The early light of dawn is peeking into my bedroom. My Felix-the-Cat clock is showing me it’s time to get my rear in gear. Finally, it’s Thursday and I’m having lunch with my daughter! I’ll never be able to eat, my God, my stomach cramps have cramps. Rocky moves from one of my pillows to the end of the bed and sighs into a ball. What a life he’s got.

I slip into my floor-length terry-cloth robe and hunt around for my slippers. Giving them a good shake (in case mice are in there), I slip my freshly painted toes in and wiggle them for warmth. Patting Rocky, I push my curls around and head downstairs.

Being the first one up is such a treat. Recently, we switched from instant coffee to roasted whole bean coffee and what a difference in taste. I grind it the night before and then get the old tin coffeepot all ready; I love the sound the coffee makes as it percolates—that snappy rhythm helps me wake up. The coffee is the “fair trade” kind, so the money gets right to the farmer; must be why it’s called “Farmer to Farmer.” Clever. Clicking on the stove, I take down several mugs and then slide open the shutters over the sink.

The sky is a cool lavender shade; looks chilly out. A cigarette sounds perfect, but I washed my hair last night and you know how important first impressions are. Smoky hair is just plain gross. Who am I kidding—smoking is gross. Sighing, I pick up one of the two rocks that live on the windowsill.

This one is cool and smooth, pink and white in color. It used to live on my sill in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. I put it back and take up the other. This one is real flat and oval; it’s from the river that flows through Eau Claire. I spent hours along that river, watching it slip by, while thinking my thoughts.

Pouring a mug full, swirling in some milk, I turn back toward the living room. Since the wraparound porch has only screens, I decide the library would be cozier. Rocky joins me as we stroll down the hallway. Before turning into the library, we gaze at the floor-to-ceiling stained-glass window. Since the sun has begun to fire up the sky, the person-sized toad, with its golden crown, is ablaze in greens and yellow. Its winking eye has a human quality that’s a bit unnerving. There are a lot of “toad items” around the cottage, from rag rugs to the bootleg in the hidden room behind the boathouse.

Every time I come in here, it’s a surprise. One entire wall is knotty pine bookshelves; cupboards run along beneath them—so many titles to explore. Ruby’s husband was quite the reader, and since this cottage is over a hundred years old, his father as well as his grandfather all must have added to the collection. I wonder if the women did, then I spy some books by Mary Stewart and Jane Austen and have my answer. Original chick lit, but since moving here, reading time has been taken up with so many other things. Maybe over the long winter I’ll get better acquainted with some of these marvelous books.

I fling open the heavy drapes and curl up on the window seat. It’s loaded with pillows in every shape and size; several have toads embroidered on them. Rocky settles into my lap and we take in the view of Lake Superior. It’s great not seeing any shoreline, just water, on and on. I hope I can share this with Helen.

Sure am glad that Ruby and I repaired our roots. Am I too old to be a redhead? I was a real one—up until the gray showed up. I used to find it so funny when clients would tell me they couldn’t remember their real hair color. I can’t tell you how many times I wanted to say, “Gray, it’s all this ugly gray and thank God you’re here!” But I didn’t.

“Here you two are.” Ruby steps into the library. “With the sun on your hair like that, you look like an angel—but I know different.” She chuckles and sits down opposite me in the bay window.

She’s wearing a fuchsia pink kimono with matching wide headband that she sleeps in. If it weren’t for her hands being a little blotchy, it’d be hard to guess her age. Let’s not forget she isn’t naturally cinnamon brown either. Meow.

“Hardly slept a wink,” I sigh.

“Me either.”

“Why not?” I ask. “Are you reading another psycho-murder-mystery again?”

“Yes, of course I am. But no, that’s not what kept me up. I was worrying you weren’t sleeping because you most likely were worrying—too.”

“Good grief, Ruby. When in the world have I—queen of worry—needed any help worrying?”

“You have a point there.”

“What will I wear? Everything I own makes me look so—not slim. I’m not the slim type. Before I went to bed, do you know how many Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups I had?”

“I couldn’t begin to guess, darling.”

“I ate an entire six-pack!” I pull empty wrappers from my pockets and show her the proof.

“This is serious.” Ruby lifts her perfectly arched brows. “Does this mean you’re not interested in what’s for breakfast?”

