“Oh, not exactly like you. But with your spirit…your way of approaching the world. It’s remarkable—exactly what I need more of. Now, getting back to the someone part…” Ruby pours us more hot chocolate.
I thought for a moment. “At this point in my life, I honestly don’t know if I even have room for a relationship. You get to a place when you’ve taken up all the empty space that maybe another would have filled and…you fill it yourself! I’ve come to the conclusion that Rocky is all the man I’ll ever need. He never makes me feel anything but loved.” I pat his head to put a period on it.
“That’s really all I think any of us wants to feel, darling: loved.”
It’s around midnight and a noisy rainstorm is pounding the cottage, making it shudder and groan. The sound hitting the roof is driving me crazy. It’s always either lulled me to sleep or made me think powerful thoughts. Since I’m stuck in the thinking mode, I figure what the hell and crawl out from under my covers.
In the dark, I search for my robe. I shake each slipper before putting it on since I would hate to shove my foot into a sleeping mouse. Lifting Rocky into my arms, I quietly slither downstairs with him. The occasional lightning burst guides my way. Reaching under a fringe-shaded lamp in the living room, I snap the light on. Now I can maneuver my way over into the kitchen. A Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup (or two) sounds just right. I lift down a fresh pack, then two. Which I realize makes four—give me a break.
I head down the hall, into the library. Pulling the door closed behind me, I feel as though I’ve left the cottage and entered a whole new world. I pull the metal chain on the dragonfly lamp sitting in the middle of a wooden table. It throws a greenish-yellow light on the walls and furniture.
I let Rocky down in order to drag a wingback chair closer to the light. There’s a rich, serious feeling, with all the books lining the shelves. They help to make the room quieter, almost cavelike. I pull my legs up, unwrap and take a delicious bite. Heaven. Chewing the peanutty chocolate goo slowly, I reflect on all that’s come to pass so far.
I see Dorothy and Watts at the salon. Ruby standing over a box that had burst open, spilling books everywhere. The crazy going-away party. Watts, tears in her eyes, taking the keys to the salon—then hugging me a good long time.
Looking around me, I see this magical place of toads, duck rides and that wooden dock. Popping in the last cup, I open the window and gaze out to the lake. A damp breeze flutters my hair, moonlit shadows dance across the yard, and this is where I want to be.
I have no idea how long I sit there, but I drift off to sleep for a while. Eventually Rocky’s meow wakes me up. I scoop him into my arms, take a hardback copy of Cross Creek down from a bookshelf and head back to bed and dreaming and sleep.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
We’re dressed in Bayfield-day-out clothes. Nothing too flashy. I’ve got on a green blazer and jeans. My hair is loose and curly as hell, thanks to all this humidity.
Ruby is totally “Madeline Island Matriarch”—hair wrapped in a scarf, long dangle earrings, fancy jacket and matching slacks. Puffing on a newly lit smoke, she hunts in her Louis Vuitton for something.
“Our first formal excursion since we moved here,” I point out.
“A good day for an outing, darling,” Ruby says through a cloud of smoke. She leads the way out of the kitchen, toward the van, her purse snapping shut on the “outing” part. “You simply must teach me how to drive this thing.”
“Get in—let’s start now.”
“Oh, how jolly exciting!” She hops into the driver’s side of my VW van. “This has got to be the first time in history that I have not had to pull the seat up closer. It pays to hang around short people.”
“Smart-ass. Push in the clutch, throw it into first and let’s go!” I slam the door shut. I lift her hand off the stick and point out first gear on the knob’s little diagram. Ruby hits just about that.
We lurch forward; then the van sputters and dies. Ruby turns it over again, pushes down the clutch, and before you can say “automatic transmission,” we’re chugging down the drive, over the bridge and through the woods to the gate. Branches swish by; several yellow goldfinch fly across our path and make a mad dash for cover.
“You’re a quick study and a lead foot. There goes my insurance,” I say, hopping out to unlatch the gate.
Ruby drives through and I pull the gate closed. I hesitate a second, taking in the sun sign. I’ve never had my name surrounded by a sun before.
