by Maggie Pill
In early 2016, Dina Engel stepped into the public eye, announcing she would start a clothing design business. Though some dismiss her firm, Detroit Chic, as a rich man’s indulgence of his daughter’s dreams, Dina claims her work will appeal to women who want to dress stylishly but can’t wear the skeleton-sized, body-revealing clothing most designers create. Only time will tell if Ms. Engel has what it takes to succeed in the difficult world of fashion.
I took a look at the Detroit Chic website, which contained preliminary drawings of what Dina planned to offer. I’m not as style clueless as Retta thinks, and I appreciate well-made clothing—just not the youth-chasing, attention-grabbing stuff she often buys. Dina’s designs took into account that most women over thirty have things to hide. There wasn’t a lot of skin showing, and the clothing flattered the female frame while making allowances for natural maturation. I made note of a few things I might purchase when the line became available. I wouldn’t tell Retta, because she’d feel compelled to point out that the dress was black and the pants the darkest navy.
Chapter Seven
Retta
From Tuesday to Thursday, I stayed busy with what I needed to get done before we left Allport. Of course I bought some things for the retreat. Nothing makes a person feel ready for an event like new clothing, shoes, and jewelry. I also made appointments to get my nails done—all twenty of them—and my hair touched up.
Next on the list was seeing to my dog’s needs. I decided to ask my nearest neighbors, summer residents who have their own Newfoundland, if Styx could stay with them. Roxie, a spayed female, loves Styx every bit as much as he loves her. I knew they wouldn’t say no, even though Styx did have a little accident on their car seat the last time he visited. He gets excited.
My fur baby likes almost everybody, but his positive attitude is sometimes a problem at Faye’s. Her dog, Buddy, is about as negative as a dog ever gets, and Styx often has his feelings hurt when we go there. I knew Dale would look out for Styx, but as long as the Coulston family didn’t mind, their place was the better choice for a three-day stay. Their son Eli was a cross-country runner, so Styx would get lots of exercise, and they’d know after our last visit to keep their cucumbers picked if they wanted them. Styx loves vegetables right off the vine.
Late Thursday evening, I took Styx for a special walk, explaining as we went that he’d be staying in Allport. Usually he travels with me, but the inn had a no-pets policy, and Styx is impossible to hide. In addition to his size, he gets excited in a new place, and within ten minutes everyone on my floor would know there was a dog somewhere.
We went to Styx’s favorite park, which is on the opposite side of town. He liked it best because once, several years ago, he saw an elk there. Since dogs don’t forget things like that, he’s always on the lookout for another one. I enjoy the park too, because it edges Lake Huron and the first stars come out right overhead, close enough that it seems you could reach up and prick your finger on their points.
Because I was looking at the stars, I missed it when Styx found a rotting carcass beside the trail. I think it was a woodchuck, but I didn’t get close enough to find out for sure. By the time I realized what was happening he was on his back, squirming his big old body all around in it. “Styx! No!”
I was too late. When he stepped toward me, the stench hit my nose like a slap across the face. For once he didn’t jump up for a hug, which kept me from actually vomiting. “Oh, Styx, you naughty boy!”
His beautiful brown eyes met mine, and he tilted his head to one side as if to ask, “What’s wrong, Mom?”
Of course I couldn’t be mad at him, but I also couldn’t let him in my car—or take him to the Coulstons’ in the morning—smelling like that. I slipped off his leash and pointed toward the lake. “Swim, Styx! Swim!”
He couldn’t believe his luck. First a dead thing, and now an invitation to take a dip when he usually had to beg. Styx took off like a shot, his strong legs pumping through the sand. He hit the water full on, joyfully biting at waves that lapped along the shore. Soon he was swimming with strong strokes, visible only as a round knob and a muzzle sticking out of the water.
A bath would wash away most of the stink, I hoped. Of course I’d have a wet dog in the car on the way home, but I keep an old blanket in the back for just such occasions.