“Maybe…”

“Since it is a special day,” Ruby pats her hair, “I was thinking of making my ‘house special’ omelet.” She gets up and moves toward the door. “But if you’re on this chocolate binge and…” She heads out the door.

“That wouldn’t be your spinach, goat cheese and herb omelet—would it?” I’m a goner.

“Well, what do you think?” I turn this way and that. Modeling my final, final clothes choice. Favorite denim slacks (not those faded kind) over semihigh black pumps, pea-green-colored silk blouse and a roomy tweed jacket. Hair is down and soft; makeup, too. Have to reapply the lips—again.

“I believe you’re glowing.” She orders me to turn around, then she attaches a pearl necklace and gives my shoulder a pat. “There, now you’re dressed proper.”

I start to tear; we hug. “You make me smear this face I spent all morning on and you’re in big trouble.”

“Trouble’s my middle name, I should think.”

“Damn it…” I say, checking my watch. I give the stump table a smack, but carefully, so as not to chip my nails—Ruckus Red. “I missed the ferry, I can’t be late, what was I thinking?” It’s not like me to be late—ever. Can we say, “nervous wreck”?

“Take the duck,” Ruby suggests. “Could be a real conversation starter.”

The duck is our other “vehicle.” It’s a World War II bus that also can be driven into the water. We recently replaced the old awning over the top with a snappy red-and-white-striped affair. It’s a riot, but not the kind of thing you arrive in to impress the daughter you’ve never met. Wait a minute. Who am I trying to be here?

“You’re right.” I take the keys off the peg and reach for the door.

For some reason, I part the lace curtain on the door and peek out. Over next to the barn, all in a line, are Sam and Lilly, Howard, Johnny, Marsha, and even Bonnie. I spy Charlie at the wheel of the duck, driving it out. He parks it outside the back door.

Turning to Ruby, I croak out, “You guys are too much—how’d you know I’d miss the—never mind.”

“Sam may have mentioned…yes indeed, we are too much. And so are you—love.” Ruby reaches up and touches me ever-so-gently on my cheek. “Your makeup looks like hell, you know.” She grins.

“I look fabulous—coming?”

“Certainly.” She loops her arm through mine and we head down the porch, out the screen door, to the “send-off” team.

Everyone gives me hugs and back pats and kisses galore. You’d think I was taking a trip to Madison or something!

Sam pulls me aside and says, “Child, now I know I made you a promise—and I’ve done my darndest not to share any psychic seeing far as Helen’s concerned, but there’s one thing you need to be ready for.”

“If Helen’s a lesbian, I could care less…”

“She’s gunna want to know about your folks and things are…”

I catch my breath. “I’ve thought a lot about that. Maybe it’s time to make amends.”

“It’s time, honey.” Sam clears her throat. “I know your mom’s passed, but your dad, he’s not doing too good. All I can see is it’s something to do with his breathing.”

“He’s not going to die—is he?” Why’d we ever drift this far apart?

“No, far’s I can see, not his time—yet.” She looks deeply into my eyes.

“Thank God…”

“Eve—you doing this, meeting Helen and all, it’s the right time. Your daddy’s gunna have two surprises. Now get on out of here.” Sam looks away and a startled expression passes over her face. “Oh my land, you both sure are in for—”

“Stop.” I hold up my hand. “I want this to be a surprise to remember.”

Sam mutters something about how it’s going to be, sister as I climb up the ladder into the duck. I pull the seat way up (Charlie’s tall), push my hair around and put it into gear. Waving to the smiling group—my family—I head around the cottage and down toward the lake.

Passing the boathouse, I look up and spy Rocky perched on the balcony rail. He gives me a cat smile and I wave back. I hit the gas and splash into the lake. While drifting out a bit, I switch to the outboard motor, light up a cigarette and push in a CD. Soon soft flutes float out of the speakers; The V.I.P. Club sure knows jazz. Turning left, I head the duck toward Bayfield; toward her. With all this wind, my hair shouldn’t get too smoky. I hope.

A V of geese sails across the sky and it makes me wonder. I mean, they don’t use cell phones and look at the perfect flying they do. Right about now, I honestly wish I could just stretch time out a bit, you know, make this moment—longer. Funny how you wait and wonder about something or someone and then, when you’re about to see that person, you want just a few more—what—hours? Like Sam said, “The time is right.” Tell that to my stomach.

