The Summer Cottage

by Viola Shipman

  I cock my head at her and take a sip of wine. “What do you mean?”

  “Guilty,” she says. “Not truly understanding or sympathetic with all you’re going through. This is a lot of change in your life, Adie Lou. This is a lot of stress.” She stops. “I don’t think I could handle everything you’re dealing with. I’m too used to my life the way it is.”

  “Thank you,” I say, “but I don’t feel like I’m handling things very well.”

  “You are,” Trish says, her voice filled with pride. “You’re going to pull this off, you know. Your inn is going to be a huge success. I can feel it. Do you know what you’re going to name it yet? Or are you going to be like those new age parents who need to see their baby born first before they can put a name to its being.”

  I pull out my phone. “Hold on,” I say, as I watch the site on my phone fail to load. “One bar.” I take a sip of wine as the page finally loads. “Voilà!”

  I hold out my cell, which features a template of what will eventually be the home page for my inn.

  “‘The Summer Cottage,’” Trish reads. “‘Where the Only Rule Is to Leave Your Troubles at the Door.’” She looks at me, a huge smile on her face. “This is beautiful. It’s so...you.”

  “Every room is going to be themed around one of my family’s summer cottage rules,” I say excitedly, my voice rising, before launching into my ideas about women’s empowerment weekends.

  “I think you’re onto something, Adie Lou,” Trish says, her voice matching my excitement. “I mean, I know your inn will be gorgeous, and you’ll make it warm and inviting, but I meet so many women who have given their whole lives—their entire hearts and souls—to others, from husbands and jobs to raising children and caring for aging parents. And too many end up at our age without ever really knowing who we are or what makes us happy. Society too often treats mature women as though we have an expiration date. I see so many of my clients end up in therapy to try and deal with an end result they often didn’t create, and they seek help because they feel as if they’re wrong.” Trish takes a sip of wine, her eyes darting around the bar. “But what they really need is empowerment. What they need is a sense of self. What they need is nurturing. What they need is hope.”

  My heart races with her words of encouragement.

  “What if I were to recommend clients who might need a week of empowerment? And asked some of my attorney friends to do the same?” Trish asks in a rush.

  “Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

  “No,” Trish says. “To be honest, once the papers are signed, I usually stay in touch with my clients because they are often lost. You could be onto a bigger idea than you think.”

  For a moment, I forget about the chimney fire, the insane amount of work I have left to do, the Dragoon Lady, my diminishing savings account and let myself feel unabashedly excited.

  “You ladies need another round?”

  I hear a gravelly voice and think it’s Doris again, but when I look up a man in full-on Duck Dynasty camouflage who looks as if he’s been drinking for days is standing at our table.

  “No, thank you,” Trish says, lifting her glass. “Still good.”

  Trish and I resume our conversation, trying to ignore the man, whose beard is nearly touching the table.

  “What are you drinking?”

  “White wine,” I say. Trish kicks me under the table.

  “White wine!” the man bellows toward the bar, before suddenly taking a seat next to me, his legs now pressing against mine. “Name’s Jerry. Friends call me Buck, ’cause I get one ever’ time I hunt. See my buddy over there at the bar? We got two bucks this mornin’. Celebratin’ ’cause we’ll be eatin’ some good venison.”

  “That’s great, Jerry,” Trish starts.

  “Buck,” he interrupts.

  “Buck,” Trish continues with a faux smile. “But my friend and I haven’t seen each other in a while, and we’d like to catch up.” She smiles even bigger. “Thank you for understanding.”

  “I would think two women sitting alone together drinking in a bar on a weekday afternoon want some companionship,” Buck continues, nudging me over in the booth with his behind. “Rude not to accept a drink.” He motions with his hand for his friend to join. When he just sits down by Trish, she takes her wine and dumps it in his lap.

  “Oh, my gosh,” Trish says, a shocked look on her face. “I didn’t see you there. You’re camouflaged.”

  I bust out in laughter, spewing wine across the table.

