The Summer Cottage

by Viola Shipman

  I wiggle my way out of bed, trying not to wake Sonny, and pad downstairs to make myself a cup of tea to calm my nerves. As the kettle heats, I walk into the living room, the cottage creaking with my every step. I stare at Darryl, half expecting him to yawn, and my eyes drift to my parents’ bookshelves.

  No, I think. They wouldn’t, would they?

  My heart begins to race, and I click on the light. I begin to scan the shelves, but I’m too tired and too excited, and my eyes won’t focus. The spines of the books are just blurs.

  “Slow down, Adie Lou,” I whisper to myself.

  I start again, beginning with my mother’s books. My heart begins to deflate as I finish scanning the first four rows. The kettle whistles. I ignore it, but Sonny doesn’t, and I can hear him jump off the bed, scamper around the bedroom upstairs, and then the click-click-click of his nails as he runs downstairs in search of me.

  “Hi, buddy,” I say. “Didn’t mean to leave you all alone.”

  I give him a big kiss on the head and then pull over an old ottoman. I step onto it and begin to scan the higher rows of the bookshelves. I am about to give up when I see it.

  “No way!” I say. “I can’t believe it.”

  Henry James’s The Portrait of a Lady stares back at me. I yank it from the shelf, make my tea and sink onto the couch, pulling a blanket over myself and Sonny, who is now settled atop my feet.

  I begin to read of Isabel Archer, a young, free-spirited American woman confronting her destiny and getting “ground in the very mill of the conventional.”

  I wake on the couch the next morning, having again dreamed of Sadie, and I don’t move until I have finished the book, stunned at the parallels in the lives of myself, Sadie and Isabel, and of the consequences unconventional women must too often face for trying to be true to themselves in a conventional world.

  Part Five

  Rule #5:

  Build a Bonfire

  FOURTEEN

  I am walking bedroom to bedroom on the second floor analyzing the bathroom framing the contractors have completed. The cottage’s cozy bedrooms have become even more intimate as precious square footage has been taken to add a private bath in each room. I add up the cost in my head, and my stomach lurches.

  “What if we added a hall bath?” I ask Sonny, who’s peering at me between open slats. “Or Jack-and-Jills between four rooms?”

  No, Adie Lou, I think. This is high-end, not hostel. No one wants to share a bathroom with a stranger. Stop second-guessing yourself.

  In some of the bedrooms, closets have disappeared to accommodate tiny, new baths, and I am holding a tape measure and calculator trying to determine how much room—and money—I will have left to add a wardrobe, a bed, nightstands, a TV and, of course, two people.

  “Hello?”

  The Dragoon Lady! I think, my heart racing. She’s like winter. She just won’t leave.

  “Hello? Hello?”

  I rush down the stairs in my paint-spattered sweats, seeing red.

  “If you came here to gloat—” I start, before I can see her face.

  “I didn’t, but I can. I’m good at it.”

  “Trish!” I exclaim as her face comes into view. “What are you doing here?”

  “Thought I’d surprise you,” she says. “Maybe even help you out a bit. And I needed a break. I’m a month ahead on billable hours. I think the whole city of Chicago is getting divorced.” She looks at me. “No offense.”

  I laugh and then—just as quickly—start to cry, half blubbering and half laughing on her shoulder. She hugs me tightly. “Evan would make so much fun of me for doing this,” I say.

  “Never be ashamed to cry,” Trish says. “Men think they’re stronger than women because they don’t. But their inability to confront and deal with their emotions is why they’re ultimately, consistently weaker than we are.”

  I think of Nate. “You’re right,” I mumble into her neck.

  I hold Trish at arm’s length. Though it is only midmorning on a Friday, and I know she left Chicago at dawn to get here, Trish still looks dewy, fresh, hip and pretty in her skinny jeans and cute sweater.

  “Is this what normal looks like?” I ask, staring at her.

  “I’d say human,” she says, giving me a once-over from head to foot.

  “Then this is what inhuman looks like,” I say.

  “Poor thing,” she says. “How’s it going?”