As I stood watching Styx swim, the leash rolled up in my hand, I thought about meeting Dina Engel. It would be fun to meet a clothing designer. What would she be like? Would we become friends? Would I have anything in common with the daughter of a drug king?
It was possible. Dina was launching a career in mid-life, perhaps due to the death of her mother. I’d been forced to change at about the same age when my beloved husband, a state police officer, was killed on the job. If Dina’s urge to be a person of her own was real, we’d have things to talk about. If, on the other hand, it turned out she was part of her father’s gang or posse or whatever they call it these days, I’d be happy to help take her down.
Hearing a noise down the beach, I turned. A man approached with a mid-sized dog, either a breed I didn’t recognize or too many breeds to pick one. I’m not sure what made the dog decide I was a threat, but suddenly he lunged forward with a threatening growl. When I realized he wasn’t on a leash, I had that flash of terror that comes when you have no idea what to do. The man shouted helplessly as the dog bounded toward me, teeth bared. If he’d been a Styx type, I’d have been in for a boisterous hug and slobber on my clothes. A horrible tension in my spine told me that wasn’t what this dog intended.
The man shouted, “King! Get back here!” He might as well have whistled a happy tune. As the dog’s paws ate up the ground between us, I tried to make a decision. Run? Stand firm? Crouch and protect my face with my arms?
The dog leaped, his powerful back legs pushing off and his body streamlining as he instinctively gauged the distance between us. In a millisecond I’d be at the mercy of those teeth. I could already feel the jaws closing on my arm, my shoulder, or even my throat. I opened my mouth to scream—
A blur to the right caught my eye. There was a thump as a large, furry object crossed the dog’s path. His trajectory changed abruptly, and with a yelp of surprise, my attacker fell sideways onto the sand in a scramble of legs and tails. He lay there for a moment, stunned. Styx regained his feet and made a woof of mild outrage, as if to say any attack on his mom had to have been a mistake.
The dog whined once, rolled to his feet, and scurried back to his owner, who grabbed his collar and attached the leash that should have been in place all along. A decent person would have come over to apologize, but decent people don’t have dogs that attack innocent walkers. The man tucked his chin into his chest and turned away, dragging the dog behind him.
It wasn’t the first time Styx had saved me from pain and injury. The fact that he ended the event by shaking slightly stinky water all over me was a small price to pay.
“You’re such a good boy,” I told him. “Let’s go see if the dog wash place is still open. You’re the best, but you still smell like the worst.”
Chapter Eight
Faye
The drive west was pleasant but twisty, since east-west travel in northern Lower Michigan usually involves a succession of different roads. We took US-23 to M-32, where we got on I-75 for a short time, exiting at Grayling to take M-72 to US-31 through Traverse City to pick up 22 north. There were a half-dozen other ways we might have chosen, but they all took about the same amount of time, and in summer contained the same amount of traffic, much of it out-of-state drivers either lost or distracted by the lovely views of trees, trees, and more trees. It paid to drive defensively, and Retta did.
We passed cherry orchards, apple orchards, and fields of sunflowers, in my opinion some of the happiest sights on earth. In Traverse City we stopped for cold drinks and visited Horizon Books, one of our favorites. I bought three new mystery novels, and Retta got a book on managing finances. She was good at minding the mon
ey she received after her husband’s death, though there was no question she’d have given every cent away to have him back. I’m glad she’s financially comfortable. I’m also glad I don’t have enough money to make it necessary for me to do that kind of reading. Romance. Mystery. Nothing in the realm of reality for me.
