Free Back to Madeline Island by Jay Gilbertson Page A

moved an inch.”
    â€œAfter all that fussing, up in the loft, I was bushed, too.” She sits opposite me at the stump table. “So nice of the boys to whip up a lovely supper.”
    â€œThose brats were killers. I should really stay away from sauerkraut, though. You think Rocky had gas—oooh, Mama.”
    â€œSo kind of you to share, darling.”
    â€œDon’t mention it. Did you catch, from Howard, how many orders came in yesterday afternoon?”
    â€œNo, do tell.” Ruby gets up and starts cooking us breakfast. She never sits for more than a second, I swear.
    â€œApparently our website traffic is growing like crazy, thanks to you and Howard literally cooking up the recipe-a-week idea.”
    They’re posting an original recipe on our website that either Ruby or Howard or both of them first try on the crew—smart, huh? ’Course, that’s what has led us all to the conclusion that we need a little less bounce in our bellies .
    â€œIt simply stands to reason that—”
    Just then, the phone rings. I automatically tighten my robe and then pick it up.
    â€œGood morning,” I announce.
    â€œHello there—oh good morning—hello, is this Ms. Prévost of Ruby’s Aprons?”
    â€œNo, this is Eve Moss of Ruby’s Aprons, may I ask who’s calling?” I hear an echoing sound, like I’m on a speakerphone or something.
    â€œOh yes, sorry—my name is Monica Wheeler and I—”
    â€œBy any chance”—I swing the cord around and Rocky takes a swipe at it—“are you selling something?” Hate salespeople calling whenever they damn well—
    â€œOh no, I am sorry for the intrusion, but I’m not selling a thing . I represent…” Monica stammers a bit. “Look—I’m lead buyer for Target’s kitchen and bath department and we’re very interested in—”
    â€œYou won’t believe this, but yesterday it was Martha Stewart and now—”
    â€œMartha Stewart ! That bitch —why—”
    â€œMy my, why, Miss Monica, I believe you just said a bad word,” I chuckle and I hear this huge sigh.
    â€œGod, sorry, I’m having a bad start here. I do apologize. I don’t know where that came from. It’s just that she is impossible to keep up with and…why she didn’t just sign on with us is beyond me. But getting back to—you didn’t contract with her—did you?”
    â€œMonica.” I roll my eyes for Ruby and she shrugs her shoulders. “We are a little cottage industry with all the business we can handle, and in all honesty, we want to stay that way.”
    â€œHow can you say no to Target? I mean, well…don’t you want to be the next Michael Graves or Mossimo?”
    â€œLet me give you a little advice, Monica—how old are you?” Ruby shakes her head; she knows I’m in “lecture mode.”
    â€œI’m…I’m in my thirties, why?”
    â€œSomeday, when that cubicle becomes a stall and you’re tired of being just another cog—no offense—hopefully you’re going to wake up and realize life is marching by and what do you have to show for it? Some fancy graphs and a hefty bottom line?”
    â€œWell, I don’t see where this has anything to—”
    â€œRuby’s Aprons is not just another business, it’s a group of people who’ve come together to not just make money, we—we’re finding our way—together. You know?”
    â€œI—I don’t know what to say. I have to admit, from your website’s pictures…you really do look like such a happy group and that woman in the yellow gown, the black lady?” Monica’s voice has become softer; I can almost feel her smile.
    â€œThat’s Sam, our resident psychic jazz singer.”
    â€œShe looks so powerful, just the way she’s singing and the others on that