Free Moon over Madeline Island by Jay Gilbertson

Sparkling dewdrops are chilly, splattering onto my toes. My wet feet make my flip-flops end each step with a squeaky-slap that’s very satisfying. I thump down onto the dock and snuggle into the old blanket.
    A crisp, clear morning awaits. I take another sip of coffee; the warmth fills my empty stomach and I let out a little laugh. Who would’ve thought this is where I would be at forty-seven. I was beginning to think that maybe I’d missed out, not having a family of my own. But I’m realizing that I do have a family right here.
    I’m learning that who you end up with doesn’t have to be a husband and two-point-five children. Sometimes you’re lucky enough to have a “someone” that makes you feel whole. I know a lot of people feel that way about their partners, but I know just as many that don’t. I put my toes into the ice cold water and shiver so badly I spill hot coffee on my thigh.
    â€œShit!” I yell across the lake; my voice echoes back. I imagine some housewife hearing me. She looks up from her dishwater, plate in one hand and scrubber in the other, in some cozy little kitchen over in Bayfield. I wonder if she feels this satisfied, this complete. I wonder.
    Since I thought to bring the keys, I figure now is a good time to explore the barn. Besides, my toes need to thaw out a bit and turn back into more of a flesh color instead of this blue. I pull the blanket around my shoulders and head up the path around the cottage. Halfway up, I stoop to pick a few daisies, which I weave into my hair.
    Walking around the side of the cottage, I run my hand along the logs, admiring how well the building is put together. At each corner, the ends of huge pine logs are notched into one another like Lincoln Logs.
    The barn has a big accordion door, half covered with vines that are heavy with grapes. Beside this is a regular-sized door. One of those charming divided-in-half Dutch doors. It’s locked with a big paddle lock similar to the one on the gate at the entrance. With the fifth key I try, it clicks open.
    Smells of electric machines, oil and damp all escape the barn in a huff of cool air. On the wall is a battery of switches. I figure what the hell, and in no time flat, the entire place is lit up.
    â€œHuge,” I say to the vast, yawning space. My words bounce off the walls and high crossbeams. The barn is much larger than it looks from the outside. Straight ahead, built underneath the staircase, is what looks to be a workbench. It consists of a long, waist-high counter with shelves above. They’re filled with jars of every size and shape holding screws, nuts, bolts—you name it. Around the corner, on the other side of the staircase, is a jumble of chairs, lamps, boat paddles, a huge stuffed moose head and a wooden canoe hanging from the rafters.
    In the middle, covered with a green tarp, is a boat. Reaching up, I yank the tarp off, making dust fly every which way. The boat is painted a bright white. It’s around twenty feet or so in length and as wide as my van is long. A red-and-white striped canvas awning stretches over five rows of seats with an aisle down the middle. The weird thing about it is the fact that it has wheels.
    What the hell? Is it a boat or a bus? Then it comes to me. Has to be one of those boat-tour contraptions called a duck. Similar to one I’d ridden years ago when my folks took me to the Wisconsin Dells. As I recall, they were originally used in World War II.
    Hmmm, we could give Madeline Island tours, weave rugs, maybe do some wine-making on the side. It’s a shame I’m not a fan of bed-and-breakfasts, what with all the room here. But I’d go nuts if I had to eat breakfast with strangers. I’m deep in thought, moneymaking wheels cranking away. So when I turn, apparently having gone momentarily deaf as well, I bump head-on into Ruby.
    â€œGood Lord woman. Where the hell did you come from? You just aged me about a hundred