the wall, it clicks. I push it again and it groans outward. I snap on an ancient switch inside the passage and naked lightbulbs pop to life, illuminating a long curving corridor.

  Rocky “meows” and then steps down the metal stairs. He turns back to me.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

  We wander down the passage; my footsteps echo off the walls, giving me the willies. Around a corner, the hallway opens up to an enormous, high-ceiling room; on either side are rows and rows of huge wooden barrels. Their brass spouts have long ago developed a deep patina green. Farther on, Rocky sits in front of a huge wooden door that opens by pushing it along a metal runner spanning above us. I give the leaf-shaped handle a tug and it squeaks open, sliding to the right of us.

  Rocky steps up the metal stairs and into the odd water-floored room. I snap on more lights and follow him. A wide cement path leads along the left wall to a larger flat area. Most of the room is lake water; it laps lazily against the sides, reflecting the light of the bare bulbs, making it dance and sparkle. There’s a motor suspended in the middle of the wall facing out to the lake. It can slide the doors open, revealing the front of the boathouse and on out to the lake. This is where you would pull your boat into to unload the casks of booze. What a lot of work for a lousy drink!

  Passing by the furnace that heats our factory upstairs, we head up the spiral staircase, push up the trap door, click open the closet door and we’re in the office. We just call this entire building the boathouse, even though it’s really a guesthouse on top of the boathouse. Isn’t life confusing enough?

  I click on the lamp over my desk, thump down into the chair and try to remember where the “on” switch to my laptop is.

  “There.” The screen flashes to life. A laughing Ruby and I are dancing the “cancan” on the hood of the duck. We were in the parade for the Bayfield Apple Festival not long ago and had a blast. I click to my e-mail. Rocky leaps into my lap and settles in.

  Yes—I’m checking to see if Helen wrote. “Hot damn!” She did.

  Dear Eve,

  I had a wonderful time meeting you! I can’t get over your curly red hair, it’s perfect. I’ve been talking Ryan’s ear off ever since and we have to plan a get-together soon. I want to meet this Ruby and your cottage sounds so magical.

  On my drive home, to Duluth, I remembered all sorts of questions I had originally planned to ask you, but to be honest, I was so nervous—I forgot.

  You mentioned that your mom had passed away and I’m very sorry, but you said I could ask anything, and here goes—is my birth father still alive? You didn’t say anything about him, so I wasn’t sure if he had died or that maybe you simply don’t know. What’s become of him, I mean.

  Well, that’s all for now. Thank you again for lunch, the wonderful duck ride and more than anything, for finding me.

  Love,

  Helen

  P.S. I’ll be sure and ask my mom more about the yellow sweater.

  I take a deep breath and then think. The chair tilts back, so I rock slowly. Rocky’s low purr vibrates against my heart and is so soothing.

  Stands to reason she wants to know about her roots; who wouldn’t? But I don’t know much about what happened to her dad, my teenage romance. My big mistake—no, no, I can’t say that, not now. And like Ruby said, things are exactly the way they’re supposed to be. Supposed to be—are. Maybe Mary Jo can lend a hand.

  Lifting Rocky to my shoulder, we head into the front room. I click on lights and marvel at the neatly piled aprons, the sewing machines and the silly deer-head-phone thing. Noticing the light on Sam’s sewing machine I go over to turn it off. She’s forever forgetting to.

  I bend down, then see a note lying just so—just so I’d find it! I slide into her chair and wonder how many more notes am I going to be reading tonight? I flip open the paper:

  Eve honey, this is the last note tonight, I promise. No sense ever came from looking over your shoulder. The past is just that. But things aren’t looking too good for the daddy who raised you, so don’t take too long in deciding just what the right thing to do is—just take the plunge, sister! We all are here to cheer you on. Now get to bed.

  Love, Sam

  “Oh, Sam.” I sigh and snap off her little light. Hmm, the daddy that raised me?

  Rocky and I are cuddled up out on the balcony that runs along the entire front of the boathouse. Stars are blinking over Lake Superior like crazy, making the water twinkle as if silver glitter was raining down. A spiral of smoke snakes from my nose and then slips up and disappears.

  All this sky and water, here, so far north. I no longer feel like I’m far away from anything. When you feel connected to a place, don’t you find that there’s something familiar about it? Like way inside, you think to yourself, “Haven’t I been here before?” Maybe, just maybe, you have.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Good morning, ladies,” I declare, practically bouncing into the boathouse. Sam and Lilly look up from their machines with matching grins. Johnny is just coming out of the bathroom and comes over to give me a nice hug.

  “Hey, look whose gunna be on Oprah!” Johnny singsongs and I give him a playful slug.

  “No way,” I reply and send Sam a wink.

  “Eve Moss,” Ruby calls from the back. “Get your rear back here this minute!”

