I hadn’t received a bonus.
“Do you mind if I ask how much you make?” I asked, knowing he likely wouldn’t remember the conversation in the morning. When he happily blurted a figure that was roughly 30 percent higher than mine, I left the party in a rage and arranged a meeting with my boss the first day back in the offices.
“But you have a family. Your husband makes a wonderful living,” he told me, as if that were a rational explanation.
When I demanded equal pay, my boss offered a 3 percent increase and said he’d “try” to catch up my pay. He never did. And my coworker was promoted ahead of me, time and time again.
I stare at the ribbon of water sparkling like tumbling diamonds. My mom loved this little stream, the way it appeared out of nowhere and meandered through the woods, down the dune and into the big lake.
“That’s the difference you can make in this world,” she would always tell me. “The big lake wouldn’t be grand without all of the tributaries that feed it. Sometimes, you don’t know the difference you make when you’re going it alone.”
I understood what she meant but regret not asking her more stories about her life. I regret not quitting my job when I was given a small raise, for not going to HR, for not doing anything but silently accepting this is the way the world works for women.
Don’t live with regret, I can hear my mother saying to me.
Decaying leaves and pieces of white birch bark float quickly down the little stream like boats, and as the sun angles more, I can see directly to the bottom. Sand, rocks and colorful stones compose the creek bed. Sandy soil is the hallmark of west Michigan’s ground. When my mom would garden, each shovelful of earth was half soil, half sand. And nearly every shovel turn would unearth a rock or stone that had been deposited at some point over the years from the shoreline.
I smile. Besides gardening, my mom’s passion was collecting rocks and stones from Lake Michigan’s shoreline. I grab a cup of coffee and pull a coat on over my robe as I head out the front door and onto the screened porch. I set my coffee onto an old log my parents used as an end table and yank down the plastic sheets I still have hanging over the screens. A cold breeze ruffles the screens, and they seem to sigh in happiness at their newfound freedom. I grab my coffee and take a seat on the barn-red glider.
“Hello!” I say into the morning air as the cold of the glider makes its way through my coat, robe and pajamas. “Still March in Michigan.”
I take a sip of coffee and exhale, just as the screens had done. My breath stops in front of my face, freeze-framed for just a moment, then—poof!—it’s gone.
The lakeshore is silent this morning, muffled by the snow that remains. But the cold air makes any noise sound even louder, from the chirp of the cardinals to the squirrels foraging on frozen ground. The lake is already beginning to unfreeze, and a ring of blue-green rims the shoreline, where the melting ice has turned the water the color of the Caribbean. From my vantage point, I can see the arc of the lakeshore as far as the eye can see, beyond South Haven.
“You are so beautiful,” I say aloud, my breath hovering in white clouds. I watch it slowly dissipate, and my gaze becomes focused on the immediate: the rocks and stones my mom and I gathered over the decades line the wooden ledges of the screened porch. There are hundreds of rocks, and beyond the dust and cobwebs that have accumulated, I can see each stone’s beauty. I can remember the exact moment when and the exact reason why we selected each rock.
We collected the beach glass in 7-Up greens, root beer brown and elusive blue because of its frosty beauty and the hunt itself. It took hours of beachcombing to find a few fragments.
We gathered small, round chunks of granite that we called “bird eggs” because of their shape and beautiful, bright speckled colors.
Leland blues and Petoskey stones—fossilized coral, deposited in Michigan by glaciers, that is the state stone—were collected on our girls’ trips to northern Michigan. A rare trip to Lake Superior one summer resulted in endless agates, made up of quartz, reddened by iron and deposited in layers to create concentric circles resembling rings inside a tree in colors straight from a sunset.
My mom and I collected any stone shaped like a heart because of its symbolism.
And we would rush to the beach after every summer thunderstorm hoping to find fulgurite, petrified lightning that is formed when lightning strikes the sand and fuses its grains together.
But my favorites were always lightning stones, brown rocks crisscrossed and embedded with white lines and deposits, as if they had been struck by lightning.
“Septarian stones,” my mom would always correct me when I’d use their nickname.
