Back to Madeline Island by Jay Gilbertson Page B

guilty for feeling so good? Does that make any sense? I was raised with guilt—have to figure out a way to cut it out. Literally.
    â€œWhat do you think,” I say, changing the subject, “about Sam seeing Adeline, and what do you think she meant by… another spirit?”
    â€œI don’t know, really. Seems rather odd, don’t you think? I mean, first off, why in the world would she want to hang about out in that dreadful old place. I’d haunt this cottage before—”
    â€œHey,” I say, “not so loud. You don’t want to give her any ideas, now do you?”
    â€œOf course not, heavens no. But I daresay, it is a curiosity. I, for one, haven’t the least bit of interest to go back there, though. I can tell you that.”
    â€œOh right. Like you’re not dying , pun intended, to get back there and root through all that old china you told me about.”
    â€œI’d completely forgotten about it.” She pretends to be straightening her jingly bracelets. “There did seem to be quite a lovely collection—not that I was looking—mind. But perhaps it should be—inventoried.” We laugh.
    â€œPerhaps.”
    â€œLet’s move to the kitchen and have some supper, shall we then?”
    Rocky meows in agreement and we follow him through the living room and into the kitchen. Since the sun is setting, there are bouncing circles of yellows and oranges dashing over the walls and ceiling from the collection of round mirrors I brought here from my salon. Rocky used to chase them, but I think he’s embarrassed now since he’s learned they’re only reflections from the lake. I don’t bring it up.
    â€œHow about,” Ruby says with her head in the fridge, “a salad and some butternut squash soup?”
    â€œPerfect. Wine?” I offer.
    â€œI never cook without it,” she replies, plunking a green porcelain pot onto the stove. “I think I may have put too much ginger in this last batch. What did you think?”
    â€œI don’t think you could,” I counter, “add too much. Here.” I hand her a tall, very slim goblet.
    â€œI could microwave a bit up for us, but I do so like the smell of it on the stove. Hand me that, darling.” She points to a worn wooden spoon.
    â€œYou know what you said earlier,” I say, thinking for a moment. “You’re right about Helen being—well—Helen. She’s an entire person, all by herself. I wasn’t there and…” I sigh. “It’s all right. She turned out perfectly and whatever happens—happens.”
    â€œThat sounds lovely.” We clink on it.
    Â 
    It’s after supper, and we’re washing up the dishes. I’m drying. Ruby insists on scalding hot water and my hands just can’t take it.
    â€œ Jesus, Ruby,” I say, taking a piping hot bowl from her. “You get that water any hotter and these dishes of yours are liable to melt!”
    â€œHush up, you’re falling behind.”
    â€œYes, ma’am. Hey—when we’re done here, I’ve got an idea.”
    She hands me the last, a burning hot platter, and pulls the plug. A satisfying swooshing sound comes from the enormous old sink and I laugh.
    â€œGrab some blankets, throw on a coat and meet me out back,” I order.
    Several minutes later, I steer the duck over to the back of the cottage. The headlights find Ruby; she’s standing there on the porch with her thumb out, hitchhiking style. I pull over, she climbs aboard, and we set out, down the hill and splashing on into the lake. Turning up the music, Madonna belts out “Into the Groove,” and into the groove we go!

C HAPTER S EVEN
    U p in my bathroom, Rocky and I are deciding on either “Lick Me Red” or “MMM” lipstick color. We settle on “MMM.” Pursing my lips, I pat them with a tissue, open wide and check for lipsticked teeth. All