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 click 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.

Ruby pulls her door closed with a big bang. “Sorry love, so used to pulling closed those heavy doors of my Buick.”

When we moved up here not too long ago, the Buick stayed. She sold her fancy house in Eau Claire’s third ward and I handed over the keys of my salon to a very dear employee of mine. She (her name is Watts) promptly moved upstairs into what used to be my apartment. I’m thinking that maybe I’ll sell it to her someday. Hmmm.

“No problem,” I say, coming back to the fact that I’m driving.

I rev the motor, shift into one and off we chug down the winding, rutted path that opens onto the main road leading to the town of LaPointe. The town is really just a couple of blocks long, built next to the ferry landing that takes us back and forth to Bayfield. But at least we have some nice restaurants, several bars and a really great library.

We creep across the wooden bridge at the bottom of a deep gully; I slow the van down so we can watch as a lazy black skunk wobbles over it, into the woods. He disappears into a clump of ferns. The smell is awful. I open my window; Ruby does the same.

“Splendid time for a—”

“Smoke,” I say, and Ruby lights two Virginia Slims. Placing one in between my lips, I inhale the cancerous fumes.

“Lovely little creatures.” Ruby points her cigarette toward the ferns as we pass by. “But the smell—they must be such dreadfully lonely creatures.”

I pull us up to the gate that’s latched closed. Ruby hops out to open it. I pass through and she hops back in, slamming the hell out of her door!

“Jesus, Ruby.”

“I’m just strong today, is all.” She takes a puff and lets out a perfect smoke ring, then swirls it away with the cigarette’s tip.

I shift up, and off we float down North Shore Road. The leaves are bright yellows and oranges—making the woods seem as though lit from within. There’s magic out there and fall on the island is looking so amazing.

“Would you look at that?” Ruby points to a group of five, no six, deer that are considering crossing the road in front of us. They don’t.

“I wonder how long until I hit one of them.”

“Well, I hope never, darling. Think of the damage it would do to your van—not to mention all the Bambis.”

“Hey! What about me?”

“You have insurance—don’t you?”

I nod my head, plop on my sunglasses and shift into higher gear. Madeline Island is such an oddity—how did all those deer get here? Imagine, an island off the tip of Wisconsin. I fell in love with this place the moment Ruby and I first came up here. Ancient, towering white pine trees are everywhere; when the wind blows through them, they whisper. The island is over fourteen miles long, but only three miles wide; that’s the long and short of it.

Lake Superior, the largest of the Great Lakes, really is an inland sea—and it’s fricking cold! I do enjoy dangling my toes off our dock, but the water takes some getting used to. I’m not really sure why no one’s built a bridge to the mainland, Bayfield, but I sure as hell am glad there isn’t one. Think of all the riffraff that would come here and take over. Are we riffraff? Whoever thought of that?

Like I mentioned, LaPointe is really small, but keep in mind there’s not a lot of us living out here year-round—about two hundred. Not that many crazy people in Wisconsin.

We pass by a mailbox that’s a miniature Victorian mansion; behind it is a field full of similar birdhouses perched on long poles. A handsome man, dressed smartly in faded jeans and a tight T-shirt with a Fedora hat askew, gives us a big wave and I honk back. A long, thick braid of hair snakes down his back; it swings with his every move.

“That Charlie,” I comment. “He’s a looker—for his age—I mean…”

“I know exactly what you mean, Eve darling. It’s amazing a man well into his seventies can look so—dashing. It’s simply…”

“Tempting?”

“Eve Moss.”

“He’s a widower—like you—handsome as hell, lives right down the street from us and I would think that you and he…”

Ruby lets out a guffaw and then smacks me on the arm. “I have no intention of having anything more than a friendship with the likes of any man. Even if the thought of Charlie is—quite tempting.”

“Here I thought that maybe you and he—”

“I was married more of my life than I was single—nearly fifty years. For the first time—for the last time, I should think—I’m having the time of my life and I want nothing more than—this.”

“To be honest, I totally understand, but don’t you miss the sex? I sometimes do.”