North of Traverse City, a jut of land splits into two peninsulas that extend into Lake Michigan like tines on a mismatched barbeque fork. The inner one, Old Mission Peninsula, is short and thin, with a single road heading northward to a lighthouse that overlooks Grand Traverse Bay. The Leelanau Peninsula, our destination, is larger and offers more room for development. Temperate due to the water in and around it, the region is known for fruit-growing, including tart cherries, apples, and grapes for the many wineries located there. Often referred to as the “little finger of the Michigan mitten,” the Leelanau begins with the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore and continues thirty miles north past North and South Manitoulin Islands, ending at Leelanau State Park. One main road, M-22, serves the area, traveling up the west side almost to the point before turning to head down the opposite side and back to the city. Small local roads cut across at intervals, with signs listing places bound to be worth visiting, like Peshawbestown, an Ottawa/Chippewa enclave, or Cat Head Point, the estate of a former U. S. ambassador. “It’s valued at six million,” Retta told me, “in case you and Dale are looking for a place on the water.”
Having never been up the peninsula, I was interested in the scenery. The weather people had promised a gorgeous few days, and despite their tendency to fib for the tourists, it was true this time. The land around us was deep, deep green, the water in the distance sparkled white on deep blue, and the sun shone yellow through the windows. The lakes kept the heat from becoming too oppressive, which was good, since Retta uses her A/C maybe twice a year. I hoped my deodorant served its purpose, but I hadn’t thought to apply it down my spine or between my breasts.
For people used to a world of look-alike strip malls and drug stores on every corner, the Leelanau is appealing. There’s plenty of open country interspersed with beautiful homes, charming cottages, and unique businesses. Tourists might stop along the tree-lined, two-lane road for ice cream cones then as they drive on have to brake to let a doe and her fawn step delicately onto the pavement and cross in front of the car.
St. Millicent’s sat atop a low hill. Across the road and down a steep decline was the bay, and each front-facing room had a small balcony that promised a spectacular view of the sunrise. Behind the inn, the vineyard stretched to the west. To the south was a decidedly slanted parking lot, edged by woods that swept gracefully downhill.
As Retta pulled under the canopy, I gawked like the hick I am. Fronted with stone, the place was meant to look European, almost like old coach houses I’d seen in movies. At either side of the entrance sat wine barrels that appeared to be both old and authentic, though the winery itself was new. Two smiling valets approached and in seconds our luggage (my single suitcase and Retta’s two plus a hanging rack, a makeup case, and a shoe bag) was piled on a cart. One valet explained that they preferred to park guests’ cars due to the lot’s steep angle. I guessed at some point an incautious visitor had failed to shift fully into park and ended up with his car in the trees.
Retta gave the young man a five-dollar bill and her car keys, and he thanked her graciously before driving fifty feet to a parking space. The other young man pulled the cart to the door then held it open for us, chatting cheerfully about the weather. I guessed he was aware that Retta had a stack of five-dollar bills in her bag just for charming, affable employees.
Inside, the lobby was paneled in old wood, lightened by strips of white limestone every few feet. The clerk was a fount of information, explaining amenities and offering extras like canoe rentals for lovers of the outdoors and spa treatments for those more content inside. Once we’d been assigned a room, our bags (and ten dollars!) disappeared up the stairs. We were directed to a common area down a short hallway, where Love-Able Ladies representatives welcomed us. Check-in had begun at ten, but Retta felt noon was the right time to arrive: not too eager-beaverish, but still on time for the opening events.
Lunch—I should say luncheon—was served at 12:30, and after waiting in the registration line, we made it just in time for the salad course. In the background, Teresa Brewer sang, “A Sweet Old-fashioned Girl.” Nice touch.
The tables were set for ten, and most were full, but with her usual confidence Retta chose one where two side-by-side seats were available. “Mind if we join you, ladies?”
The women smiled in welcome, and Retta pointed to the chair I should take. She introduced us and began her entertaining line of patter while I tried to position myself far enough from the woman on my right to avoid bumping elbows.
I was already feeling anxious, and just walking into the room had been hard. It felt as if everyone looked up to check me out, and without Retta’s casual acceptance of the attention, I’d have turned around and asked that nice young man to bring the car back right away. Now I sat silent, all too aware that our lunch companions were probably thinking I didn’t belong there. I know it’s dumb, but I can’t help it.
