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 salon 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 course, 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.

She has on dangle earrings and bracelets that clang and chime. Her lipstick is bright pink, complementing her blue-blue eyes. They have a depth that holds you captive. Her accent is wonderful. Originally from a tiny fishing village in the north of England and proud as hell about it too. I’ve noticed how sometimes her Northern accent becomes more pronounced. Like when she wants something or has had a bit too much wine or if she simply needs to be heard. Wrapped like a glove in an earth-tone skirt and fitted top, she walks jauntily in, her high heels clicking across the hardwood floor to a Martin Denny tune, “Love Dance.” I smile and marvel at her amazing presence. She enters a room and the air just kind of opens up to her.

“Jesus Lord our God, what’s that stench?” Ruby wrinkles up her pointed nose.

“Dorothy is finishing up a perm. Keep your voice down—you’ll wake Mrs. Gustafson, who’s under the dryer. Now get over here,” I say in my take-charge voice.

“I thought perms were totally out. Thank God they’re back. Sign me up. I miss the height. God I miss the beehive…now there was a style with attitude.” She checks her reflection in the flap, then clicks her purse closed.

“Ruby…I used to give you perms. Used to. We do so much color as it is and really, when is the last time you saw anyone on Oprah with a poodle-perm?”

“Relax. Only joking, darling. I’m loving what you’re doing now. Texture. Feels like we’re discussing the feel of carpet, not hair.” She’s poured herself a mug of coffee, greeted Dorothy and Watts, as well as their clients, and managed to shove a cookie into her mouth, all while heading to my station.

I guide her over to my chair. “Thought cookies were on the no list. Someone skip lunch again?” I ask in my mom-voice.

“Look at these roots of mine!” She points to the part in her hair, “I need a miracle here.”

“You look great for being so near death…really,” I reply, deadpan as hell. “I bet people see you and think, wow, she’s still alive?”

“I will be fifty-eight…again, so you better turn up my color a bit; I will not give in to this horrible gray stuff. Never. Stupid gray. Stupid!”

“How many years have you been fifty-eight now?” I ask, both of my brows arched.

“You know, you’re right. This year let’s shoot for fifty-six. Now get cracking.”

 

I’m drying Ruby’s hair and it looks fabulous. She’s putting on fresh lipstick, swinging her shapely crossed-over leg while Sarah Vaughn croons, “What Is This Thing Called Love?” The lyrics inspire thoughts of Watts, which are busy crisscrossing in my mind. How different we are…yet not really. She’s looking. Me, I’m not. Wouldn’t mind if someone found me for a change. But then again, someone to pick up after, fuss with about the toilet lid being left up, twice as many rumpled clothes to wade through and farting in bed? I’ll stick with Rocky.

“Earth to Eve. Hello there. You in there?” Ruby asks, while buffing her nails.

“Sorry ma’am,” I say in my most nasally “hair expert” voice. “I was focusing on the completion of your style, as the finish is the most important aspect of the salon experience.”

“I bet there’s not one woman who can do her hair like you hair professionals.” She shakes her head. “It’s simply not possible.”

“It is possible. However, one must stand still more than three minutes, use some goop, and do as I have instructed you to do about nine hundred times! ’Course, if you did it as well as us professionals”—I wave a huge round brush around and arch my right brow only—“it wouldn’t be such a treat to come in. You’d miss out on all my worldly wisdom, not to mention the free coffee and cookies.”

“You directing or making me look fabulous?” Ruby asks dryly.

“If you’d stand still once in a while and put a little effort—”

“You’re the one with magic fingers, darling. Entirely worth the outrageous prices you charge, but I wouldn’t give you squat for the wisdom. I should charge you!”

We giggle, clink our chipped cat mugs and toss back final slugs of now cold coffee. I hand her the magic mirror in the shape of a lily pad and give her chair a spin for inspection. I lean against the wall, fold my arms over my chest and bend my tired head this way and that. It snaps and creaks, waking Rocky, who gives me a meow suggesting I quit my noisy creaking.

“Damn. I look good.” Ruby steps down and hands me the mirror with a slight bow. “Let’s tidy up, then be off for dinner.”

I’m touching up my lips for the zillionth time. Nothing stays on these babies very long. Ruby rinses out our mugs, then waters my huge fern. It’s bursting out of an old round pink washing machine that sits in a corner by the front window. Rocky jumps onto my throne-of-miracles chair to watch as I try to powder away sneaky wrinkles.

