The Summer Cottage

by Viola Shipman

  The front door flies open, and two men head outside carrying scrap lumber.

  I’m guessing the ghost is trying to get the hell out of this cottage, I think.

  Sonny starts barking, his head jerking between the roof and the construction crew, his one good eye racing from real people to perceived ghosts on the roof.

  He’s so excited that he lifts his leg and tinkles mostly on my snow boot. I groan and rush him inside, kicking off my boots and chunks of snow onto the braided rug by the front door. I am shrugging off my coat when Frank approaches.

  “Who’s this? Hi, buddy!” Frank says to Sonny. “Looks like you’ve had a tough go.” He looks up at me. “Yours?”

  I nod.

  “Until now,” Frank amends, his voice high and excited. “You hit the lotto!”

  Frank plops on the floor and begins to play with Sonny, using his fingers to scamper around the Lab’s legs. Sonny barks in excitement, and Frank laughs, the burly general contractor reduced to a giggling boy.

  “I have good news and bad news,” Frank finally says, looking up at me.

  “Was this your way of softening the blow?” I ask. “Playing with the dog?”

  “No,” he says, grunting as he stands. He picks up Sonny and puts his face next to the dog’s, panting alongside the Lab. “Does this help?”

  “Good news first, please,” I say, crossing my arms.

  “Your septic is in good shape,” Frank says. “Your parents got the mega-tank, which is lucky for you, so you don’t need a second one. And they’ve kept it clean as a whistle, so to speak.”

  “Bad news?” I ask, my face already wincing.

  “You know how you want to upgrade the kitchen with new appliances, including a big, gas stove? Well, we need to run a new gas line from outside.”

  “Okay...?”

  “That means we have to demo the concrete pad on the patio as well as the kitchen floor and run a new pipe for the stove,” Frank says. I groan, and Frank sets Sonny down, knowing he’s not softening the blow any longer.

  “How much?” I ask.

  “Two to three thousand.”

  I fall back against the wall, hitting the Cottage Rules sign.

  “But,” Frank says, his voice rising, “what I suggest we do is add gas for your outdoor grill, so you don’t have to worry about tanks anymore. You can grill for guests and just flip a switch. And your gas appliances will make cooking your breakfasts so much nicer.” He stops. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too,” I say, my voice and face sagging.

  “We’re going to clear out for the day,” he says. “Snow’s really starting to come down now. Roads are getting bad I bet?”

  I nod.

  “We’ll be back early tomorrow to take a closer look at the fish house and—if the weather breaks—get your roof fixed.” Frank stops, studying my face. “You look exhausted. Why don’t you go take a nap?”

  “I can’t take a nap,” I say. “It’s still the middle of the day!”

  “Do you mind?” Frank asks, walking over to the bookshelves in the living room.

  My parents were voracious readers, and they made me one, as well. My mother loved fiction—from literary to commercial, even pulpy paperbacks—while my father adored nonfiction, especially historical or political biographies. The towering bookcases cover the entire wall around Darryl and the fireplace, my mom’s books on the left, my father’s on the right. My father always removed the dust jacket to the books he read. He would take the shiny jackets off, fold them and place them in a trunk he kept in the attic.

  “This is the way a book is meant to look, Adie Lou,” my father would tell me every time he started a new book, holding the hardcover as adoringly as he held Evan when he was a baby. “Unadorned, without all the commercial rigmarole. Nothing but the author’s own words. In the old days, the cover would have been leather or linen.” He would stop and turn the book over in his hands, before taking a seat next to the fireplace, Darryl reading over his shoulder. “Hard shell. Flexible, sturdy spine. An inside filled with stunning beauty and wisdom. Just like the best people, Adie Lou.”

  I stare at the high-back chair and can still see the impression of my father’s body in it.

  Frank scans the right side of the bookcase for a few seconds, before plucking a hardcover as if it were calling to him.