I put the pedal to the metal and can begin to see Bayfield. Even though it’s only two-and-a-half miles to the shore, I feel my bladder saying, “Many cups of coffee in here!” Great. Pulling down my visor, I redo the lips, give the hair some scrunching and snap it back up, the visor, that is. I think I’m pitting out. Double great. I remember when I was packing up some of my mom’s stuff; I found a package of armpit pads. At the time I thought they were really silly—now, I could use some extra protection in there.

Chugging to shore, I flip a switch for the duck to become a land vehicle and drive up the boat ramp at the City Marina. I make a sharp right onto First Street. Several people turn and stare; this is not your typical SUV. Clicking on the microphone, I singsong, “It’s a beautiful day in Wisconsin.”

Since the restaurant is only a block away, in moments I’m about to turn into Greunke’s parking lot, then remember the duck is too long to park in there. I pull up along the curb on Rittenhouse Drive and push down the parking brake. Here I go. I climb down the ladder, not an easy feat with heels.

Pushing into the restaurant, I slip off to the left, into the world’s tiniest potty. But thank God it’s here—relief—and one more opportunity to make sure nothing’s about to leap out of my nose and no lipstick on the teeth; hate that. I reenter and look around.

The walls are amber-colored pine and they’re covered with cool stuff. Mirrors, plates and platters, old movie-star photos, newspaper stories, you name it, the walls are packed. Judith, the owner, breezes by and sends me a “Hello, Eve” on her way to answer the phone.

She hangs up, then turns to me. “You’re looking great, two for lunch?”

“I…” Stammering I say, “Yes, and could I have that corner, the one with the little church pews?”

“It’s all set for you.” Judith gives me a knowing look and I follow her around and up several steps into a favorite nook. “Lilly and Sam stopped in on their way over to your place this morning and—”

“There aren’t any photographers or…” I slide onto one of the pews, shaking my head.

“Of course not, wish I’d thought to call the Island Gazette—I’m kidding.” She sees my “raised to heaven” eyebrows. “It’s lucky for you I’m busy; otherwise I’d be hard to get rid of. I’ll send Helen over the minute she comes in…I’m so excited for you!” She gives my shoulder a squeeze and flits away. Here—there are no secrets.

Judith has run this place for years—that’s her classy vintage Cadillac parked out front—and I wonder who’s doing her hair? It always looks great. If I have to sit here for long, I’m going to die. Or order a glass of wine—a bottle with a straw?

“Excuse me, Eve—Moss?”

A tall, slender woman, dressed in a tailored gray outfit, is extending her lovely hand. Her straight blond hair is streaked with strawberry and gold. That’s my nose! I slowly stand and she steps forward and—we hug and cry and laugh, too. The small crowd behind us claps and cheers and then—thank you, Judith—they’re led away.

“You’re just beautiful,” I gush. “Nice color job, but you have got to eat more. Sit down, I’m about to faint.” My eyes will not stop tearing.

She sits opposite of me and I notice the freckles marching across her nose. My nose. Her eyes are mine, too—green. But that’s all the resemblance I can see, so far. I’ll be checking further, though.

“This is so incredibly—emotional,” Helen says. “I’ve not often considered this actually happening, you know? I mean, I knew since I was young that I was adopted. ‘Chosen’ is the word my father preferred. He made us promise never to look, but—”

“Ah, well…that’s understandable—really.” I suppose it is.

Judith swings by and takes our drink order. We both are getting wine—thank the Lord. Or Allah or Buddha or…

“My father passed away recently, and so, some of my siblings are considering looking.” Helen gives me a guilty look. “I’m sorry I took so long to respond, but—”

“Don’t give it another thought. I’m just glad that you finally did—decide, I mean. Personally, for selfish reasons, I felt it was time for me to try and find you, and if you weren’t wanting to meet me, I—probably would have gone mad.” Could that have come out worse?

“But I did want to. I can’t imagine not wanting to meet your birth parents—yet I think it’s a very personal choice. One of my brothers has no interest at all. But I’ve got an older sister who tried to find her birth parents and they let her know that would never happen.”

“I can appreciate that,” I offer. “Many of my clients—I used to own a hair salon—have shared their secrets with me. Having a child, when you’re a child yourself, can make you very un-marry-able later on. Especially thirty years ago. So I suppose, for some women, they feel it could affect their life—now.”