  I shrug my shoulders to the group and head back to the office. Howard and Ruby are clustered in front of my computer screen.

  “There you are, darling.” Ruby motions for me to come over and have a look. Howard stands. I sit in his place and stare into the screen.

  “What the hell? I mean, is this for real?”

  “We got the e-mail this morning,” Howard says, folding his muscled arms across his chest. “What do you think?”

  “Martha? I mean—really? This is too much.”

  “Think what it could mean for sales, darling,” Ruby implores. Dressed head-to-toe in a tasteful denim number. “I could go on her show—being as I am Ruby of Ruby’s Aprons.” I roll my eyes at Howard.

  “She’s only asking to see some samples,” I remind her. “For all we know, they may want to copy them or…”

  “Copy
them?” Ruby’s voice rises up a good octave. “Bloody hell she’ll copy them. Why—we’d sue her bum right off!” Howard and I giggle and then so does Ruby.

  “My goodness.” Ruby pats her hair. “I do get my knickers in a twist now and again, don’t I?”

  “Ruby,” I explain, “this is only a request to see if maybe we could fit into their catalog, and to be honest with you, I don’t care to be in anyone’s catalog.”

  We hear a round of applause from the front room. Sam throws in one of her ear-piercing two-fingered whistles for bad measure. Howard prints out the note and hands it over to me. Ruby and I head to the front. It’s become a “note” world, hasn’t it?

  “I’ve a bit of news for you all,” I say, clearing my throat. The sewing machines have all stopped. Ruby turns down the CD of Django Reinhardt and I recite:

  “Dear Ruby’s Aprons,

  We here at Martha Stewart Living are very impressed with your website and are always on the lookout for something new and exciting. Both of which you seem to be! Since the trend of cocooning is snowballing into a national frenzy, we feel your charming “back to the kitchen” style is so on point.

  Would you consider sending us a sampling of your bestselling aprons in order for our product research team to evaluate them for placement in our special holiday catalog?

  Regards,

  Eva Mullings

  Deputy Trends Director”

  “Good grief,” I mutter. “Back to the kitchen? And what’s this stuff about cocooning?”

  “Perhaps, darling,” Ruby offers from the kitchen, “they’re desperate for a jump-start of sorts. Maybe they see us as competition or—”

  “Maybe,” Sam says, chuckling, “they’s just looking to get somethin’ free and I say—jump on this.” Sam holds up a see-through apron of white tulle all cinched together at the waist like a ballerina costume.

  “That’s fancy,” I say, coming over for a closer look. “Wow, this is really fun.” I tie it around my waist and model it. “Hey, you know, this reminds me of something I think it’s time we do. But first, here.” I hand the apron back to Sam. “I’ll tell Howard we’re not quite ready for Martha.”

  “Consider it done,” Howard yells from the back and we all sigh.

  Don’t get me wrong, we want to make this a successful business and all, but I’ve learned that keeping things within a certain parameter keeps them—yours. I don’t want to grow into a huge mega apron industry. I like how things are and my hope, ours really, is to grow slowly and grow how we as a group want to. How’s that for a business plan? Imagine if we all would rein things in a little closer and realize we have enough.

  Ruby hands me a mug of coffee and gives my shoulder a squeeze. I go over to my cutting table and dig in. But before I cut a thing, I lift my stack of neon green fabric pieces and make sure there’s nothing else under there. Ruby turns up the stereo again and Django is back strumming his hot-jazz guitar to “Minor Swing.”

  As I zoom my electric shears along, I say to the group, “I’ve been thinking.” Lilly groans and I slit my eyes at her. She shakes her head and revs her machine. “We all need some exercise and, well, I, for one, need to drop—”

  “I could drop,” Sam says loud as all get-out, “’bout what Ruby weighs wet—and that’s no lie.”

  “You would be surprised,” Lilly states with authority, adjusting her bifocals. “I have a bit more to me than the eye reveals. I’ve just learned to layer.” We all say the layer part in unison. We all layer.

  This is a universal trick any overweight woman knows. Men, well, the heavy ones anyway, just seem to openly burst out of their clothes with no shame whatsoever. Walk through any mall and count all those bellies hanging over.

  “Howard and I,” Johnny admits, “we’ve learned this technique of not breathing really deep and holding in the tummy. Like this.” He stands and lifts his cashmere sweater, revealing a protruding hairy belly. Then he sucks it in and it disappears into the six-pack I knew was there. Damn in-shape types.

  “You all full of crap,” Sam tsk-tsks. “Howard and you got bodies better than those boys over there.” She points to the Chippendale calendar on the wall.

  I turn around and have a look at Mr. October. Okay, another look. Oh my.

  “Have you been checking me out?” Johnny asks, grinning.

