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not such a, what, obsession?
    We’re driving down “Main Street” LaPointe and it truly is something, a real Norman Rockwell. A knot of people are getting off the ferry; several groups are strolling along the sidewalks in front of the tidy storefronts that pepper the lane. A newspaper deliveryman peddles his bike along, handing out bundles and greeting one and all along the way.
    I pull up in front of a pastel blue building. Its wraparound porch welcomes you with groupings of wicker furniture. A huge red neon sign blinks AL’S PLACE above the door.
    We head in. The place is quiet, a few people are seated at the long bar, but no one’s in any of the burgundy-colored banquettes that line the entire wall opposite the bar. We decide on the one up front, by the window.
    â€œLook what the cat dragged in,” Bonnie calls out from the back and comes closer.
    Her wispy hair is now scrunched, giving her “lost girl” face a sexier look. Gone is the harsh black eyeliner she wore when we first met and now she looks—fresh. The pale blue cotton dress under her crisp white apron (compliments of guess who) gives her slim frame some hips. I’d love to share some of mine.
    She originally worked for us, rather pokey with the sewing machine, but recently her rotten husband—Al—fell dead. We, the women of Ruby’s Aprons, helped her toss his extensive bowling trophy collection out—we’re talking extensive here—and with some painting and lots of sweat, voilà , Al’s Place was born. Bonnie’s now a full-time restaurant owner and chef and bartender. Another past apron employee is her best, and only, waitress: Marsha.
    â€œActually”—I purse my lips—“Rocky did drag something in—wanna see it?” I pretend to be searching in my purse and Bonnie says she’ll “pass, thanks.”
    â€œIt looks smashing in here, darling.”
    â€œThanks, I’m working like crazy, but it feels great to have a place to call your own, and thanks to Al’s life insurance, I just paid it off today!”
    â€œWell—don’t just stand there,” I say. “Get three cosmopolitans from the bartender and get over here.”
    Bonnie lifts an edge of the countertop up, crosses to the other side of the bar and says, “The bartender will get right on that!” And she does.
    We clink and sip our tall, tall-stemmed martini glasses. “Crazy,” by Patsy Cline, purrs out of the jukebox.
    â€œHey,” Bonnie says, nearly toppling her glass when she smacks it down. “Heard you’ve found your daughter—that’s great!”
    â€œHow did you…” I forget how damn small this place is.
    â€œHeard it from Marsha, who ran into Lilly over at Andy’s IGA grocery in Bayfield.”
    â€œRight,” I say. “How’s she doing—Marsha, that is.”
    â€œGreat, she’s the best waitress ever and you would not believe the cakes and pies she can make.”
    â€œHer time at Norske Nook,” Ruby adds, slurping her drink, “must have paid off.”
    â€œThat Darlene Kravitz of the Island Gazette. ” Bonnie leans in. “She came in here a couple of days ago and told Marsha that she thinks her husband called over there looking for her.”
    â€œ No… ” I dramatically say. Darlene is our biggest “island gossip.” Ruby knows I can’t stand her. So she kicks me under the table to hold my tongue. “I thought that he up and left her and her daughter in Rice Lake, years ago.”
    â€œHe did, and the thing is, they never got a divorce. Marsha’s afraid he’s going to cause trouble.”
    â€œBut Darlene…” I protest a bit. “I don’t know that she’s all that reliable and why didn’t he just call here ?”
    Bonnie shrugs. “You’ve got me. Hey, why not give the menu a look. The soup is egg drop, I have a