The Summer Cottage

by Viola Shipman

  “Right,” Frank says. “I’d suggest you need to make at least one room wheelchair accessible—the fish house would be easiest—and there are some requirements for fire regulations, including signage and reinforced doors to hold back fire and smoke.” He stops. “I also think you need to create an owner’s suite downstairs,” he says. “You don’t want to live on an upper floor with guests. You’ll need a space of your own, big enough to accommodate a living area and bedroom. And you’ll want a separate entrance to, well, avoid the guests when you want.” He points to my renderings. “I’d suggest taking the downstairs bedrooms and make it a big living space for you, maybe add square footage onto the back of the cottage. The lot has more than enough room. It’ll work.” He stops again.

  I look at Frank and then at the bid sheet. “I don’t see any numbers attached,” I say, not blinking.

  Oh, my God, I think. I’ve become Trish.

  Frank doesn’t say a word. In fact, I can actually see him wince noticeably this time, like I do when I watch those Facebook videos of models tripping on the runway or people doing dumb things like diving into a frozen pond.

  “Aaannnd...?” I ask.

  “I think we’re looking at about $250,000,” he says.

  “What?”

  My heart stops, and I drop my coffee cup in shock. It falls to the tile floor and shatters.

  “Are you okay?” Franks asks.

  I look down and nod, and then remember the number he just quoted me. I shake my head no.

  Frank grabs a roll of paper towels I have sitting on the counter, and begins to wipe up the coffee. “Broom?” he asks. I point to a closet.

  I watch him clean up the mess, feeling as if he’s sweeping up my hopes and dreams. I think of sitting in this kitchen, on this very counter, and my grandma reciting “Humpty Dumpty” to me when I would start to get too playful.

  I begin to do quick math in my head, thinking of my savings, how much Nate will be paying me every month, the amounts I might be able to take from my IRA and retirement accounts without too much of a tax hit. My head grows light.

  “I don’t have that kind of cash readily available, Frank,” I say. “Could I give you a quarter up front, and then go from there?”

  Frank slides the remains of my broken cup into the trash with a big crash, sets down the pail and walks over to me.

  “Of course,” he says, his voice soft. “You know, my family has always loved this cottage. My great-grandfather helped build it, my grandfather and father loved your parents and grandparents. And Jonathan and Josephine were so kind to me. I feel like this cottage is a part of my family, too.”

  My eyes fill with tears. “It is,” I say. “You know, my dad used to say that you had sawdust in your blood. A lot of that is from Cozy Cottage.”

  “I’ll get started this afternoon,” he says. “My crew will start on the roof and the outside of the cottage while we have a chance, and then we’ll start on the fish house and interior. I promise we’ll do our best to have this ready for Memorial Day weekend. Sound good?”

  I nod.

  Frank gathers his papers and his case, turns to leave but stops after a few steps.

  “Kruger,” he says, before turning to face me. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” I say.

  “Your maiden name,” he says. “In German, Kruger literally means innkeeper.”

  My eyes widen.

  “My grandfather loved family ancestry,” he says. “He told me that a long time ago.” Frank looks at me, and his bushy bearded face breaks into a smile, giving him the look of a gleeful cartoon character. “Maybe all of this is meant to be,” he says. “Maybe everything in your family’s history has led up to this moment.”

  Frank nods definitively and says, “See you soon, Ms. Kruger.”

  He turns and leaves, the house seeming to creak in agreement with every footstep he takes.

  FIVE

  “Welcome Wagon!”

  I am just about to turn on the water to take a shower—at nearly 1:00 p.m., mind you—when I hear a chorus of warbly voices calling from downstairs.

  “Mrs. Clarke? Welcome Wagon!”

  I turn the water off, the sleeve of Evan’s sweatshirt immediately soaked, and pad down the stairs where I discover four elderly women—each seemingly a decade older than the other—snooping around the cottage. Despite my creaks on the stairs, the women don’t hear me. I watch them for a few seconds—picking up photos, touching the fabric, analyzing artwork, even running a finger over a table and inside a bookshelf to check for dust—and begin to wonder if I’m watching The Golden Girls meets HGTV.