“Okay,” I say. “Now let’s get to the ferry in one piece—please.”
“Grab your seat; let’s see what this jalopy can do!” She puts it into gear.
The van shudders—only for a moment—then begins to pick up speed. I reach over and push in a tape of Pearl Bailey. She belts out “Hit the Road to Dreamland.” We fly up, over and around the island road, making our way to La Pointe.
After fueling up the van in town, we get in line for the next ferry to the mainland. Since it’s a weekday, they’re running every fifteen minutes. The gate opens, so Ruby drives us onto the deck. As the ferry pulls away from the pier, we stare at the slowly approaching shoreline, thinking our thoughts. We glide toward the landing, then drive off through the parking area and onto a side street of Bayfield. Funny how sometimes time stretches out and other times it races by, leaving you breathless.
I had read earlier, in the Island Gazette, that Bayfield is busy gearing up for the big Bayfield Apple Festival. That explains why there are a lot of folks out on the sidewalks—cleaning, painting, and tidying up this and that. Men on cranes are hanging banners and posters; the air is bristling with activity. We find a parking spot outside Maggie’s Restaurant and hop out.
“What a beautiful day in Wisconsin,” Ruby declares. “Let’s head over to that bookstore and have a look around.”
We walk down Manypenny Avenue, then head into the What Goes Around bookstore. It’s rather unimpressive on the outside, but as soon as I squeeze through the door, I’m surprised by the roominess of the place. It’s made up of many different levels of hardwood floors, wooden benches and chairs arranged around packed bookshelves. There are oodles of cozy little nooks to crawl into with a good book and a hot drink. I can smell the cinnamon cider; it wraps around you the minute you enter. In the back, two rickety French doors open onto a brick patio that’s strewn with leaves. I reach down to pick up a fluffy white cat that’s been rubbing against my ankles like crazy.
“Good morning, ladies. I see you’ve met Lucille.” A well-dressed man approaches. I love his unruly gray hair and black-rimmed glasses. He smells of fruity pipe tobacco with a touch of Old Spice. I like anyone who accessorizes with a pipe and a book in hand.
“Hello there. Lovely shop. We’ll take the cat.” Ruby assesses the man with her razor-quick eyes.
We laugh and introduce ourselves. His name is Leslie Aschenbauer. I slip away; Ruby loves to chat with complete strangers. Besides, there are shelves to explore. Lucille and I start to look around. I step off into the crowded bookshelves, scanning the spines for familiar authors. I always seem to find myself in fiction. I overhear Ruby and Leslie chuckle. I’m positive Ruby’s tapping into good old Leslie’s knowledge of the “Bayfield pulse.” I pull out a hardback copy of Elizabeth Berg’s book, The Pull of the Moon. Lucille and I drift away into her brilliant writing.
“This isn’t a library, young lady,” Ruby proclaims—scaring me half to death so that I smack the book shut, which causes the cat to dart away.
“I was just trying this on to see if it was my size.”
“And?”
“It’s perfect—I’ll take it.” And I do.
“You two seemed to get along awfully well,” I remark as we stroll along Second Street.
“He’s had that shop for over thirty years…and remembers Ed,” Ruby says.
“That was very sweet of him,” I say. “Anything interesting going on?”
“He’s very connected, of course, but also protective. I g
ot a few juicy little tidbits. Let’s see…Judith, over at Greunke’s is trying to get ready for the festival and refuses to hire any more help. The IGA is thinking of expanding; someone at the Rittenhouse is nicking lace doilies right out from under their noses; and a local bakery owner is having an affair with the man who runs the new flower shop. A true scandal as the owner of the bakery is a man. Leslie’s eyeballs practically popped out of his skull when he let that one slip. Poor darling.”
“You did great!”
“The best part was when he asked how long my sister was staying with me.”
“Sister?”
“I can’t help it, darling, if I look so desperately young for my…ah…age,” Ruby says, smirking.
“Thanks—I’m going to assume he meant we both look young and not that we’re a couple of old hags killing time before the next happy hour kicks in.”
“Let’s do the market next,” Ruby says, dismissing me. “We can’t forget your—”
“Plugs,” I finish for her, hunting through my bag for a lighter and thinking I should maybe carry a gun for times like these.