  Buck stands, nearly knocking over the table. “You ladies got a problem?” he says.

  Trish stands. “I do,” she says. “When I say we don’t want to be bothered, I mean it.”

  “That’s why you two are alone,” Buck says, slamming his fist on the table. “You’re as cold and icy as the weather. You don’t like men.”

  “No,” I say. “You don’t like women.” I stop and turn to him until his beard is brushing my body. “And I do like men. I just prefer them with teeth and a respect for women.”

  Buck mutters an expletive under his breath at me, and I follow Trish’s lead: I toss my wine into his lap.

  Both men turn and stomp out of Bobber’s.

  Trish and I look at each other, a stunned look on our faces, the reality of what just transpired settling in. Before we can utter a word, Doris totters over and says, “You ladies okay?”

  We nod.

  “Sorry about all that, but you handled those rednecks better than anyone else ever has,” she says. “Drinks on me!” She quickly returns with two shots of whiskey. “But if I’m payin’, you’re drinkin’ somethin’ I pick. Strong liquor for strong women. Cheers!”

  Trish and I clink our tumblers and down our shots, before wandering over to the jukebox.

  “Got a quarter?” I ask Trish. She fumbles in her pocket and hands me one.

  “G-24,” I say, as the quarter jostles around and the music starts. “‘This One’s for the Girls’ by Martina McBride,” I whoop, the whiskey warming my blood and making the lights in the bar even brighter.

  Trish grabs me, and we dance across the bar floor, acting as if we’re wearing boots and cowboy hats, acting as if we’re as young as the day and don’t have a care in the world.

  SIXTEEN

  “We love you!”

  Trish is blowing kisses at the driver of the Saugatuck Shuttle, a service that transports the elderly and the drunk around town for a dollar. Neither of us had two dollars combined—after inserting our dollars and spare change into the jukebox—so the young woman driving the shuttle let us ride for free thinking, I’m sure, from the way we’re acting and dressed that we’re resorters just blowing off steam on a week off from work. When she stops on Lakeshore Drive in front of the cottage, however, she does a double take.

  “Thank you!” Trish yells.

  “Sssshhhh!” I say, pulling out my cell and clicking on the flashlight. “It’s only 6 p.m.” I can see the Dragoon Lady fielding calls from unhappy neighbors, smiling, licking her lips and drinking sherry like a cartoonish Batman villain.

  “Sorry,” Trish yells, her finger over her lips, thinking she’s being quiet.

  We stumble up the steep steps, holding on to one another. “I haven’t been this drunk this early since college,” I say.

  “I haven’t been drunk this early since my firm’s holiday party,” Trish say. “It’s like the Walk of the Dead. But way less fun.”

  We laugh, our voices booming in the cold, quiet, winter’s night. I head directly upstairs to take Sonny outside, while Trish rushes to the bathroom.

  “We have the same idea!” she yells to Sonny.

  When I return, Trish is opening another bottle of wine.

  “You think that’s a good idea?” I ask.

  Trish looks around the demolished kitchen. “Think this is a good idea?�
� she asks.

  “Open it,” I say, filling Sonny’s bowl. “I need to have fun!”

  “I need to have some food,” Trish says. “The bowl of peanuts didn’t really soak up the two bottles of wine. What do you want to do for dinner?”

  “Hold on,” I say, picking up my phone and nodding to the pizza boxes on the floor. “I have them on speed dial.”

  “Want a fire?” Trish says, her voice filled with sarcasm. She heads into the living room, slumps into a chair and takes a healthy sip of wine. “What a day.”

  “I’ve had a lot of crazy days since I’ve been here,” I say. Although I told her about my arrival experience, the Dragoon Lady, the skyrocketing renovation budget, the backbreaking work, and all the uncertainty at the bar, I suddenly rush upstairs yelling, “I can’t believe I forgot to show you this.”

  I return with Sadie’s letter from the time capsule.