When the salads (topped with dried cherries, an area specialty) were gone, the main course arrived. I soon realized that whatever else I left with, I was likely to take a few extra pounds home as well. The chicken salad sandwich (with more cherries) was served on a croissant (no calories there, right?) Dessert was five-layer chocolate cake with thick fudge frosting between layers. There was also a sampling of house wines, with a little spiel from the waiter about the two choices and a promise of more options at future meals.
I had to admit that Retta’s clothing advice helped my confidence a little, though I’d resented it at the time. In my Marion’s sale-rack red blouse, black pants (what else?), oversized white-on-gold necklace, and cut-out red flats, I didn’t think I embarrassed my sister too badly. She’d even dragged me to her hair stylist for the first professional trim I’d had in years. Visibly uncertain of success, the woman had done what she could to tame my thick, wavy hair and added some gold highlights to “warm” my “look.” She also gave me some “product” I was supposed to use to recreate the hairstyle after shampooing. (Yeah, right.) Still, it helped. I didn’t feel like a princess yet, but I didn’t feel quite so much like a frog.
Retta sparkled, but that’s always the case. Not only was she born gregarious, she was a sort of goodwill ambassador for the Michigan State Police after Don’s death, touring the state to speak on the need for better safety equipment for officers. Today she wore white leggings under a gorgeous, pale-yellow top, three necklaces (“One means nothing, two is mildly interesting, but three makes a statement”), dangly earrings, and a rattle-y bracelet. In minutes she’d charmed everyone at our table, explaining that we were “so very excited” to be at St. Millicent’s and “just thrilled to meet others who enjoy being girls.” I smothered a smile at the Flower Drum Song attitude, but our new friends ate it up.
The after-lunch speaker started things off with a bang, explaining that American society is falling apart due to gender confusion. Women, she told us, need to step back into their traditional roles in order to move the country in the right direction. “Look at history,” she urged. “Every civilization that lived peacefully for any extended period had strong male leaders. Men provide the framework for a workable society. They make the rules, provide protection for weaker members, control finances, create healthy fiscal policies, and build impressive structures: roads, buildings, bridges, and machines. Women’s roles are no less important, but they’re less public. We nurture the next generation, maintain the home, and support the emotional needs of our men.”
The argument that began in my head came in Barb’s voice. Like the lawyer she’d been for decades, she’d have countered each point with logic. When the speaker claimed men aren’t emotionally suited to be babysitters, Barb would have stood up and demanded, “How can
a man ‘babysit’ his own children?” To the argument that women aren’t suited for combat she’d have asked, “Exactly who is ‘suited’ to kill other people?” I didn’t know enough history to be able to argue the claim that all strong societies are male-led, but I’d have bet Barb could name a dozen examples to dispute that claim.
The women around me applauded often, and I was glad Barb wasn’t there to see it. The speaker claimed the world would be better off financially if women left the job market, since that would assure that every man in America was guaranteed employment. She cautioned us not to worry about the myth that today’s family needed two incomes. “If women stop competing with men for jobs, the pay rate will rise as companies look at available workers. Prices will settle as the markets adjust, and all economic levels will end up with the same standard of living they have now. The added advantage will be a much stronger family unit, which will reduce crime, drug use, and many other problems our society now faces.” She ended by urging each of us to “be happy with “your place in the world—under your man’s strong arm.”
Noting the enthusiastic applause, I realized these women rejected the teachings of the last sixty years. They were sick of hearing that being a wife and homemaker wasn’t enough. They were tired of competing with men for jobs and advancement in those jobs. Maybe they’d seen their sisters try to work forty hours and still manage a house and taxi kids to after-school events, leaving no time for themselves. Love-Able Ladies preached that it was okay to be the lesser half of a couple, and these women seemed willing to let the men in their lives make all the decisions beyond what to serve for dinner. I understood it, though Barb never would. Security without responsibility was in many ways a tempting prospect. Was it best to let men be in charge? Were women fighting Nature when they insisted on equality?