“Lovely. Right, then—I made a list of all the things we’re either out of or haven’t got at all or…” Ruby chats away while lighting my cigarette and checking her list. “This could take a while.”
“Thanks. All that pipe smell made me crazy for a smoke.”
“Let me help you with that.” She takes my cigarette and has a puff. “We’re nearly to the market.” I snag it back and take one more puff before snubbing it out. Did I really need to have that? Now my breath is icky, too.
As we pass through the glass doors of Andy’s IGA, we’re enveloped by the fragrance of fresh-baked bread. It’s a tidy little market all done in that old-fashioned green. Narrow isles are neatly packed solid with everything one could possibly ever need. It makes me think of the corner market of my childhood, where they knew your name and you could always get a candy necklace or fizzies on credit.
“Oh my,” Ruby mutters. “I’d quite forgotten what a real market looks like.”
“Can you believe how clean this place is?”
“Look at this lovely broccoli.” Ruby lifts a big green bunch and we bag it in plastic. “Good heavens—collard greens and squash and zucchini!”
“Put that down and come on!” I was served that stuff every day for too many years in school. I fight to control our jerky shopping cart. I always seem to get the ones with the bent wheel. What’s that all about? Or the one that only goes left. Love those.
Heading away from the produce section, we wheel into the snack aisle. Out of nowhere, a woman heads straight for us. She’s so busy looking at all the bags of chips that she bumps right into us.
“Oh I am sorry,” she says. “This stupid cart simply won’t behave.” The lady has a marvelous lisp, and she has Dorothy’s nose, not to mention her hair. She’s wearing a light overcoat, sparkling white tennis shoes and, again, has the most amazingly high, swirled hair, like Dorothy’s (should I sing “It’s A Small World”?). Rhinestone bifocals perch on her nose, attached to a glittery chain. She smiles and it’s brilliant, but her teeth seem a bit too large. I imagine her teeth sitting next to her bed at night, smiling back through a flowered glass.
“These aisles are way too small.” Ruby tries to save face for the woman’s bad driving. “Should all be one-ways or something.”
“I wasn’t paying attention, I’m afraid to admit. I’m desperate for some Bar-B-Q potato chips,” the woman confides, whispering.
“You know—when those cravings hit, you just have to jump.” I think fondly of a fresh sixpack of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.
“Where are you ladies from?” Heavenward-hair asks.
“We live on the island. I’m Ruby and this is my friend Eve.”
“Oh how nice to meet the both of you. I’m Lilly. You’re living out there? In the winter, too?” She reaches for a third bag of chips.
“You’re Dorothy’s cousin, aren’t you?” I accuse her, since this is really so odd. Then I change my tone because Ruby is giving me the look. “She works, used to work for me in Eau Claire. I’ve teamed up with Ruby here and we’re—”
“Why yes.” Lilly adjusts her glasses to study us. “Dorothy and I are second cousins once removed. She’s mentioned you many times. Loves doing hair. You know, I do my own,” she says with pride, giving a pat for my admiration. I start to raise my eyebrows—her hair goes up so damn far. Ruby clears her throat.
“You had asked if we live on the island,” Ruby says. “We do. And we’re starting up a business—we hope it will keep us from killing each other.” She chuckles.
“Well you know,” Lilly confides, peering over the rim of her glasses, “most folks that live out there all year get a little crazy. You can’t come or go for a month or so until the lake is all froze through.” Her teeth click every so often.
“Well, I’m sure we’ll be just fine. So nice meeting you Lilly….” I attempt to push our stupid cart around her. I need a cigarette. I wonder who the hell else we’re going to run into. Maybe this is what is meant by synchronicity. I make a mental note to see if Ed has any books on the subject.
“Oh my Lord in Heaven—you’re the ones in the Gazette!” Lilly blurts out suddenly.
“Yes,” we say together.
“Before my husband dropped dead—right in the middle of watching Murder She Wrote, mind you, I had a notions store right here in Bayfield. Did all my own sewing and made—”
“Let me guess.” I hold up my hand. “Drapes.”