  “Your dad loaned this to me a long time ago, when I was taking over the business from my dad,” Frank says. “A biography of Winston Churchill. Your dad admired him greatly.” Frank smiles and begins flipping through the biography, which I notice is underlined and highlighted, sticky notes jutting everywhere.

  “Ah,” Frank says. “Right here. Can I read you this?”

  I nod, my back still pressed against the Cottage Rules sign.

  “‘Success is not final, failure is not fatal. It is the courage to continue that counts.’”

  I smile. “That sounds just like my dad,” I say.

  Frank closes the book and runs his hand over the cover.

  “My business was about to go under,” Frank says softly. “Although I apprenticed under my dad and learned all of his skills, I wasn’t as good of a salesman as he was. The old-timers who knew my dad weren’t buying property, and the new guard were only hiring fancy builders and architects whose work had been featured in Architectural Digest.”

  I think of the Dragoon Lady and silently nod.

  “Your dad was one of the first to hire me,” he continues. “Worked on refurbishing that turret. Added on to that beautiful office and sitting area on this floor that will soon be your new owner’s suite. Mr. Kruger gave me this and told me to read it. Said he’d know if I’d read it or not. Got to that passage I just read you, and beside it, your father had written, ‘Don’t ever quit, Frank!’”

  He stops, and I swear I catch his jaw tremble under his bushy beard. “Helluva guy,” he says in a near whisper that gives me goose bumps. He looks at me. “Don’t ever give up, Adie Lou!”

  Frank hands me the book with a definitive nod and heads into the kitchen. I cradle it sweetly, thinking of my father and then of Evan. As the workers clean up and gather their tools, I dig my cell out of my purse and call my son.

  “Yeah,” he says, his voice ragged and husky.

  “That’s quite the greeting,” I say. “Are you sick?”

  “No,” Evan says. “Sleeping.”

  “Sleeping? It’s early afternoon. Don’t you have class?”

  “Not today, Mom. I had a big paper due and a test this morning.” He yawns. “And I’ve got midterms coming up soon. I needed a nap.”

  “I didn’t know college students napped,” I say. “I didn’t know fraternity boys napped.”

  “We call it instant midnight,” he says.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Instant midnight,” Evan replies. “It’s a phrase some of the older guys made up. A lot of afternoons, if the guys are tired from studying or hungover, they come back to their rooms, lock their doors, close their blinds and pull the curtains. It goes from daylight to midnight. Instant midnight. Get it?”

  “Now I do,” I say with a small laugh. “But a nap in the middle of the day sounds so frivolous.”

  “What was that book Grandma loved?” Evan asks. Goose bumps again cover my body. It’s as though he is reading my mind, as if he knew I was just talking about books and his grandparents.

  “She liked a lot of books,” I say, looking at the countless novels lining her side of the bookshelves. “As did your grampa.”

  “The kindergarten one by that reverend guy,” he says. The way he says that is so typical Evan that I can’t help but laugh.

  “You mean, All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten?”

  “That’s it,” Evan says. “It had all those rules, sort of like the ones we had in the cottage. What were they?�
�� He stops. “Things like play fair and don’t take things that aren’t yours.”

  I smile. My mom and her rules. She believed life was so simple, and yet we all made it so hard. I look at Sonny and think of the past few years of my life.

  “She’s right,” I say to the dog.

  “What?” Evan asks.

  “Hold on,” I say, walking toward the bookshelves as Frank had just moments ago. I slide the Churchill bio back into its empty spot and walk over to my mom’s side. I scan the books and, finally, see the one Evan is referring to. “I found it on your grandma’s bookshelves,” I say.

  “Cool,” Evan replies.

  I flip through it, and a page is earmarked. I scan it and bust out laughing.

  “What is it?” Evan asks.

  “Listen to this,” I say, before reading an underlined passage. “‘Think what a better world it would be if...the whole world had cookies and milk about three o’clock every afternoon and then lay down with our blankies for a nap.’”

