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great pot sticker appetizer, and I’m just putting the finishing touches on a fabulous salad Marsha had heard about—made with shredded cabbage and raisins and apples and—”
    â€œMaple-vinegar dressing?” I finish. She shrugs her shoulders. Lilly must have told Marsha, who in turn told…See what I mean by small?

C HAPTER T HREE
    T he early light of dawn is peeking into my bedroom. My Felix-the-Cat clock is showing me it’s time to get my rear in gear. Finally, it’s Thursday and I’m having lunch with my daughter! I’ll never be able to eat, my God , my stomach cramps have cramps. Rocky moves from one of my pillows to the end of the bed and sighs into a ball. What a life he’s got.
    I slip into my floor-length terry-cloth robe and hunt around for my slippers. Giving them a good shake (in case mice are in there), I slip my freshly painted toes in and wiggle them for warmth. Patting Rocky, I push my curls around and head downstairs.
    Being the first one up is such a treat. Recently, we switched from instant coffee to roasted whole bean coffee and what a difference in taste. I grind it the night before and then get the old tin coffeepot all ready; I love the sound the coffee makes as it percolates—that snappy rhythm helps me wake up. The coffee is the “fair trade” kind, so the money gets right to the farmer; must be why it’s called “Farmer to Farmer.” Clever. Clicking on the stove, I take down several mugs and then slide open the shutters over the sink.
    The sky is a cool lavender shade; looks chilly out. A cigarette sounds perfect, but I washed my hair last night and you know how important first impressions are. Smoky hair is just plain gross. Who am I kidding— smoking is gross. Sighing, I pick up one of the two rocks that live on the windowsill.
    This one is cool and smooth, pink and white in color. It used to live on my sill in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. I put it back and take up the other. This one is real flat and oval; it’s from the river that flows through Eau Claire. I spent hours along that river, watching it slip by, while thinking my thoughts.
    Pouring a mug full, swirling in some milk, I turn back toward the living room. Since the wraparound porch has only screens, I decide the library would be cozier. Rocky joins me as we stroll down the hallway. Before turning into the library, we gaze at the floor-to-ceiling stained-glass window. Since the sun has begun to fire up the sky, the person-sized toad, with its golden crown, is ablaze in greens and yellow. Its winking eye has a human quality that’s a bit unnerving. There are a lot of “toad items” around the cottage, from rag rugs to the bootleg in the hidden room behind the boathouse.
    Every time I come in here, it’s a surprise. One entire wall is knotty pine bookshelves; cupboards run along beneath them—so many titles to explore. Ruby’s husband was quite the reader, and since this cottage is over a hundred years old, his father as well as his grandfather all must have added to the collection. I wonder if the women did, then I spy some books by Mary Stewart and Jane Austen and have my answer. Original chick lit, but since moving here, reading time has been taken up with so many other things. Maybe over the long winter I’ll get better acquainted with some of these marvelous books.
    I fling open the heavy drapes and curl up on the window seat. It’s loaded with pillows in every shape and size; several have toads embroidered on them. Rocky settles into my lap and we take in the view of Lake Superior. It’s great not seeing any shoreline, just water, on and on. I hope I can share this with Helen.
    Sure am glad that Ruby and I repaired our roots. Am I too old to be a redhead? I was a real one—up until the gray showed up. I used to find it so funny when clients would tell me they couldn’t remember their real hair color. I can’t tell you