  Trish reads the letter, her eyes softening as she does. “This is so beautiful and heartbreaking,” she says. “We feel as if we’ve come so far as women, but so many things have remained the same in society.”

  Trish stares into the empty fireplace for a second, then suddenly stands and walks over to the Cottage Rules sign. She points at Rule #5. “Fire!” she says, her voice booming off the beams and vibrating throughout the cottage. “Build a bonfire!”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “We need to build a bonfire, a ceremonial one,” Trish says, her eyes fixed and unblinking, gesturing confidently as if she’s in court trying to convince a judge. “This place needs to be smudged.”

  “I already tried that,” I say, taking a sip of wine, Sonny curled up on a blanket by my feet. “Didn’t work.”

  “What happened?”

  “Wind blew it out on the front porch,” I say. “I think that’s telling.”

  “See!” Trish cries, causing Sonny to sit up and tilt his head. “Bad juju!”

  “This cottage doesn’t have bad juju,” I say. “It’s always been filled with love.”

  Trish walks over and pats my head like I’m Sonny. “It has been,” she says, “but not the past few years. Your divorce, the loss of your parents, the renovations, the Preservation Committee, the budget...” She stops and looks around. “It’s filled with ghosts. And we need to show them the door. Now, where’s your smudge stick? I know my new age girl has one somewhere.”

  I stand and return a few seconds later with my smudge stick of sage, an abalone shell and a feather.

  “Atta girl,” Trish says. “Now, where are your essential oils?”

  I dash upstairs and return with my kit.

  “I think we need to add some of those to the sage,” Trish says, “to really do the trick.”

  “When did you get into all of this?” I ask, setting my kit down on an end table. “I thought you were too logical for oils and smudging.”

  “You taught me well,” Trish says. “I can’t sleep without lavender in my diffuser, and I haven’t been sick in a year since I started dabbing tea tree on my nostrils every day.” She stops and looks at my case. “That said, my collection of oils isn’t as big as yours. You win.”

  “Nate used to call all of this BS,” I say, opening my kit filled with small bottles of oils. “He thought it was nonsense.”

  “And that’s why you’re onto something here,” Trish says. “Women are sick and tired of being told by men what’s appropriate or logical. I mean, they’ve had control of everything for a long time, and how’s that worked out?”

  I laugh and look through my oils.

  “Okay,” I start, pulling out my alphabetized oils to read their labels. “How about a little allspice to strengthen our will and determination in gaining our objectives? A touch of amber to protect us from ill will and bad luck. Some balsam fir to break up negative conditions. A little bergamot for success and money, and some camphor for harmony.” I continue my search. “Chamomile attracts good luck and money, and—Oh!—champa will bring balance and clarity and help create a calming and sacred atmosphere.” I laugh. “How about some cinnamon orange to enhance success, love and lust.”

  “That never hurts,” Trish says.

  “Geranium rose will break all hexes and is perfect for blessing new businesses,” I continue. “Lavender—your favorite, Trish—brings tranquility and peace at home, and I’ll also add a little violet for peace and calm and to protect against evil. It changes luck!”

  “I think the sage is too wet to catch fire now,” Trish laughs. “Okay, what do we do now?”

  I grab a lighter and hold it to the sage. After a few tries, it begins to smoke. I use the feather to waft smoke over our bodies. “I’m shocked we didn’t burst into flames considering all the liquor in us.”

  Trish coughs dramatically as smoke wafts around her face, making her resemble an apparition. “I think a bad spirit already escaped from my body,” she says. “I think I need a drink.” She grabs her wine and begins to walk.

  “No,” I say. “We have to walk around the cottage counterclockwise. And chant.”

  I begin to walk toward the living room, and Trish puts a hand on my shoulder.

  “Air, fire, water, earth,” I chant. “Cleanse, dismiss, dispel.”

  After a few times, Trish catches on and chants with me in between sips of wine. We make our way around the first floor—Sonny in tow—before moving to the second, then the renovations in the attic and, finally, the turret.