  Evan laughs. “I’ve got life already figured out,” he says. I can hear him stifle a yawn. “Speaking of which...”

  “Okay, okay,” I say. “Sorry to wake you up.”

  “You should try it, Mom,” Evan says.

  “A nap? Now? I can’t. There’s too much to do. It’s...irresponsible.”

  “You’re all responsibility, Mom,” he says. “Your whole life has revolved around being responsible for someone.”

  I look back at Sonny, and my heart jumps. I’m unsure if Evan would be happy or not about my snap decision to take on the responsibility of a dog, so I decide to keep Sonny a secret for now.

  “Rule #3 of the cottage, Mom,” Evan says. “Nap often.” He stops. “What was it you and Grandma used to tell me when I didn’t want to leave the beach or stop playing? ‘You can’t recharge a battery if it’s running all the time.’” He stops again. “And you can’t be courageous or responsible when you’re tired. It’s okay. Take care of yourself, Mom. Then everything will take care of itself. Play by your own rules for once. Nap in the afternoon. Like me.” He stops. “What’s going on, Mom? Why did you call? Is everything okay?”

  Those are loaded questions, I think. Why did I call?

  “I just wanted to hear your voice,” I say, not explaining the real reason: something told me to call my son right now.

  “Well, you heard it,” he says, yawning. “Say good-night, Gracie.”

  Goose bumps. Again. “I can’t believe you remember watching those old shows with your grampa,” I say. “I can’t believe you remember all of the things he used to say.”

  There is silence for a moment before Evan says, “Isn’t it better to remember the good things than the bad? Say good-night, Gracie.”

  “Good night, Gracie.”

  I put the cell back in my pocket, put my mom’s book back on the shelf and walk over to retrieve the pills the vet gave me for Sonny from my coat pocket. I make him an early dinner, hiding his pills in his food, take him back out for another potty and then head upstairs, where I take a long, hot shower. I pull on some comfy pj’s and pull out the diffuser I still have stashed in a recyclable grocery bag on the floor. I fill it with water, plop in a few drops of lavender and clary sage for relaxation and peaceful sleep, and then choose a soothing blue color, a small ring of light that encircles the diffuser and radiates color like an orb.

  Though the day is gray, the white of the snow makes it bright, so I close the curtains tightly. The room is dark but glows in glacial blue.

  Instant midnight, I think. My way.

  I turn on the electric blanket I found, pull the covers back and crawl into bed, Sonny following. For a moment, I feel incredible guilt.

  I haven’t done this since I was a girl. I remember my life before: rushing to meetings, rushing to get Evan to practice, rushing to the store.

  Do entrepreneurs take naps? I wonder.

  There is so much to do, but I suddenly feel as though I can’t keep my eyes open. Sonny is making a nest at the end of the mattress, circling round and round, digging this way and that, nudging the blankets into a little pile. He finally finishes and looks up at me, happily panting, having worked himself into an excited lather, and thumps his tail.

  “Say good-night, Sonny,” I say.

  He lifts his head and gives a little bark.

  I blink hard, once, twice, and then I fall asleep where I dream I am on a wonderful vacation in Michigan taking a nap in the middle of the day.

  Part Four

  Rule #4:

  Wake Up Smiling

  ELEVEN

  March

  I am singing “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” at the top of my lungs and dancing around a bedroom on the second floor of the cottage just like I did when I was a girl. I immediately think back to my Chicago school days when I used to watch the older girls dance in the gym at school dances. There was an art to ’80s dancing—a mix of pop and punk, lots of arm movement and leg twisting—which I picked up from watching those girls and, of course, MTV.

  As I spin, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror on top of the bedroom dresser.

  I stop. “Hi,” I say to my reflection. “I know you.”

  Although it’s been over three decades since I’ve danced to this song, and everything has changed—my face, my body, my life, not to mention cell phones, laptops, FaceTime, Alexa—I can still see that young girl reflected back.

  “Hi, Adie Lou,” I say. “Good to see you again.”