“Land, you must have heard.” Lilly’s face lifts a bit. “I did all the window treatments over at the Rittenhouse and for many of the Islanders, but…after Lud died, I just slowed down a bit. Sold my shop and—”
“You still have a sewing machine?” I ask. I know from Mom, if you’ve sewn on a certain machine for a while, you get to know it.
“Oh lordy, sure I do now.” Lilly nods her head. “I have three…or is it four…and bolts and bolts of fabric. Not to mention notions coming out of my ears. The basement is jammed full.”
“Have you ever considered returning to the workforce, darling?” Ruby asks, giving me the arched-brow look.
“You mean…for you two? Oh, I…The grandkids are all grown, and I have so much time on my hands and…I hadn’t thought.” She absently tosses another bag of chips in.
“We sure could use the help and…” What am I saying? She has a certain appeal, though and that delicious lisp, not to mention the Dorothy part. Which, if you’ve been paying attention, I have mentioned.
“I bet you could sew circles around the both of us,” Ruby offers. “Lilly…I lost my Ed a few years back. I know what…” she shares with a hushed, understanding tone.
“Oh I am sorry,” Lilly says knowingly, patting Ruby’s arm. “You know, I have thought of a job of sorts and I do love to sew and…Oh lordy, I’d love to.” And that’s that.
We spend the rest of the morning setting things up at the bank, taking out a small business loan and have worked up quite an appetite. Signing all those forms can be exhausting. I suggest we try Maggie’s. With a name like that I figure it has to be good. I’m a little taken aback when we walk in though. Everywhere you look—pink flamingos. Made from every conceivable material and covering all the walls. Strings and strings of flamingo lights are wrapped around poles and hanging from the ceiling.
An older gal with hips that move all on their own, leads us to a nice booth with a view—of a wall. But hey, it’s in the smoking section, so what do we care?
“This is so cozy in here,” Ruby says. Meaning even she feels squished.
“That it is and from the looks of the menu—and the size of the line forming outside, the food is going to be delicious.”
“Let’s split something,” Ruby suggests.
“Okay, sure…fine.” I gaze out the window at our wall.
“What?”
“Just thinking. The Apple Festival is coming in October a
nd…if we had a booth…” I dig in my bag for something to write on. “We have that Bonnie gal and now Lilly. Marsha will be here soon. All we really have to do is make the damn things!” I list thoughts on a pink-flamingo napkin. Our waitress swivels by with mugs of coffee and takes our order.
“After lunch let’s try and find a fabric store,” I suggest. “There must be one around here somewhere. We could fill the van with crazy patterned material…thread…whatnot and get our butts back to the cottage. This could be a great way to kind of test the waters, so to speak. What could be better than a festival? What?”
“We don’t even have a pattern. How can we…?” Ruby asks.
“I’ll use your apron. We can take it apart and copy it.”
“Ruby’s Aprons is going to be a smashing success.” We clink our mugs.
“I sure hope so,” I add. “We’ve just about stretched our credit to the limit with the bank and with me not behind a chair and then there’s the—”
“Eve, darling, what were you telling me just yesterday?”
“That sometimes you have to jump…”
“In order to fly,” Ruby finishes for me.
Okay, I got it, it’s one million trillion times easier to give out advice than to be the one that has to, like, do the stuff you’re advising. I’m jumping folks! Damn it—I am.
We eat our iceberg-lettuce-crouton-crunchy-dripping-with-blue-cheese-salad with gusto. Then chase it down with way too much coffee so we can hit the road in search of a fabric store. Our waitress, Verna, suggested we try the Wal-Mart in Ashland.
With Ruby at the wheel and Dean Martin crooning “Volare,” the van is pointed south. Heading down Highway 13, we weave our way along Lake Superior, the snaking road presenting us with perfect views of the water.
“I think I have this shifting thing down pat…again,” Ruby proclaims proudly. “You can take your foot off your brake over there.” We laugh.
“I was just helping.” I relax my right leg and give my calf a rub. She’s heavy on the gas, but—so am I. “Our first business lunch and this will be our first official business road trip.”
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