  I tiptoe until I’m a few feet behind the group now on their way into the kitchen, and say loudly, “Hello, ladies!”

  The women jump as one.

  “You startled us!” one of the women says in a clipped tone.

  You’re in my house, I think.

  She turns and extends her hand. “Iris Dragoon.”

  The Dragoon Lady! I can immediately hear my mother say. She breathes fire, Adie Lou!

  My first thought is—this woman is still alive?

  I remember Iris Dragoon visiting my parents when I was a girl, always dropping by unannounced to fund-raise for the Preservation Committee, or Holiday Decorating Committee, or History Museum, or one of the endless committees on which she served. I thought she was ancient three decades ago, but it’s as if she’s been preserved, under glass, because I can’t tell much of a difference in her appearance from years ago. To me, she’s always looked as if she might be Joan Collins’s mother: heavy, but impeccably applied evening makeup, complete with false lashes and a shockingly red lip. Today, she is sporting a pantsuit Joan herself might have worn to the Emmys in the 1980s: a bejeweled jacket with giant shoulder pads and big, shiny buttons, a black turtleneck and shockingly tight black pants tucked into black boots with a gold buckle. But the topper—quite literally—is that she is wearing two—two!—chestnut-colored wigs that give her the appearance of full hair in the front and lots of height in the back.

  “On behalf of the Saugatuck Preservation Committee, welcome!”

  The Dragoon Lady doesn’t really say this in a welcoming manner, but more as if she’s holding court. Before I can say a word, she claps her hands. “Gladys!”

  “Oh, yes, yes, sorry,” a woman with blue hair says nervously, holding out a pretty basket wrapped in colorful foil.

  I take the basket, the foil making a loud crunching sound, and set it on the kitchen counter. “That’s so nice of you,” I say, again hearing my mother’s voice. It’s the same basket every year, Adie Lou. It just gets passed along, like fruitcake.

  “What brings you all here today?” I ask.

  “Well,” the Dragoon Lady begins, turning to her followers, two of whom I now notice have clipboards and pens at the ready. “The Preservation Committee was thrilled to learn that you’ve decided not to sell your family cottage.”

  “Thank you,” I say, suddenly feeling a bit warmer toward her.

  “As you know, preservation of Saugatuck’s history and historical cottages is very important to us and our town,” she says in a voice that sounds a bit robotic. “This cottage has such a unique history...”

  “Such history, such history,” her three committee members coo in unison.

  “...from Mr. Capone to your family, who has kept the character of this cottage and fought to preserve its character.”

  I blush. “Thank you,” I say again, wondering if my mother had been wrong about this woman.

  “I...we...however, are concerned about your intentions for this cottage,” she says, raising an eyebrow, her lashes tossing a shadow across her face. “The committee has learned about your plans to turn this into a...” She stops as though she’s about to say a dirty word.

/>   “Inn?” I offer. “B and B.”

  “Yes,” she says with disgust. “We’d like to set up a meeting with our full committee to review your plans.”

  I stare at her, not blinking. Trish has taught me well. But it doesn’t work on the Dragoon Lady.

  “Which architect are you working with?” she asks. “We have two the committee approves of.”

  My head begins to spin. “I’m not working with an architect,” I say. “I’m remodeling this myself.”

  My renderings are still sitting on the kitchen counter. The Dragoon Lady’s eyes flutter toward them, and then scan every inch of my work.

  “I see,” she says, ice dripping from her ironic choice of words.

  I can feel my face flush, and I immediately want to hide my work like a kid might hide a test on which she had received a bad grade.

  “And I’m working directly with a local contractor who’s done numerous projects on this cottage for years. In fact, his great-grandfather helped build the cottage.”