  It’s then I realize I am smiling. Even though my hair and face are covered in beachy blue paint, my back aches and I just wrote a $50,000-plus check for work I’ve yet to see completed, I am smiling from ear to ear.

  Since I took a nap days ago, I’ve slept better than I have in ages. I’m still anxious and exhausted, but—for once—I feel a sliver of peace. And that is something I haven’t experienced in years.

  “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” comes on, and I whoop.

  “I used to love Whitney!” I yell at Sonny, who is watching while I paint. “And Madonna and Cyndi!”

  Sonny cocks his head, and his one eye continues to follow me as I dance around the room. “I know you’re probably more of a Bruno Mars guy,” I call to Sonny over the music.

  “Actually, I’m more of a Shania guy.”

  Standing in the door is Frank. I laugh. “Now, that surprises me,” I say as I turn down the music. “I’d guess more old-school for you. Like Johnny Cash. But not as old-school as the Dragoon Lady. She probably listens to opera. Something like Don Giovanni.” I laugh. “No, no, I got it! Dirges! She listens to dirges!”

  As I’m saying this, Frank’s eyes grow wider, and he gives me a slicing motion across his throat. That’s when Iris Dragoon comes into frame.

  “Crap,” I mutter, as if I just got busted by my parents for playing the music too loud.

  “Good morning, Miss...” She stops, and a grinchy grin slinks across her face. “What are we calling ourselves today?”

  I hate when people use the collective noun “we” to be dismissive. It’s a pet peeve ever since my copywriting days.

  “We,” I emphasize, “typically call someone before showing up at their home.”

  She nods, as if to say “well played,” and then produces a document from her handbag. I already know it’s bad because Frank is backing away. I tried to warn you, he mouths, before disappearing.

  “The Preservation Committee has discovered that the fish house behind this cottage is a historic structure,” she says, her voice deep and purring in that way cats sound before they pounce. “It was actually built before the cottage, sometime in the very late 1800s. It was an icehouse and storage unit for fish being shipped from Chicago, and for local produce that was being sent to the city. Ships used to come right up to your beach. And our area—as it still does today—produced fresh peach
es, apples, asparagus and cherries, much of which were stored right here.” She hands me the papers. “Which means you can’t touch it.”

  “I can’t what?” I say disbelievingly.

  Sonny stands and begins to bark. Iris Dragoon shoots him a look and he whimpers, then backs into a corner of the bedroom.

  “It means we—the Preservation Committee and the city—have final approval over what you can and can’t do with the structure.” She grins as broadly as I had been moments ago. “Have a nice day.”

  I stare at the papers she handed to me.

  “But this is mine,” I yell after her. “This is my property.”

  I can hear the front door slam.

  I turn, and my reflection is staring back at me as it was earlier. I am wide-eyed, in shock, covered in paint. I am, quite literally, blue. And needless to say, I am no longer smiling.

  TWELVE

  “I have good news and bad news,” Frank says.

  He is beginning to sound like a broken record. I take a sip of my coffee to warm my body, but still shiver. It is a bitterly cold Michigan winter morning. The outdoor thermometer my parents bought long ago is stuck on the wrong side of zero, and it is encased in ice that looks eerily blue, the color that is still flecked in my hair, dotted on my skin and under my nails. The temperature is in the single digits, the windchill in the negative numbers and the world looks frozen in place, encased in a thin layer of ice, unable to move.

  “I can relate,” I murmur.

  “What?” Frank asks.

  “Oh,” I say, trying to cover for the fact that all I’ve done since coming back to Saugatuck was talk to myself, drink too much, make bad decisions and go broke, “nothing. It’s just that my mom always used to say days like this were ‘too cold to snow.’”

  “She was right,” Frank says. “Your mom was smart.” He stops. “So are you, Adie Lou.”

  His words surprise me, and I look at him and nod appreciatively. “I needed to hear that,” I say.

  “So, let’s start with the bad news first,” he says.