We sat in that for a while, thinking of Grandma Lucy, whom I had only known through my mother and aunts and her winding, lush, magnificent garden. She wasn’t mentally well, but she was filled with love. Obviously one of her parents was white or part white, or both were part white . . . who knew what violence occurred throughout her ancestral line to make it so.

“We should go to Africa,” Aunt Iris said. “Back to our roots. It makes the most sense. It’s logical.”

“You are so smart, Iris,” Aunt Camellia said. “Your brain is a blessing.”

“That is brilliant,” my mother said.

And they put Antarctica and penguins and studying climate change and the history of Antarctica’s land mass aside and began planning a trip to Africa and what hats they would bring.

* * *

The Book Babes were reading about a woman who created collages with paint, tiny tree branches, miniature trinkets, fabric, feather, sea glass, and other cool things.

They decided to make their own collages. Their tables were filled with canvasses, paints, fabrics, feathers, sequins, branches, buttons, beads, tiny treasures, et cetera, that they had all brought.

Their canvases were soon filled with color (except for the woman who was going through menopause who made her cool, modern portrait all in black). They invited me to make a collage, and I did. I made our garden. I used scraps of fabric in different colors and layered petals, leaves, and tree bark one on top of another. I added the ocean in the background, the bridge, the secret garden, the lily pond and my blue carriage house.

It was, we all decided, the best book club ever.

“We need to start having Art Night for Babes here, is that all right with you, Evie? Don’t worry, we’ll clean up!”

“It is if you let everyone join.” They agreed. Art Night For Babes was popular instantly. I had twenty women the first night. I sold orange chiffon cake and rum cake and two tea specials: Mandarin Orange Spice and Lemon Nutmeg.

More people in, more books, cake, and tea sold!

* * *

Chief Ass Burn was removed from his post, his badge taken away.

Mandy Lass became the temporary chief.

Chief Allroy came back, soon retired, Mandy became our official police chief, and peace reigned again on San Orcanita Island.

* * *

When Marco came to my home after his Alaskan fishing trip, I greeted him exactly how a good fisherman’s lady should greet her man: in red lingerie and heels.

He smiled and reeled me in.

We made my bed rock the waves that night.

* * *

I woke up wrapped around Marco, my head on his chest. He was still sleeping, the sun barely over the horizon. Butch and Cassidy were with us, as were two cats.

I smiled.