“How long have you been here, darling?” Ruby asks, her head disappearing into the fern. I can hear snaps as she trims and fusses. It’s the same upstairs—if I have dirty dishes sitting in the sink, she just pushes up her fancy sleeves and gets on with it.

“Let’s see, I opened this place in nineteen eighty-one….” I lipstick my lips and count on my fingers. “So that would make it—gee-suzz—twenty-four years. As long as I’ve known you, you know?” I kiss the mirror, adding to the collection of lips there. If you look in Ruby’s purse, she has balled-up Kleenex covered with different-colored lips. She keeps them until every inch is used up. I love that.

But I don’t love this feeling that’s been nagging at me. Oh, not a big deal, really. Just a worry, I suppose. Another one; I’ve got a whole slew of them. I don’t want to do this forever, I don’t. But what the hell should I be doing? I glance around and wonder if it’s a “where” thing. If not here, though, where? Good grief.

Way inside, inside the secret self I share with no one, there’s this void, a hushed sadness I keep locked up. My high school sweetheart and I had a daughter and on my thirtieth birthday, well, I tried to find her—but no luck. I sigh back into the room.

“Have you thought about retiring?”

“I’m forty-seven. Just. People don’t retire at that age. Do they?” Not my kind of people anyway.

“You’re right, darling. I cringe when I hear that word…retire. Sounds like you pick out a porch, sit down and rock your life away, filling your pants, drooling. Waiting to take your last breath.”

“I’m getting a strong visual here.” I shake my head.

“You work so hard, darling. I suppose it’s selfish of me even suggesting, but I enjoy our time together—when you’re not abusing me.”

“I hope I don’t have to work this hard right up until I do retire. An old-lady hair-burner with tresses piled high, orangey foundation, eyeliner and sagging boobs. Good Lord. Besides, I sunk all my inheritance from my mom into this place. You’re looking at my retirement,” I say, arms open wide.

“I’ve an idea, Eve. Push your curls around and let’s blow this pop stand.”

“Pop stand?”

Ever since Ruby danced into my shop all those years ago, well, my life has never been the same. Thank God. We fluff Rocky’s fur and give him noisy air kisses since we mustn’t smear our lips. I flip the metal sign hanging on a hook by the door to CLOSED, and off we stroll down the sidewalk to our favorite watering hole, Mona Lisa’s.

“Hey ladies! Right this way,” the owner, Zed, says, leading us to a nice table by the window. “I’ll bring you wine.”

Zed is a fifty-something, sexy little Italian number with bulging biceps and the thickest mustache you’ve ever seen. This restaurant is his pride and joy and it shows in the way he claps customers on the shoulder and greets everyone walking in the front door.

“Did you see who Darcy Laming was all cozy with? The little tramp.” Ruby spits “tramp” out while rooting around in her designer purse for a smoke.

“Her husband has been dead for over a year now. I’m happy to see her out and about and yes, I did see, and he’s quite a hunk.” We laugh a bit too loud, as usual. The gray-haired, tanned-to-leather golf-clutch of women nearby glance our way over their highballs.

“Here you are, ladies. Sure do love your hair, Ruby. Going over to Minneapolis to have it done?” He grins, plunks our goblets down and before I can say something smart back, is gone.

“Little bastard,” I mutter. “If he didn’t fill those jeans so well…”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Ruby says, noticing. “Besides, no one pours a glass of wine like Zed. Let’s make a toast, darling: to a couple of classy broads with naturally beautiful hair.” She shoots a look toward the ladies. We clink, take a nice long sip and settle in.

We’ve been coming here for so long, it feels like an extension of my living room. The smells of garlic, fresh breads, cigarettes and Zed’s energy all swirl in concert. There’s a roar of laughter mixed with talking that always gives me pause as it rolls over us in waves, then recedes.

“Now Eve…I’ve been thinking…”

Whenever it starts like that I know something’s brewing. Last time Ruby started out with one of her “I’ve been thinking” segues, I ended up with a new set of fall-pattern mixing bowls, a complicated programmable electric mixer, a blender stick with all the attachments and a Crock-Pot covered with geese. I don’t need any more kitchen items.