  Before I have a chance to respond, Sonny comes flying down the stairs and hits the wood floor with such velocity that he slides across it and directly into Trish’s legs. “Who do we have here?” she asks.

  After I tell her all about Sonny, she says, “Like you need two major projects to focus on. Oh, Adie Lou. You’ll never change.” Trish crouches on the floor with Sonny, who licks her face all over. “He is a cutie.” She laughs. “So, get me a cup of coffee already.”

  When I start to grab her bag, Trish says, “I have another one just like it in my car.”

  “Excuse me,” I say, “but the inn has yet to open for business. For now, guests carry their own bags.”

  “What if the owner’s clothes are in the guest’s bag?” Trish asks.

  “What?” I ask, my eyes growing wide. “You didn’t?”

  “I did,” she says, “because I’m a giver.” She stops and gives Sonny another kiss. “And because you asked. I brought you an assortment of nicer clothes from your closet, and I maybe even bought you a few new things.”

  I release a whoop! of joy, which causes Sonny to run around and bark, and extend my hand to help Trish off the floor.

  “Not that you will ever have a use for them,” she says, eyeing my current wardrobe. I lift her off the floor.

  “Thank you,” I say, hugging her again.

  “You’re welcome,” she says.

  “For some reason, I packed like I was just going away for a few days,” I say. “I guess I thought I’d be able to run back and forth to Chicago anytime I wanted.” I stop and gesture at myself. “I’ve been a bit overwhelmed, to say the least.”

  “Well, at least you can go out in public now,” she says.

  “Oh, I’ve been going out in public,” I say. “Like this.”

  Trish laughs. “Now, I want to take a look around. But first, coffee. The quad-shot Starbucks just didn’t cut it this morning.”

  I usher Trish into the kitchen and pour her a cup of coffee. The kitchen is a wreck: pizza boxes, ladders and tools stacked everywhere, dishes in the sink, dog food scattered along the baseboards, cardboard covering the floor and outlined with workers’ grimy, muddy footprints.

  “Place is really comin’ along, Adie Lou,” Trish says with a definitive nod.

  I laugh. “It’s a construction zone,” I say.

  “It’s also a meat locker,” she says. “It’s colder than a well-digger’s butt.”

  I laugh again. “Where did you learn that?” I ask.

  “Your father,” she says. “It’s a big Chicago saying.” Trish stops. “Do you have any heat on?”

  I duck my head, my hair falling into my face. “It’s set at fifty-five,” I say. “I’m trying to save money.”

  “You won’t save any money if you have to go to the ER with pneumonia.” Trish lasers her eyes on me, unblinking, but then softens. “I get it. But at least get a fire going so you can keep the cottage warm. The pipes could freeze, Adie Lou. And the heat will rise, so you can just crank up your electric blanket at night.” She glances at my renderings, still scattered across the kitchen counters. “I want to take a look at all your plans and all the work, but I’d like to stop my body from going into hypothermia first.”

  Trish grabs her coffee and heads into the living room. “Hi, Darryl,” she says to the moose. “You haven’t changed. Me either? Why, thank you.” She kneels and looks into the giant fireplace. “
Do you have any dry kindling and firewood stacked in the garage?”

  “Yes,” I say. “But can you believe I haven’t even lit a fire here yet? It didn’t even occur to me. I’ve been living in a deep freeze and obsessing about the cost of heating this place. I’m here...” I stop. “And yet not here.”

  Trish stands and walks over to me. “First thing you need to remember is to be present,” she says. “Isn’t that what they say in that yoga class you used to take me to? The one you dreamed of teaching one day. Be present and mindful.” Trish puts a hand on my shoulder. “Be in the moment.”

  “Okay.” I nod. “Thank you.”

  Trish nabs the old log carrier my parents always kept by the fire and heads toward the garage attached to the kitchen. I grab an armload of twigs, and Trish fills the carrier with firewood.

  “You need to clean the garage out,” Trish yells over. “Actually use it for your car rather than storage.”

  “Haven’t had time,” I call back. “And I plan on using some of that stuff in the rooms.”

  Trish returns carrying the logs, her body tilted dramatically to one side like an off-kilter pendulum. “How are those sticks coming along?”

