Moon over Madeline Island

by Jay Gilbertson

  MOON OVER MADELINE ISLAND

  MOON OVER MADELINE ISLAND

  JAY GILBERTSON

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Dedicated to

  K.S.

  Why should we be in such

  desperate haste to succeed

  and in such desperate enterprises?

  If a man does not keep pace

  with his companions,

  perhaps it is because he hears

  a different drummer.

  Let him step to the music

  he hears,

  however measured or far away.

  —Henry David Thoreau

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Of course, I’m grateful for my folks, Donna Lou and Eric Gilbertson. Mom was the first person to reassure me that although I hear a different drummer, it’s okay. Dad and I spent an entire weekend together when I was in college writing a short story; the pleasure of that memory inspires me still. They’re my favorite couple to invite over for supper.

  Thanks to my sister, Amy, for bringing me laughter and an endless joy in books. Nina and Reed’s mom and dad rock! My brother Kurt’s friendship sustains me and besides—we all need someone to remind us of who’s younger.

  Big thanks to Caroline Hossenlopp for rescuing me from the slush pile and recommending me to my multi-talented agent, Alison Bond. Alison (and her dog, Willie) fine-tuned MOMI and made sure Ruby had the right amount of Brit-Grit. She’s the real gem.

  Little did my wonderful salon clients know that their stories would end up in my story. Of course, the names have been changed to protect your husbands.

  I also am indebted to my first readers: Kate Stout, Ingeborg Sorensen, Sara Nagler, Kate Hearth, Janice Cox, Liz Allen, Laura Westlund, Carrie Maloney, and Mary Flanagan.

  Burt Rashbaum first thought MOMI was written by a woman; I considered this a compliment. His e-mails never let me give up and he better not, either.

  Thanks to my editor, Audrey LaFehr, for sharing with me where she first read my manuscript. I appreciate her kind advice and inspiring e-mails, but boy do those deadlines come quickly! Thanks also to my copy editor, Margaret Jarpey, and the support of everyone at Kensington. I’m so grateful to you all!

  And, as always, thanks to my best friend, Ken Seguine, who from the very start said, “I believe in you—now get writing so you can buy me a tractor!”

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Standing in my kitchen, I’m humming along with a favorite old bluesy Pearl Bailey tune, “Easy Street,” while making a radish, alfalfa sprout, organic turkey and Swiss cheese sandwich—heavy on the Swiss. I grow my own sprouts, use locally baked breads and recycle everything. I do what I can.

  What I can’t seem to do is quit smoking. What the hell. I like it and since I live alone, who’s to complain? I do have smoking rules, though. Upstairs, in this eclectic but tasteful apartment, it’s only allowed on the balcony and that goes double for the first floor, which is “Eve’s Salon.” Believe it or not, I hate the smell!

  I’m only wearing a Victoria’s Secret leopard-patterned, extra-support-for-larger-gals bra and matching panties; it’s August and boy is the air sticky with humidity. My big fluffy gray cat, Rocky, is noisily crunching his breakfast. He eats on the countertop since cats are very clean. Besides, cats on countertops were one of many things Mom never allowed, so now I feel as though I’m getting away with something.

  Rocky’s gotten it into his furry head that it’s more fun licking the edges of my sandwich than eating his own food. Sometimes, if I’ve had enough coffee, this can lead to chasing him around the apartment for several minutes. Not today, though; as I snap the lid onto the plastic sandwich holder, he growls in disappointment, then goes back to his cat food.

  Morning sun pours in from the skylight over my kitchen area. There’s no way to hide the fact that I only dust seasonally. Dusting—what a waste of time. One of my living room walls is a bookshelf that’s packed solid. I usually read several books at the same time. Reading is how I travel. I try to buy used books and limit myself to three when shopping, but that never works. Explains all the piles on the floor, the coffee table, in corners and on top of everything. Looks very urban and studious and besides, I need them all. Love the smell of a new find’s binding.

  It’s hard to part with a good tome, especially if, after reading it, you feel something new. It’s as though you’ve been changed or expanded or that somehow things are going to be different. I have a bookshelf downstairs in my salon. It’s there for clients to borrow from or add to. I need to install another one since the darn thing is bursting with titles just waiting for a new home. I’ve really got to stop hanging on to old junk mail, magazines and to-be-read newspapers. It’s just that I’m so afraid I’ll miss something important, so that’s what’s in (as well as spilling out of) the tasteful wood box by my door.

  I own this wonderful old two-story brick building on Water Street in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Have for years. I just turned forty-seven. My period has arrived right on time, so I’m cranky, but I’m booked solid today. My clients are a marvelous group of women mostly around my age. We’re all engaged in the battle of fighting back that damn gray hair! I secretly thank the turn-women’s-hair-gray hormone as it certainly keeps me busy.

  I get such a kick out of the things my clients think of and talk about and fuss over. That’s the best part, their lives. Don’t get me wrong, I love to do hair, but the true joy lies in what each person leaves with me. Their truths, worries, regrets and hilarious everyday stuff.