“You know…” Ruby fiddles with her expensive necklace. “I still own the cottage on Madeline Island, but I don’t get up there since it’s such a drive. Frankly, I’ve had so many memories of Ed and I together there I simply couldn’t. Hell, he’s been dead since two thousand—I do need to do something with it, don’t you think?”

“He has been dead for a while now, but I didn’t think you really liked the cottage. Damp and old, I believe are the words you’ve used to describe it.”

“It is damp and the old part is true too, but you know…it’s also lovely. I think I needed to let go of Ed first.”

“You’ve invited me up there so many times and I always meant to…I work too much,” I say, realizing that’s about all I do.

“You do, darling, you do. I could have gone alone over the years, but I’ve realized I was keeping it to myself until I felt ready to let Ed be…well…dead,” Ruby replies. She blows a huge smoke ring as if to circle the word “dead.” It slowly fades and then disappears altogether.

“I totally understand. Until my mom died, I hadn’t ever really felt that kind of loss. And you and Ed…all the pictures you have around your house…you two together.”

Ruby pats my arm, her tiny hand warm and soft. “We always spent our summers up there.” She has a distant look in her eyes. “Up until Ed got too sick, that is. One good thing about being a professor, we had summers off….”

I feel softness for this woman, knowing how much they loved each other. Sadness too since he’s gone. There’s a black-and-white picture of them sitting on the end of a dock, holding hands, water glistening all around. A younger Ruby is looking into Ed’s eyes with such tenderness. Looking at the picture you feel as though you should look away quick, it’s so personal. But you don’t.

Ruby says, “How long have you stood behind a chair, listening to the likes of me, women wanting to look younger, prettier, sexier? Certainly it must drain the zip out of you, darling.”

“I was seventeen when I got out of high school. Tried becoming a professional waitress, then spotted an ad for a new beauty school opening in what used to be a funeral parlor. It was called Carol Greckner’s Professional Cosmetology School of Beauty. Oh Jesus, was that a trip. Been behind a chair ever since.”

“You are an expert. Professional, I mean. You are. But all you do is give—all day long. You need to take better care of you,” Ruby lectures, leaning way in when she says “you.”

“You’re right. I am tired, doing hair day in and day out. Who wouldn’t be after twenty-nine years? Love my clients, the stories and the laughs. That’s what keeps me going. But—and I haven’t wanted to admit this—I’ve been feeling restless…bored maybe.”

“With the salon or…?”

“Business is fabulous. I’m booked weeks in advance, months during the holidays. It’s my own fault, but I’ve not taken a vacation in years. I’m going through the forties thing. There, I said it out loud.” I take a nice long slug of wine. “Tell me more about the cottage,” I add, wanting to change the subject. I’m terrible when it comes to talking too much about me. But really, should I be more concerned here? Great, something else to worry about.

“Well it’s on a point, the very tip of Madeline Island—which is located off the very top of Northern Wisconsin. This tip is called Steamboat Point and the cottage faces Lake Superior, a lake that seems the size of an ocean.”

“I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I’ve never been that far north. I honestly had no idea Wisconsin even had an island large enough for a cottage.”

“It sits up on a hill overlooking the lake. An exquisitely charming, two-story log cottage with a lovely barn out back. There’s also a boathouse with a flat on the second floor and a little creek, too.”

“Good Lord, Ruby, I had no idea. How the hell could you let it just sit there is beyond me. You said a barn? Was it a farm or…?”

“No, it’s more for storage; it’s big and airy with a loft upstairs. The cottage is super—a rock fireplace, wraparound porch and so much sunshine in the summer.”

“Sounds dreamy. Like the cottage in On Golden Pond, and on an island.” I marvel at the idea of an island and see myself in a straw hat, making sandcastles next to a long wooden dock.

“Just talking about it brings back so many memories. It sits there, all closed up, waiting.”

“Waiting. I wonder if that’s what I’m doing.” I absently twist and untwist a curl around my finger. “Sitting around waiting for my life to begin. I told you about Watts and all. At least she has her foot in the water—you know? At least the girl has something she thinks she wants.”

“Maybe all you need is a push.”

“You know, you’re right…I did open my salon. Yet for all these years…that’s all I’ve done.” I feel like humming a few bars of “Is That All There Is?” Smart-ass Ruby beats me to it.

