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“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.

B
ack at the cottage, I'm strolling along the shoreline after changing into warmer clothes; a walk to sort things out seems just the ticket. Since fall is sweeping its arm across the island, the air is crisp and chilly and refreshing, good for clearing the head. Pulling my sweater close, I bend down and scoop up a piece of green glass that was reflecting sunlight. Swishing it in the cool lake water, all the sand and goo slips away, revealing a bubble way inside. Since this isn't the sea, I guess this would qualify as “lake glass.” I slip it into my pocket and walk on in the direction of the boys' cottage.

There's a grove of birch trees between our places, and the leaves have turned a brilliant yellow. A gust of wind reaches skyward, tossing hundreds of them into the air above me. I smile—then frown, wondering if Helen,
what
Helen is thinking right about now. Am I a disappointment to her? I'm no princess. I sigh and chuckle, wiping another tear away. Where'd
that
come from? I couldn't believe how I lost it at Greunke's earlier; talk about an “emotional episode.”

As I wade through the leaves, my boots make a crunching sound and it reminds me of corn flakes. Does she think like this? She's
so
smart—slim, too. I look down at my chest and heave a sigh. Missed out on the big boobs, too. Good. They're certainly hard on a girl's shoulders. Bras, what an invention. At least she's got a boyfriend; wonder if they'll marry? Will I be invited? Probably not, I mean, her mom isn't even sure if she wants to
meet
me, and really, who can blame her? The girl who gave away, I gasp, her girl. My imagination drives me crazy sometimes.

Sighing some more—I think I have to, no, I
know
I have to figure out what to do about my dad and all. It's the “all” part I'm having trouble with. After so many years, what will I say? I've tried my damnedest not to even
think
about him. Now, things are different and
I'm
different and Helen, well, she's got the right to at least
meet
him. A red cardinal zooms in front of me and lands on a low-hanging branch. I halt in my crunching tracks and watch. He seems to be looking me over, his head turning from side to side, considering me. I'm so close I can see his heart beating fast as hell in his pint-sized, puffed-out chest. I move a bit closer; he hesitates and then zips up and away toward the boathouse.

Funny how nature can pull you into the right place at times. This wind in my hair, these crispy leaves and the smell of fall, all damp and getting ready to go sleep. Madeline Island with its mossy meadows and woods that give way to gentle knolls crowned with silver birches and poplar trees. I love the white pine avenues that lead to hidden cottages like this one. It's really such a wild place with a touch of mystery and a sky that goes on and on. Here, I've found so much—and now Helen.

I'm so grateful she turned out to be far more than the image I've kept in my heart all these years. She's so much bigger and brighter and, well, she of course has my perfect nose, too. I'm obsessing about her parts that resemble mine, but I've got thirty years of not seeing those things to make up for, so give me a break here. But I can see her dad, too. Won't be long until Helen will want to know about him, too. Oh boy.

“Well, here you are, darling,” Ruby puffs out. “Wasn't sure if you wanted company or not, but then the strangest thing happened.” She flips her shawl over a shoulder for dramatic pause.

At which point I dramatically ask. “Ruby—
do
tell.” She smacks me on the arm, raises her chin a bit.

“A red cardinal had come tapping on the screen door over at the boathouse. I was afraid Rocky would investigate and wanted to shoo the would-be snack away. Well, when I came to the door, he flew off this way and I spied
you
.”

“I think we have company.”

Rocky meows a “hello” and rubs against my leg.

“Oh, look who's here.” Ruby reaches down to pick him up—he scurries away. “I forget. He never wants to be carried around by humans out-of-doors. Doesn't want any fellow creatures to think he's a sissy or any such rubbish. Really, men are all alike, aren't they?”

“Yes, I suppose they are. Hey—aren't you going to ask me how my lunch went?”

“I'm practically bursting, but always the polite one.”

“Always?”

“Oh, for heaven's sake—spill the beans and be snappy about it—I want all the details and don't leave a single thing out!”

 

A log snaps and crackles, shooting sparks this way and that. A red-hot coal leaps out of the fireplace, landing on the hearth. It sits there—throbbing with life. I jump up from the sofa and sweep it back into the fire. Dean Martin croons softly in the background.

“What an adventure you've had,” Ruby remarks, adding just a dollop of cognac to our tea. “Here, drink this, darling.”

“Sipping from these fancy teacups,” I say, softly replacing my cup into its lily-pad-shaped saucer, “makes me feel like I'm playing
tea party
.”

“Good. Now let's get back to you and Helen. What are your plans—now that you've met and seen her—she's, let's see if I can recall all this correctly:
not
a convicted murderer on death row with four illegitimate children, not a lipstick lesbian, not a lazy moocher living on welfare, not married to a Baptist with five children and twelve grandchildren and not—God forbid the thought—a hairstylist. How'd I do?”

“You forgot about the transsexual.”

“Quite right,” Ruby states, pulling her afghan closer around her tiny shoulders. “Do you think we should throw a little soirée for her? Nothing fancy, of course. Invite the boys over; she could bring her boyfriend, Ryan.”

“Hey, slow down here. I don't want to scare her off or anything. I mean, we just met and we need to—you know—get to know each other. It's so weird, I feel like I
should
know everything about her, but I don't. I don't know a thing.”

“Yes, you do, darling.” Ruby reaches up and pulls a thread out of thin air. Swinging from the end is a big spider. “Think I'll take our friend here outside.”

She heads over to one of the two French doors that open to the lake and tosses him out.

“There, now where were we—oh yes, not knowing Helen.”

“It's not like I…It just seems so odd that I never saw her…blow the candles out on all those birthday cakes…and never
once
gave her a Christmas gift, or made her a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or splashed in puddles or kissed a scratch,” I say, sighing long and trying hard not to cry.

“Eve—things are exactly the way they're supposed to be. Why—you didn't have to change
one
diaper and never
once
had a crabby baby clamped to your breast.”

“How would you know about getting clamped by a baby?” I chuckle. If men had to breast-feed, I bet things would be different.

“I overheard one of your clients complaining about how sore her breasts were, poor dear.” We both suck our chests in. “She was ranting and raving about feeling like a cow and pumping at all hours of the day and night—really, darling, you lucked out, if you ask me.”

“Maybe so and I guess you're right about the other stuff, but…when will I stop this guilty feeling I have from stealing away all this
good
stuff?”

“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.

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:

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