  While sipping coffee, Q-tipping my ears, putting on deodorant and a dab of “Lusty Redz” lipstick, I riffle through my closet for yet another fashion first. I’ve twisted my red curls up into a fancy knotted affair held in place with black lacquer chopsticks. I decide on a simple, oversized blouse of pale yellow with big red buttons marching up the front, untucked, over baggy Capri pants. Love Capri pants.

  On my way to the door I step into open-toed, two-inch wedgies that always make me feel taller than my five-foot shortness. I’ve painted my toenails with “Cherries in the Snow,” and they glitter up at me. I check my reflection in the wavy hall mirror to make sure everything’s in its place.

  I’m a little chubby and very busty, but I’ve always felt more is better and less is so “not me.” I can’t seem to drop these extra twenty pounds of leftover baby fat, so why torture myself? Besides, the minute I do manage to drop a few pounds, my watch doesn’t fit and my bra cups hang empty. What’s the point? I heave my non-designer hemp bag over my shoulder and clomp downstairs to my salon.

  During the day I don’t go upstairs since it makes me crazy to miss out on any of the goings-on. What’s more, I love lunching with my other two stylists, Dorothy and Watts. Dorothy is a throwback from the wash-and-set and rat-to-death era. Her hair reaches heights worthy of a second look. Watts, on the other hand, is young, pretty in a severe way, and cutting-edge when it comes to hair trends. The college kids love her and man can she create some wild hair color.

  I designed my s
alon to look and feel like you’re in Granny’s kitchen. Providing your Granny had some taste, of course. The walls are painted a rich yellow; paint-cracked shelves display oodles of old electric mixers, chrome toasters and zany kitchen clocks. My hair-cutting stations are Art Deco waterfall dressers. I’m crazy about their huge round mirrors. Over the years clients have given me old round mirrors and they’re slowly taking over the walls. Today the shop is ablaze with polka dots of sunshine reflecting from one mirror to another to another. I have a drawer of huge, clunky rhinestone cat’s-eye sunglasses and sometimes we put them on. Clients, too.

  I always come downstairs an hour early to have a mug of coffee and go over my appointment book. Rocky keeps me company, but I know the real reason he follows me is that Dorothy brings him treats. That’s why he and I have matching tummies.

  Mine is a direct result of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. I can’t get enough. I really should sue them. There’s always a hidden, well-stocked supply at hand. I pull out the bottom drawer, flip open the top of an ancient tin money box and check my supply. It’s going to be a great day; I have eleven orange-wrapped jewels. I inhale their delicious bouquet, snap the top shut and shove the drawer back in just as Watts comes in the front door.

  “Hey, Watts, you’re early.” I follow her into the break room. “I thought you didn’t start until noon today.” Watts’s usually bright and sparkly blue eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. Even her spiked white hair seems limp. I bet she’s broken up with Mr. Right, again—or rather, Mister Right Away, or more accurately, Mr. Big Huge Loser.

  “He took my Juice Master and my brand-new purple lipstick!” Watts throws her lunch into the fridge, then slams the door for good measure. “The bastard.”

  “I have three upstairs,” I mention, putting on some Mozart. I fear for her client’s tender earlobes. “You can have your pick.”

  “Three? Juicers or lipstick?”

  “Juicers.” I’ve tried a gazillion diets and some of them required the purchase of their “special” blender. The diets didn’t work. But the blenders sure as hell do! I pour her some coffee. “You really should try being single…for more than a week.”

  “Hate being alone,” she snivels, taking the mug. “Besides, I need help walking all my dogs.” She has five and is considering adding a sixth. I pat Rocky, grateful I only have to scoop his box. Dogs need way too much fussing, if you ask me.

  I put my arm around her, plop her down at my station and re-mess up her hair. She’s proudly tall and skinny as a pole, with the palest blue-white skin. Automatically she slinks down, since I can’t reach the top of her head otherwise. The love doctor is in.

  This is what I do: listen and counsel. With humor as my camouflage, my real intention is to help my clients (as well as employees), find their way in this crazy thing called life. I do great hair, but this is my true specialty.

  I’m not sure when this need to pay attention to people’s lives started, but I guess as a teenager. I was much heavier and mostly had my nose in a book and my hand in the cookie jar. But through the years, I’ve learned how to listen real careful and you know, most people have the answers right there in front of them. I just iron things out a bit and hand their life back a little smoother, is all. I love it.

  “Watts, Watts, Watts,” I say, tsk-tsking. “I’ve known you a long time. Looking back, I can’t say you’ve ever been happy with any of the men you’ve dated…or lived with or…”

  “I know, I know,” Watts says with a sigh. “I’m in a rut. I should move out of this burg, change my hair color, stop wearing black from head to toe and join a book club.” She reaches up, pats my hand, grinning in the mirror. I’ve got a grin. I need a giggle.

  “Moving isn’t a bad idea, but changing your hair color—trust me on this—it don’t bring you no men!” I proclaim, bursting with attitude, hands on hips. This I know to be true!

  “I can’t seem to stop looking. Hoping maybe the next—”

  “For me, I’m done looking. Through! What’s the use, and for heaven’s sake, why? I have wonderful friends, a great business and finally a hair color that gives me what I need most: color!” My perfectly arched brow leaps up my forehead in agreement. I pull the chopstick from my hair and swing my curls around for further emphasis.