  “Frank,” she says with a dismissive sigh. She turns to her committee, two of which are writing furiously. “The handyman.” She stops and acts as if she’s thinking. She scratches her hair, and both wigs move atop her head. “So, what date would be convenient for you to meet? We meet every other week, either at the woman’s club or at the country club.”

  My eyes are so large I feel as if they might bust free of their sockets and just roll across the floor. If they did, I’m sure two of the women would note it on their clipboards.

  “I appreciate your stopping by,” I start gingerly, “but this is my first full day here. My contractor and his crew are coming back in a bit, I have a million things to do and...”

  The Dragoon Lady holds up a manicured finger, stopping me in midsentence. “Gladys?” She snaps her fingers, and Gladys produces a calendar. “Let’s just pencil in a date, and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Is this necessary?” I ask, my voice rising, my facade breaking. “I’m applying for all appropriate licenses. Frank is running everything by the city for approval. I’m meeting every necessary standard. I’m not changing the character of the home. I’m trying to improve it, share its history with others. This is not a rebuild of a historic home.”

  “Mrs. Clarke,” the Dragoon Lady starts.

  “It’s Kruger,” I say.

  “Oh,” she says, her voice filled with sadness. She turns to her committee. “A divorcée, ladies.”

  The women shake their heads.

  “Excuse me?” I say. “Now you’re just being rude. None of this falls under your committee’s purview.”

  “There are a limited number of historic cottages on our lakeshore, Mrs. Clarke...Kruger...and the town cannot stand idly by and allow private residences to be turned into motels.”

  “Inns,” I say. “And it’s allowed by law.”

  “Strangers coming and going in this community of fine lakeshore cottages may be lawful, but it is not proper,” she continues. “Making noise, screaming children on the beach, cars parked everywhere.” She stops and looks around. “I know you need the money to keep this cottage, but your parents would be aghast.”

  “How dare you presume to know what my parents would think!” I say, my voice rising. “They loved me more than anything, and they would want me to do anything I could to keep this cottage in our family.” I realize I sound like a child throwing a tantrum in Target, but I can’t stop myself. “And my parents couldn’t stand you! This cottage and this town mean everything to me, and I’ll do whatever I need to do to keep it.

  “Get out!” I thunder. “Get out of my house. And take your stupid welcome basket with you!”

  I grab the basket and try to push it into the Dragoon Lady’s hands, but she doesn’t raise her arms. Instead, Gladys scurries forward to take it, while the other two women continue scribbling notes. I open the front door and motion dramatically with my arms for the women to leave. The Dragoon Lady stops on the front porch and turns. “We can make it very hard on you,” she says with a sly smile. “Permits might be harder to come by... We’d hate to see your summer season delayed. It’s so hard for a new business to stay afloat if it opens in October. Not to mention that bad word of mouth can ruin a new business, and we have very loud mouths, don’t we, ladies?”

  The women nod in unison.

  “Get off my property!”

  The Dragoon Lady takes a step and then stops again. “By the way, I just love your pants,” she says with an evil laugh.

  The women titter, and I slam the door, the house now empty but still filled with the smell of their perfume.

  White Shoulders.

  I immediately run over to the mirror in the front hall and turn around to look at my backside.

  Evan, I think. No! Why did I have to pick these of all days?

  I look again, undecided as to whether I should laugh or cry.

  BEACH, PLEASE! is written across my rear end in bold lettering.

  SIX

  I lift a bottle of Two Buck Chuck to my lips and take a healthy pull.

  “Cheers!” I yell into the cold wind as I make my way down the stairs to the beach.

  After the hole in the roof, the hefty price tag to repair the cottage and the Dragoon Lady, I have opted to get drunk instead of taking a shower. I have opted to follow the lead that has been displayed on my rear end all day long.

  I unconsciously count the steps down to the beach like I’ve done since I was a girl.

  51, 52, 53, 54...