  I arrange the sticks in an artful pile in the monstrous fireplace grate and then show Trish my hair, locating a piece of blue paint and pulling it free.

  “You look like a Smurf in Witness Protection,” Trish says.

  “I feel like a Smurf in Witness Protection.”

  I grab some newspapers from the kitchen, roll some pages into little balls and place them under the grate. I pull a fireplace lighter from a drawer in the built-in—my father always kept a reserve of lighters on the ready for fires, sparklers, rules readings—and give it a few clicks until it comes to life. I light the papers, and Trish and I wait for the sticks to catch fire.

  The flames lick the sticks, sputter and go out. I try again to the same result.

  “Screw this,” Trish suddenly says, opening every cabinet below the bookshelves. “Aha! I knew it. Voilà!” I move closer and see a box of Duraflame logs.

  Trish pulls one from the box, nestles it atop the twigs until it is sitting flat and then puts the lighter to it. The Duraflame lights immediately.

  “Easy peasy,” Trish says, setting two small logs atop the Duraflame.

  The logs catch quickly and, within moments, the fireplace is aglow. Trish grabs her coffee and a camp blanket draped over the couch, slumps into a high-back chair and sighs. She sips her coffee, stares into the fire and says, “I know you’ve been going through a lot, Adie Lou, but I wanted to tell you I was wrong. My life is good, but it’s in neutral. What I’m doing now will be no different than what I’m doing in ten years.” She looks at me. “I admire you. You’re taking risks. You’re doing what you dreamed.” Trish begins to sing, “That girl is on fire.”

  I laugh. “Thank you, Alicia Off-Keys.”

  “Fire,” she says again.

  “I got it the first time,” I say. But when I look at Trish this time, her eyes are wide. She leaps out of her chair, the blanket flying. “No! Really! You’re on fire!”

  “What?” I ask, before turning to follow her gaze.

  Smoke, thick and heavy, is billowing out of the fireplace and into the cottage. I take a step back, grab a book off the shelf and begin waving it back and forth to clear the air. “Open a window!” I yell at Trish.

  The smoke dissipates enough for me to catch a glimpse of the entire fireplace opening. Fire is shooting up the chimney.

  “The flue’s on fire!” I yell, grabbing Sonny. “Call 911”

  Frank rushes through the patio door and into the kitchen. “What’s going on?” he asks. He sees the fire. “We need to suffocate it,” he says, immediately shutting the flue. “Do you have baking soda?”

  “In my toothpaste,” I say unhelpfully.

  Frank rolls his eyes, grabs the log carrier and runs out the door. He is back a few seconds later, huffing and puffing, the carrier filled with sand. He tosses it on the fire, and it goes out, just as I hear the sirens of firetrucks.

  I run outside with Trish just as two men run up my yard. I expect to see the cottage engulfed in flames, but there is no fire shooting from the top of the chimney.

  “We got the flue shut and fire out,” Frank calls to the men.

  The two men hurriedly put up a ladder as another truck arrives, and men surround the house.

  “Why aren’t they using a hose?” I ask Frank.

  “They’re going to use a chimney kit,” Frank says. “It’s a dry chemical extinguishing powder.”

  “Adie Lou, are you okay?”

  I turn. “Scooter?” I ask. “What are you doing here?”

  “Small town,” he says. “I’m a volunteer fireman. What happened?”

  “Chimney fire, out of nowhere.”

  “When was the last time you had the flue inspected?” he asks. “You probably have an insane buildup of creosote.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “No clue.”

  “I know a great flue guy,” Scooter says. “I’ll have him stop by.”

  “Sounds romantic,” I say. Scooter laughs as a fireman gives a thumbs-up and yells, “All okay!”

  I will myself not to cry by petting Sonny. Trish stands behind Scooter and catches my eye. Who’s this? she mouths. So cute!

  Scooter turns as if he can hear her. “Hi,” he says. “Scott Stevens. Although Adie Lou calls me Scooter.”