  “Some women need men in their lives,” Watts says in a knowing way that makes me crazy.

  “Need? That’s a load of crap,” I reply with zest. “Wake up girl. Look around at all the single women happily making it without a man in sight. Oh sure, it would be nice to grow old with someone, but never settle for something simply because you think you need a man. Me…I’d love to find a man who would listen…make me laugh…teach me something new.” Listen to high-and-mighty me. The last three losers I dated are examples of what not to settle for. David was more interested in his muscles than anything else. Carl was too nice, too kind, and too damn needy. I could hardly breathe. The last guy cheated on me and not with women, either. He’d find men on the Internet and then invite them over.

  “Jesus…” Watts breaks me out of my pathetic review. “Those kind of men exist? I mean…have you ever met one? Not in novels, Eve—a real live man.”

  “Oh…I knew someone like that…once. A lot like that, actually.” I heave a sigh, remembering. Granted it was a high school love, but, oh Lord, was he wonderful and kind and gentle and sexy as hell. I wonder whatever became of him.

  “So you did have a love of your life.” She grins. “At least you’ve got that experience to compare to. Geez, even my parents are strangers to me. All they do is watch TV day and night and drink beer by the case. Wish I was from somewhere else…raised by different people.” A faraway look coats her eyes.

  “We all wish that at one time or another. I went through a phase when I was so angry with my folks for having me late in their lives…At least they had me, though. That’s what my mother would yell back at me when I’d lash out.”

  “Don’t you get lonely? I mean…Rocky is cute and all, but I’m sorry, there are things a cat simply cannot provide.”

  “Ah…lonely for men? As in relations with men?” If she thinks she’s going to send me on one more blind date—God, I hate dating. Besides, can’t a gal be happily single?

  “Well…yeah,” she agrees. “I mean, men are good for other things too…I suppose. Not much that I can see. But sex with a man…there’s something to be said for that. A lot of things, if you ask me.” She watches herself nodding in the mirror.

  “Put that way, I couldn’t agree with you more. But what about all the time in between the sex?” Rubbing my hands together, I work some molding mud into her do, rubbing a little harder than necessary, hoping to work some sense into her stubborn, hormonally overloaded head.

  “Sleep?” Watts asks.

  “Watts, my dear. All you need is a nice battery-operated friend. Then there’s no making breakfast…no waiting by the phone…no more stolen kitchen appliances or lipstick. Toss the birth control pills in the trash, and…voilá.” She’s laughing now, and so am I. Time to open, there’s the phone, here we go, It’s Show Time!

  “Morning Ruby,” I declare into the phone. I have Caller ID and wonder if I’ll ever tire of this game.

  “Eve, you smart aleck,” Ruby snaps in her crisp English accent. “Can you fit me in for a trim? I’ve simply got to see you. Can’t seem to get my hair to fluff up and God Almighty, I need every bloody inch!”

  I see her standing in her cozy, spotless kitchen. One hand swinging the curly bright yellow phone cord while she taps her foot to a snappy beat playing on her radio. Whenever Ruby is on the phone she’s busy wiping down gleaming countertops, putting this and that away, while placing the finishing touches on a warm pan of her delicious snack bars.

  Her well-worn red linoleum has little glitters of silver and yellow. Lace curtains flutter in the open window over the sink, while silly mushrooms with old-fashioned faces dance across walls and over her fridge. Smells of fresh-baked goodies, coffee and, of cour
se, a swirl of cigarette smoke hover in the air like an old friend. I’ve spent hundreds of hours sitting there, coffee mug in one hand, chewy bar of goo in the other. She was my first client to waltz into this shop the day I opened. The moment we met I knew I’d finally found my best girlfriend. We’re like mother and daughter, sisters more like. Without all the hell and high water of growing up together. Damn, can she make me laugh!

  She loudly exhales, the smoke from her cigarette surely being released into a perfect ring. I use my pen like a cigarette, swinging it around like she does. She’s my best friend and you do those things to make them a part of you.

  “This is your lucky day,” I say as my first client walks through the door and I wave her over. “Come by around sixish; you can be my final victim. Upon completion of said beauty treatment, you will graciously take me out to dinner. Your turn.”

  “Sounds simply lovely. See you, darling. Ta ta, for now!”

  The day swims by and before I was about to say, “Don’t you just look sassy?” for what seemed like the hundredth time, in blows Ruby. She stands maybe four-ten, weighs little or nothing even wet and is the only size one I know. But trust me, what she doesn’t have in height or girth, she makes up for with dazzling energy, a certain English decorum and a dose of pigheadedness that keeps things interesting.

  She’s blessed with thick, straight hair that’s been every color and style at least three, maybe four times. Totally gray underneath, happened years ago, I like to remind her. That’s our secret though and to be honest, I’m not far behind her with the gray. Her age is pretty hard to swallow too. Sixty-nine, but she only admits to being fifty-eight. Been lying like a dog for years. Ed, her husband for a hundred years, was the only one for her and he’s been dead for a while now.