  My parents built a gradual staircase to the beach—with many landings—to make it easier to navigate, unlike many lakeshore cottages that feature steep staircases of hundreds of steps that make it seem as if you are scaling a castle to return home.

  I take a seat at the bottom of the stairs and park my boots in the snow. My embarrassing sweatpants are now covered in a long, puffy winter coat. I am wearing earmuffs, mittens and boots, but the sun—shockingly strong for a February afternoon—warms my face before the wind sweeps over the frozen lake.

  You are single, unemployed, poor and, most importantly, an idiot, I think. Way to go, Adie Lou Kruger-Clark-Whatever-the-Hell-You’re-Calling-Yourself-Anymore.

  The wind slaps my face again, and I don’t like the feeling of sobering up whatsoever, so I lift the bottle of red wine from Trader Joe’s to my lip and take another big gulp.

  “I hate you, Nate!” I yell into the wind. “I hate you, Dragoon Lady! I hate you, Cozy Cottage!”

  I stare out at the lake, its frozen appearance stunningly beautiful and incredibly menacing. The winter and summer versions of the lake are like twins who look nothing alike. Today, the shoreline is all jagged edges and hard lines, whites and grays, unlike its summery sister, she of soft shimmers and dreamy blurs, vibrant blues and greens. Chunks of ice—boulders really—dot the shoreline, and they are glazed and striated with sand, as if Mother Nature has been practicing her raku pottery techniques.

  My back spasms, and I stand to stretch, slipping a bit on the icy shore causing me to throw out my arms for balance. Red wine from the bottle spews forth.

  “No!” I cry, as if I’ve lost the last bit of oxygen in my scuba tank.

  I look down, and—for a brief moment—seriously consider making a snow cone out of what has just escaped from the bottle, because I know I need every ounce of courage right now, but then I stop and watch the wine spread slowly through the slushy, sandy snow. It looks like blood, and it continues to spread in tiny lines as if I were drawing on an Etch A Sketch. I gasp when it stops moving: the image resembles a red rose.

  I look up at the sun to clear my eyes and mind, and then back down, but the image is still there. When I cast my eyes toward the lake, the image fills my eyes—dancing sunspots—and the shoreline looks as if it’s filled with roses.

  In my wine-induced haze, I ask myself,
Am I seeing things clearly?

  I know I am walking too quickly on the slippery shore, but I need to see if this is real or a mirage. I move toward Lake Michigan, the roses beckoning me, and walk out onto the frozen lake. It doesn’t scare me: I know how thick the ice is. My dad used to ice-fish out here, and my mind flits back to that happy time.

  Suddenly, I hit a slick spot and go down, hard. My bottle of wine goes flying and it shatters on the ice, the wine exploding across the surface, leaving a grisly looking scene.

  I can feel my back spasm again, and then my butt screams in pain—knowing there will be a large, unsightly bruise by tomorrow—and when I look up, the roses are gone. It’s just me, buzzed, sitting alone atop a frozen lake.

  I think of all the romantic movies I’ve watched in my lifetime. Right now, a man—a firefighter or, no, a lumberjack—would rush out of nowhere to help me up. We’d kiss, I’d fall in love and he’d rebuild the cottage while I drank green tea. The Cinderella Complex, Trish used to call it: American women have been fed a myth that men will save the damsel in distress, that marriage is a fantasy to which we all aspire.

  But what happens when the big wedding is over? Trish asked me before I married Nate. I hated her for saying that. I thought she was just jealous. But she was being honest.

  I press my hands down on the ice to stand, but then I stop: I can see the lake undulate underneath the ice, fish swimming under the frozen surface. I feel like I’m at the Shedd Aquarium in Chicago, watching sea life through clear glass. The sunshine and intense blue of the sky fill my view of this underwater world with prisms of light and color, and I rub my mitten over the surface to clear the frost.

  “Maybe I’m just hibernating like you right now,” I say to the fish swimming just below me. “Maybe I just have to learn to swim even if the world feels frozen.”