  “Honey,” Sam drawls out long and luscious. “Whether you or Howard’s coming or goin’, we ladies is checking things out—uh-huh.” Everyone laughs. Johnny blushes.

  “You know…” Lilly’s machine comes to a halt. She reaches up to smooth her towering silver do. “I used to be a professional belly dancer.” Everyone holds their breath.

  “Why Lilly,” Ruby remarks with admiration, “you are just full of surprises.”

  “Well,” Lilly hesitates. “It was about a hundred years ago.” Then she lifts her head a bit more. “But damn it was a lot of fun and an excellent exercise for a gal, too!”

  “You know,” I offer, “I’m not too keen on doing, like, weight-lifting-exercise-stuff. As you can tell…besides, I would hate to get all toned. Like Madonna.” What a lie that is.

  “Oh right,” Johnny chides. “Wouldn’t it just be the pits if all of a sudden you got all toooooned.” I toss a bolt of material at him; he catches it midair and then sticks out his tongue. The nerve.

  “As I was trying to explain,” I lift my well-arched brows and aim them toward Johnny. “Belly dancing doesn’t have that gym-y sound and maybe it’d actually work on my, on my—everything.”

  “I’d give it a go.” Sam gets up and swivels her impressive hips. “Whew! That’s all for today, though. That is a lot-a-work.” She thumps back down with a sigh.

  “Hell,” I add. “How about it then? We’ve got the entire loft above the barn; it would be perfect.”

  “Sounds like,” Howard says, coming in from the back, “I’ve got another remodeling assignment. I just completed the finishing touches on Eve’s minisalon up at the cottage, so I’d be glad to look the loft space over.”

  “You best make sure those floors are good and sturdy,” Sam adds, revving her machine, bending over and sewing up a storm.

  Howard lumbers out the screen door and I notice how we all do look his way. Even Lilly takes a careful peek. I shrug my shoulders toward Johnny and get cutting.

  Later that afternoon, after a delicious “Taco Tuesday” lunch (compliments of Howard, his specialty), Ruby and I head over to the loft for an inspection. The boys went home first and then are going to meet up with us there. Sam and Lilly are on the ferry by now, a storm is brewing, and I don’t want them to get stranded.

  We’re walking up the path from the boathouse to the barn. It curves up and around the cottage toward the back porch door. Behind the barn, a lazy creek flings around and then follows down a hill, eventually slipping under the bridge and on out to the lake.

  “I had no idea,” Ruby spits out. “You’ve not spoken with your father for so long. How dreadful for both of you—really, Eve. You only get one, you know.”

  “It’s not my fault he decided to marry that Mormon widow,” I remind her for the zillionth time. “My mom and him…they had such a quiet life…separate bedrooms even. When Mom died, he disappeared, married that woman with all those kids she had, and…well…there just wasn’t room for me. He just disappeared from my life.”

  “You could have made an effort, darling, really.”

  “I honestly never felt close to him—I know he loved me, but he got involved with her so fast and I guess…I couldn’t quite forgive him. What a nudge I am.”

  “Americans are so uptight,” Ruby says. “Do you know my picture-perfect Ed had an affair?” I raise my brows way up. “I’ll never know for sure, but a woman knows. It was years and years ago…I figured it would pass…and it did.”

  “Just like that?” I practically screech. “You stayed with him? I mean, you adore him—adored. I can’t believe this.”

  Ruby stops walking and looks straigh
t at me. “Look, darling. Life is full of opportunities and choices and—temptations. Things happen and you have to decide to either forgive and move on together or end things and walk away—in different directions.”

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  “Life is—darling—it really is.” She gives my arm a squeeze.

  “Maybe this belly dancing will loosen me up some.”

  “Let’s hope. Good heavens, I’ve not been up into the loft for ever. It was one of Ed’s favorite places to hang. He and Charlie used to fiddle up there for hours.”

  I unlatch the small green arched Dutch door, which opens into the barn. Alongside this door is a much larger one that can fold accordion-style when it’s opened. We keep the duck and a ton of our stuff from Eau Claire in here. There’s also a vast collection of things accumulated from over the past hundred years or so, lots of things.

  Reaching up to the right, I snap on several switches and the barn is ablaze in light. It’s several stories high; directly in front of us is a workshop area with every tool and gizmo imaginable. In the back corner gapes a wide wooden staircase. We head over toward it.

  “Thank God we have this place here,” I comment as we start up the stairs. “’Course, if we didn’t, we maybe wouldn’t have brought so much of our junk.”

  “Perhaps next spring we should have an old-fashioned yard sale.”

  We’ve stopped on the first tier of steps and are looking down at the vast collection of memories down there. From moose heads and dressers, canoes hanging from the rafters and several pair of snowshoes to lamps and rockers and…