“If it could only be sex. But you see, if Charlie and I were to be—intimate—well, then our relationship becomes about that and should I tire of him…” I glance her way. “Oh all right, if he got sick of me, well then, our friendship could jolly well end in the bargain and I simply don’t want to take that chance. Besides, at my age, fantasy is fuel enough, I can take care of myself.”

“You’re so right. Personally, for the longest time, I’ve filled my life so completely with owning and running my salon. Now…with our apron business…hanging out with the boys and just life up here being so incredible, well, it sure is enough for me—more than enough.” Okay, so maybe I do miss the sex, I’m not dead you know. But at my age, sex is not such a, what, obsession?

We’re driving down “Main Street” LaPointe and it truly is something, a real Norman Rockwell. A knot of people are getting off the ferry; several groups are strolling along the sidewalks in front of the tidy storefronts that pepper the lane. A newspaper deliveryman peddles his bike along, handing out bundles and greeting one and all along the way.

I pull up in front of a pastel blue building. Its wraparound porch welcomes you with groupings of wicker furniture. A huge red neon sign blinks AL’S PLACE above the door.

We head in. The place is quiet, a few people are seated at the long bar, but no one’s in any of the burgundy-colored banquettes that line the entire wall opposite the bar. We decide on the one up front, by the window.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Bonnie calls out from the back and comes closer.

Her wispy hair is now scrunched, giving her “lost girl” face a sexier look. Gone is the harsh black eyeliner she wore when we first met and now she looks—fresh. The pale blue cotton dress under her crisp white apron (compliments of guess who) gives her slim frame some hips. I’d love to share some of mine.

She originally worked for us, rather pokey with the sewing machine, but recently her rotten husband—Al—fell dead. We, the women of Ruby’s Aprons, helped her toss his extensive bowling trophy collection out—we’re talking extensive here—and with some painting and lots of sweat, voilà, Al’s Place was born. Bonnie’s now a full-time restaurant owner and chef and bartender. Another past apron employee is her best, and only, waitress: Marsha.

“Actually”—I purse my lips—“Rocky did drag something in—wanna see it?” I pretend to be searching in my purse and Bonnie says she’ll “pass, thanks.”

“It looks smashing in here, darling.”

“Thanks, I’m working like crazy, but it feels great to have a place to call your own, and thanks to Al’s life insurance, I just paid it off today!”

“Well—don’t just stand there,” I say. “Get three cosmopolitans from the bartender and get over here.”

Bonnie lifts an edge of the countertop up, crosses to the other side of the bar and says, “The bartender will get right on that!” And she does.

We clink and sip our tall, tall-stemmed martini glasses. “Crazy,” by Patsy Cline, purrs out of the jukebox.

“Hey,” Bonnie says, nearly toppling her glass when she smacks it down. “Heard you’ve found your daughter—that’s great!”

“How did you…” I forget how damn small this place is.

“Heard it from Marsha, who ran into Lilly over at Andy’s IGA grocery in Bayfield.”

“Right,” I say. “How’s she doing—Marsha, that is.”

“Great, she’s the best waitress ever and you would not believe the cakes and pies she can make.”

“Her time at Norske Nook,” Ruby adds, slurping her drink, “must have paid off.”

“That Darlene Kravitz of the Island Gazette.” Bonnie leans in. “She came in here a couple of days ago and told Marsha that she thinks her husband called over there looking for her.”

“No…” I dramatically say. Darlene is our biggest “island gossip.” Ruby knows I can’t stand her. So she kicks me under the table to hold my tongue. “I thought that he up and left her and her daughter in Rice Lake, years ago.”

“He did, and the thing is, they never got a divorce. Marsha’s afraid he’s going to cause trouble.”

“But Darlene…” I protest a bit. “I don’t know that she’s all that reliable and why didn’t he just call here?”

Bonnie shrugs. “You’ve got me. Hey, why not give the menu a look. The soup is egg drop, I have a great pot sticker appetizer, and I’m just putting the finishing touches on a fabulous salad Marsha had heard about—made with shredded cabbage and raisins and apples and—”

“Maple-vinegar dressing?” I finish. She shrugs her shoulders. Lilly must have told Marsha, who in turn told…See what I mean by small?