  “What about the fish house?” Trish asks. “Where you found the time capsule.”

  We head outside and into the fish house. When I enter, the sage bursts into flame.

  “I’m freaking out,” Trish says. “Why did it do that?”

  “It’s working,” I say. “A lot of history—good and bad—in here.”

  As we walk, the sage calms and begins to smolder.

  Take that, Dragoon Lady, I think.

  We head back into the kitchen, and I extinguish the sage.

  “We’re not done yet,” Trish says. “It’s time for my part.”

  I cock my head like Sonny does.

  “I told you that you need to purge,” she says. “We’re having a bonfire.”

  “It’s too cold,” I say. “Ground is too wet.”

  “No, it isn’t,” she says. “Your dad still has that firepit just off the patio. Let’s use it one last time before you cover it in concrete. And we have lots of Duraflame logs. I’ll clean the snow out of it and grab some sticks. You pull things from the cottage with bad energy that need to be burned, or items you need to purge.”

  I look at Trish, but she just stares at me, unblinking. I crack immediately. “Okay,” I say.

  “Good,” she says, taking a slug of wine before grabbing her coat.

  I jog upstairs—every light is on after our smudging ceremony—and head directly to the bedroom that Nate and I used to share. I haven’t been able to sleep in here since I returned. I look around the room, memories flooding my mind.

  I can’t sleep, Nate used to say. It’s too quiet. He would plug in a white noise machine that would mimic the sounds of crickets or lapping waves.

  Open a window, I would say. You can hear the same thing for real.

  I walk over to Nate’s side of the bed, always farthest away from the door, a preferred placement that always irked me. I open the nightstand and inside is the little white noise machine he loved. I tuck it in the crook of my arm and move to the closet.

  A few of his clothes remain. I don’t know why he left them.

  Perhaps, they contained bad memories for him, too.

  There are some old jeans, a few flannel shirts, some sweaters stacked on the shelf above the rack. I begin to rifle through the hanging clothes, and my heart stops: Nate’s beloved YALE sweatshirt.

  The ironic thing is, Nate didn’t attend Yale. He receive
d his bachelor’s, master’s and PhD from two other top private colleges and universities. But I can still remember the Saturday morning that he walked into our kitchen in Chicago wearing this sweatshirt. I thought he was playing a joke on me, or was giving it to a colleague, but he wore it to coffee and began to wear it regularly on weekends when we’d head out for coffee, brunch or an afternoon glass of wine. My dad ribbed Nate when he wore it to Saugatuck the first time, but that didn’t deter Nate: he wore it to the local coffeehouse, and I realized he loved the attention he received by wearing it, the stolen glances and admiring whispers, the silent adoration from total strangers.

  I yank the sweatshirt off the hanger, which spins in a circle, jangling loudly.

  I walk out of the bedroom and into the room I’ve been using. There, on the dresser, is the letter from the Dragoon Lady. I grab it and begin to head outside but stop and head to another bedroom. I stick my head inside the room and see a piece of the old wood floor from the closet that is being turned into a bathroom. Next to it is a wallpaper sample I am considering, one of Michigan lighthouses.

  Something old, something new, I think. I grab both and finally head downstairs.

  When I step onto the patio, I see a huge fire. Trish hasn’t just started a bonfire, she’s started an inferno.

  “I don’t want the fire department back again today,” I say.

  “Settle down, Adie Lou. I’ve got it under control. This is a ceremonial cleansing bonfire, so it has to be rip-roaring.”

  Trish’s face is red, and the fire makes her look almost tribal.

  “What did you gather?” she asks, finishing her glass of wine. Her words are now a bit slurry, and it sounds as if she just said, Whadjougrabber?

  I show her, and she tells me to take a seat in one of the two iron chairs she’s pulled in front of the fire.

  “Just speak from the heart and tell me what these represent and why you need to let them go,” Trish says. “When you are ready, say ‘I release you. I am done.’”