She hums a bit, then says, “Opening your salon, employees that adore you, money in the bank, you’ve done amazing things. Now, drink up love, I’ve changed my mind. Let’s go back to your flat. I hope to high heaven you have something we can eat in that fridge of yours.”

We leave some cash on the table, grab our purses, dash out the door, down the alley behind my building and up the rickety stairs to my second-floor apartment.

“I thought you were taking me out to dinner,” I say, switching on lights, patting Rocky’s head as I pass him stretching on the sofa. “But it was getting busy in there.”

“Too busy, could hardly hear myself think. Besides, I love it up here.” She kicks off her heels on her way to root around in my fridge. “You have all sorts of leftovers in here. I’ll get busy and whip something together. Here…put the kettle on, darling.” She hands me my battered teapot.

 

“I’m stuffed.” Ruby blows smoke into the air. We survey the kitchen table, now covered with assorted containers and bowls of reheated Chinese take-out, which Rocky is checking out.

“Me too.” I start clearing things away. “Wash or dry?”

“Wash. You get everything so damn hot I nearly burn my fingers off!” She reaches for the rag I use to plug up the sink.

“What did you mean when you said that maybe something should be done with your cottage?” I take a dripping-wet platter from her.

“A thought. Does seem silly not to make use of it. There’s a quaint town on the mainland called Bayfield and—”

“Ruby! I smell a rat. What’s going on here? I’ve got that you have a cottage most of us only dream of, it’s all closed up and…”

She holds her sudsy hands up. “I am so horrible at this kind of thing…I…Here, dry this bowl. Hey, this is mine. Let’s have some coffee. I have something to give you.” Ruby hands me her bowl. Turning it over, sure enough, I see that it says, “property of Ruby Prévost” on faded masking tape. I dry it and put it back in my cupboard.

Since we’re done tidying up in the kitchen, I fire up the coffeemaker. We sit down on my huge, over-plumped sofa to wait for the sputtering and spewing to stop. Rocky joins us, so we both pet him. He purrs and purrs, spoiled rotten.

“Eve, you’re my dearest friend. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. You could go on doing what you’re doing and that would be that. There’s not a thing wrong with it either…not a thing, darling.” She straightens her blouse. “I’ve been racking my brains trying to come up with a good idea. I want to give you something special for your birthday. So…here it is and happy, happy birthday, my dear wonderful friend.” Ruby hands me an envelope, then sits back, folding her arms, watching.

“What’s this?” I tear open an official-looking envelope. “What in the…It says, ‘I, Ruby Prévost, a resident of the state of Wisconsin and city of Eau Claire, and being of…’” I read on, the color rising in my face, my heart racing as it all sinks into my brain. “Your cottage? You’re willing me your cottage? For my birthday? You’re not…Are you sick?” My voice reaches an all-time high and my hands instantly are damp and clammy. I think I’m going to pee my panties. I start to cry.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, darling, of course I’m not ill and please don’t cry, darling, I’ll never forgive myself. Besides, I haven’t any children and let’s face it, you’re my family and, well…happy birthday and it’s too late. The place will be yours and you know how stubborn I am.” We’re hugging and I’m crying, even laughing a bit.

“I don’t know what to…” I sniffle, feeling very loved. “I’ve never even seen it and you’re going to hand it over to me? Just like that?” This is so Ruby.

“Not until I croak, of course! You need to have some security, dear, for the future. Besides, it feels right giving it to you. I’ve been going through a lot of Ed’s papers lately and thinking about life and death and all.” She wipes her eyes and then digs out some tissues, handing a few to me. Opening one up, I show her the lipstick prints all over it and we both chuckle.

“Ruby…I’m lost for words. It’s so…generous, so amazingly, insanely generous.”

“The thing is, you created this flourishing salon here.” She stands up, moves around the living room. “If we put our heads together, think of something we both could do…together. A bed-and-breakfast…a retreat center…a home for spinsters?”

“Hmm,” I say, thinking. “There’s the cottage and the boathouse and…” I reread some of the fine print. “Ten acres. That’s a lot of land.”

“Eve, darling, that cottage meant so much to Ed and me. We were something else there, I can’t explain it.”

“I’ve always known how much Ed meant to you.” I rub her forearm. “A person would have to be blind not to notice how you light up when you just mention his name.”