Judith plunks our wine down, gives me a wink and offers us tissues from a box covered in a zebra pattern. We each take several—then she’s gone.

“Hey—your birthday was a couple of weeks ago! Happy thirtieth,” I say. We clink goblets. “I always think of you on October sixth.”

“Me, too. I mean…think of you…I mean.” Helen looks uncomfortable. “I’m not usually very good at this, talking about myself, but you seem to have an effect on me.”

“Good. Truth is, all my life people have told me the darndest things. I should have charged double at my salon. Hard enough doing hair all day, but you have to be a good listener, too. What do you do, to pay the rent?”

“I’m a mathematics professor over at the University of Minnesota, Duluth.” She straightens and tucks a lock of hair behind an ear. “My focus is on differential calculus and how…sorry, I’m boring you. Ryan always says that I—”

“Now who’s this Ryan?” Oh-my-God, she’s blushing, this might be a serious Ryan.

“He’s my—boyfriend. He’ll be done with his doctorate in forensic psychology in another year.”

“That’s the study of criminals—isn’t it?” Ruby will love this guy.

“Yes—and no,” she ponders, retucks the hair again. “Ryan’s focus is on the psychology part. Why a crime is committed, what was the person feeling and thinking at the time. Were they mentally competent—things like that.”

“How…interesting,” I lie and she sees right through me and we laugh. “I’m afraid I’m not the intellectual type, but I think I can keep up. You certainly have my brains, though.” We chuckle and it feels great. Something in the air loosens a bit more.

A waitress interrupts us, offers us lunch suggestions and sets down fresh wineglasses.

“I see what you mean.” Helen peers over her “newspaper” menu. “The whitefish liver is a hot item here.”

“The fillet sounds perfect,” I offer. “Broiled whitefish, with almonds and dill drizzle. Honey—sign me up!” Helen looks around her menu—and smiles. I melt.

We don’t chat much while eating; the delicious food is beyond words, almost. I order coffee, it’s tea for Helen, and then we decide to split a chocolate sundae. Ah.

“Helen, you must have questions or…” I ask, suddenly nervous again.

“My mother’s not quite ready to meet you, but she suggested I ask if you have any—medical conditions that…”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.” I think for a moment. “Well…my mom, your grandmother—I’m sorry to say—died years ago of stupid cancer and my dad…we haven’t been very close. I’m an only child.”

“So Ruby’s your…girlfriend?” she carefully asks and I can tell she’d be fine with it.

“No.” I giggle at the thought. “She’s just a very dear friend. I’ve been less than lucky in the love department, but—I have Rocky.”

“Rocky?”

“My cat. Longest relationship I’ve ever had, besides the folks.”

“There is one thing, though”—she tucks both sides—“my mother said that when she brought me home from the convent, I was dressed in a perfectly knit yellow sweater. Did you make it—or?”

“No—I don’t know a thing about a yellow sweater. Maybe one of the sisters put you into it.”

“Doesn’t matter…but I loved that sweater. I used to dress my dolls in it. Mom kept it for me in her cedar chest.”

“I’ll take that,” I say to the waitress, snatching the check away. “My treat.”

“Thank you. What should I call you? I mean I don’t mean to—”

“How about Eve? You have a mom and Eve would be just fine.” Tears start up again and I just redid my face. Waterproof mascara is such a joke.

We gather up our things and head out the door. I notice eyes peeking out from the kitchen. Outside, the afternoon air is crisp and feels so wonderful; after all, I’m with my daughter.

“What in the world is that thing?”

Of course, she’s pointing to the duck. “That, my dear Helen, is my mode of transportation. C’mon, let’s take her for a spin!”

She tentatively follows me over. I step up the ladder and turn back to reach down for her arm. After thinking it over, she puts her hand in mine and clambers up.

“It’s like a bus,” she looks about. “But I can tell—hey—this is one of those amphibious vehicles used in the Wisconsin Dells for river tours. I rode on one of these years ago when my parents took us there for a summer vacation.”

“Would you like a dry land tour of Bayfield?” I suggest as she sits down next to me. “Then a quick dip in the lake? I know you need to get back. Next time maybe you could come over to the island.”

“I’d like that,” Helen states. “The ‘next time’ part, too,” she says softly.

I look over toward her and my heart swells to bursting.