  “Hi, I’m Trish, Adie Lou’s dearest friend who’s never mentioned you to me her entire life,” she says. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Scooter nods. “It’s nice to meet you, too,” he says, turning back to me. “If you need any extra help here, Adie Lou, let me know. I’d be happy to lend a hand.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’m doing okay right now.”

  “Really?” Trish asks loudly, motioning to the chaos around her with both arms.

  “Well, I’m around,” Scooter says. “And I’ll let you know after I take a look at your boat.”

  “Thanks,” I say, “for everything.”

  “Bye, Adie Lou,” Scooter says. “Bye, Trish.”

  After the fire department is gone and Frank returns to the fish house, Trish and I grab the remaining luggage and then clean up the fireplace. We look up at each other and burst into laughter. “You look just like Mary Poppins!” we say at the same time. Trish takes a seat on the floor, already looking exhausted, light-years away from the way she appeared just a couple of hours ago. I know she now understands all I’ve been going through.

  “Aren’t you glad you came?” I ask.

  Trish says, “Yes,” while shaking her head no.

  “Is it too early for lunch?” I ask.

  “Yes, but it’s not too early for a drink,” Trish replies. “Is there a place around here?”

  “It may be winter, but it’s still a resort town,” I say, “which means there’s always an open bar somewhere.”

  We wash our faces, put on some makeup and change. I wear a pretty turtleneck, jeans and a pink leather jacket Trish bought for me. I put an exhausted Sonny in his crate in the bedroom, and he falls immediately asleep after a morning of unexpected excitement.

  Trish stops to grab her coat on the way out the door and notices the Cottage Rules sign.

  “I forgot about this,” she says. “Your parents used to make everyone say it before they could come in the cottage, right? They lit those sparklers. It was so cute.”

  I smile.

  Trish points her finger at Rule #5—Build a Bonfire—and cocks her head at me. “I think you already checked this one off the list for the day.”

  FIFTEEN

  “You ladies want another round?”

  “Yes,” Trish and I respond at the same time, before bursting into laughter.

  We are sitt
ing at a small table at Bobber’s, a dive bar that sits at the end of the dock overlooking the harbor. In the summer, the scene is majestic: the sun on the water, the town in the near distance, boats zipping by. Bands play on the dock, boats tie up and order drinks, people dance and jump into the lake and, at sunset, howl at the moon.

  In the winter, people sit in the dark and drink. The lake resembles a frozen pond, and the wind rattles the tiny bar as if it were made of papier-mâché.

  It is early afternoon, clouds are rolling in over the lake, and it is nearly pitch-black.

  A waitress I know only as Doris, who has been working at Bobber’s since I was a teenager, brings us two more glasses of white wine. Along with her not-so-customery customer service, Doris is known for her eyebrows, which resemble caterpillars, and the shocking color of her hair.

  “Her hair is dyed steakhouse hostess black,” my dad used to say.

  “Want me to add a little ketchup to your white wine so you can call it rosé?” Doris asks with a twinkle in her eye, refusing to give up her incredulity after we’d initially ordered our afternoon pink drink of choice. She’d laughed so hard at us at first that she lapsed into a coughing jag that could only be fixed by heading outside into the cold to smoke a cigarette. When she returned, Doris was none too happy when we opted for white wine rather than vodka or whiskey.

  “We’re good,” Trish says.

  “Don’t get too carried away,” Doris says, rolling her eyes.

  “She’s a treat,” Trish says as Doris walks away. “Real warm and fuzzy.”

  Saugatuck memorabilia fills Bobber’s, every square inch of wall space covered. Pennants and fishing gear dangle from the old wooden rafters, and vintage bar signs fill the space. A sign over Trish’s head reads, “There’s One in Every Bar,” and features a jackass ordering a drink. A plaque over my head states, “If You Sprinkle When You Tinkle, Be a Sweetie and Wipe the Seatie.”

  “Cheers,” I say, lifting my glass. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Back atcha,” Trish says. She takes a sip of her wine and makes a face—it’s not the expensive bottles she’s used to drinking. In fact, it’s not even as good as the green beer we drank in college. She looks at me closely. “I feel the same way you did when you refused to sign the papers at RL.”