“Yes, I loved that man something dreadful,” Ruby says, remembering. She snaps back to the present, shrugging her shoulders. “But it’s time I went back there. Ed’s long gone, but I’m not. And by God, I feel like seeing it again.”

“I think I understand why you let it sit there empty for all these years now. I waited three years before selling my folks’ place. Even kept Mom’s plants going. Heated the whole, rambling house for those damn plants. I do know about hanging on and then, all of sudden, it’s time…”

“To let go,” Ruby finishes for me softly. We nod and something changes. The room shifts a little. We sigh and know that something new has begun.

 

Grabbing blankets, I lead the way out onto my balcony and up the little stairs to the roof. Up here it’s very private, a secret world above the noise of Water Street below. Over the years I’ve hauled up several patio tables, huge wooden barrel pots, now bursting with geraniums, and assorted chaise lounges. I shove several together and spread blankets out so we can both plop down. The stars are hanging up in the sky and seem to be winking just at us.

“I’m so grateful, Ruby. I really am. I mean…I guess now I’ll have to plan your murder, but…details,” I say to the stars. Ruby chuckles while smacking my arm; hard too!

“Remember when Ed was doing so poorly. I couldn’t imagine leaving his side at the hospital. I wanted to be there should he wake up. I was so exhausted and lost, too. Overwhelmed, knowing the end was near. Then you show up…with that daft shopping cart.”

“Oh Jesus,” I say, remembering. “I knew you wouldn’t leave. So I stole—borrowed—it from Kmart. I shoved it into my van and headed over to Woo’s Pagoda and filled it.”

“I have never laughed so bloody hard.” We giggle. “I was so hungry too, since all I’d eaten were measly bites of dry sandwiches I bought from that ghastly machine down the hall. Couldn’t have what Ed was consuming, being tube-fed and all. He wasn’t much company either, seeing as he was in a coma. Poor love.”

“There’s nothing like Woo’s Chinese food to get your mind off…well…things,” I reply tenderly.

“You brought a tablecloth, dishes, everything. The point is, Eve, you did it. I felt so…loved. And the laughing…the kind that stays with you for a lifetime…and then some.” We sigh, remembering.

“Can’t believe I tipped over his IV bag, though. My foot got caught in one of the wheels and before I knew it…What a mess, tubes every which way. I can be such a klutz.”

“Oh heavens.” She waves away my words. “His brainwaves were long gone. Then the day came when we had to shut him down.” Ruby folds into herself, but only for a moment. Then she shrugs her shoulders in a movement I know so well.

“There were so many switches, it seemed as though it took them forever. He had more wires and tubes coming out of every hole and…sorry.” I shake my head.

“I loathed that ominous sound when his heart monitor made its final bleep. He slipped right out with his last breath. I’m sure he’s grateful to have been set free of that tired old body. It was all used up.”

“I sure as hell hope so.” I imagine Ed, tubes and electrodes flying, running at me with a shopping cart. “For both our sakes.”

“Of course he is, darling; he’s probably fishing somewhere right now.”

“An island cottage,” I say to the sky. “I can’t imagine many people live there, not year-round anyways.”

“No, mostly a summer getaway spot.”

“So if we did do something, it would have to be something other than a service thing. I mean a salon wouldn’t work. Have to be a separate thing. An item, a tangible.”

“Good Lord—I’ve got it!” Ruby sits up, twirling her glowing cigarette. “A psychic hotline. My classy accent and your…your…We’d have to re-create one for you, darling. Sorry, but a Midwestern twang would just get us hang-ups.”

“You bitch.”

“Snob, darling. Please,” Ruby huffs and lies back down. “Maybe a cottage-themed Martha Stewartish show. All shot live with Oprah boating over for a tasteful lunch every month.”

“Good grief, give it a rest. I still think we’d have to make something that would then be sent out into the world.”

“I could dictate my life story—it’s terribly fascinating—and we could do it all from the cottage and invite photographers to record the event. Me, sharing my life while you jot it all down, surrounded by trees and water and—”

“I have an idea.” I sit up. “I can’t remember the last time I took a road trip. How about throwing some stuff in my van and you showing me the cottage this weekend?”

“That sounds lovely, darling.”

We look up as a falling star lights the sky. It leaves a trail of stardust that slowly fades to night. There really is such a thing as magic and possibilities, hope and being filled to the brim. No half-cups for these two gals; we’re beginning again.