Lightning stones seemed magical to me as a little girl, especially after my mom told me how rare they were. “These stones aren’t found often in the world, Adie Lou, only here and in India,” my mom told me one day as we slowly walked the shoreline. “That’s why many locals believe the area just south of where we live is called Ganges. There’s something magical in the water, like the Ganges in India.”
That sparked my eventual interest in the healing properties of essential oils, and how nature itself can make you whole and healthy.
I stand—the glider rocking—pick up a lightning stone and blow the dust off it, tiny motes filling the air. I grab my coffee, my head spinning, and head toward the upstairs bedroom I want to name Go Rock Hunting.
“Hey, Frank,” I yell from the upstairs window when he and his crew arrive.
“What if—instead of wallpaper—I actually do a wall in here of my family’s lake stones?” I ask when he appears. “Wouldn’t it be beautiful?”
Frank nods but remains silent.
“And what if we covered the shower floor in smooth pieces of beach glass,” I continue, “and do the same to an outdoor shower, so guests can wash the sand off their feet before they come inside?”
“Great ideas, Adie Lou,” Frank says gingerly, as if he’s trying to talk his daughter out of having another piece of chocolate on Halloween. “But that’s more money, you know.”
I see dollar signs floating out the door, but then think of Trish. Just do it right the first time, I hear her say.
“Let’s do it,” I say.
Frank nods. “It will be beautiful,” he says. “Guests will be lucky to stay here.”
When he leaves, I jot down in my notes to add a guide to collecting Lake Michigan rocks and stones to this room, and as I am typing on my cell, a number I don’t recognize appears.
“Hello?”
“Adie Lou? It’s Scott Stevens.” There is a pause. “Scooter.”
“Oh, hi,” I say. “Up early, like me.”
“Entrepreneurs,” he says. “Listen, I was able to get your boat over here and take a look at it. Would you have time to stop by today?”
“That sounds ominous,” I say.
“Actually, it’s good news,” he says. “I thought you could use some. But there is something I’d like you to see.”
“How about right after lunch? I need to start painting. Rooms, that is. Not artwork.”
“There will be time for that one day,” he says. “See you after lunch.”
I hang up and look at the lightning stone sitting on the floor. It took years to achieve its current state of beauty. It is streaked with history. It is hard on the outside, filled with a lifetime of deposits on the inside.
I pick it up and run my hands over it.
A lot like me, I think.
NINETEEN
“There she is.”
Scooter ushers me into the cavernous boat repair workroom of S.S. Boat Works. I gasp.
“Is she dead?” I ask.
“No,” Scooter says with a laugh. “She’s very much alive and kicking.”
Upon first glance, the Adie Lou looks as if she’s passed away and floating in the air, like a figur
e in a religious painting. The sun is shining directly into the repair room, and rays of light are splaying around the boat.
“I feel like I should kneel,” I say.
“Perhaps,” Scooter jokes. “Our work often makes boat owners genuflect.”
The Adie Lou is on a hoist in the middle of the room, workers underneath. I turn and look at Scooter. “I thought you said you had good news,” I say. “This looks like it’s going to cost me a lot of money that I don’t have.”
“That’s a fine thank-you,” Scooter says, walking toward my Chris-Craft. “Your dad took incredible care of this boat. Probably treated it better than he did his own body.”
I nod. “He loved this boat.”
“It shows,” Scooter says. “The hull needed a little love—got some nicks on it in storage I think—and I’d like to give it a new finish varnish.”
“It’s pretty shiny as it is,” I start to say, running numbers in my head.
“No charge,” Scooter says. “On me.”
“No,” I say. “No.”
“I insist.”
“I don’t like owing people,” I say, my voice rising.
I think of Nate and Sadie and of men calling the shots.
Scooter raises his hands as if he’s being taken hostage. “Okay, okay,” he says. “I was just trying to help. Isn’t that what friends do?”
Is it? I think.
My mind races to behind-the-scenes deals by so-called friends at my former company that were made at my expense. I think of all the hours I worked to help pay off my “best friend” Nate’s enormous student loan debts. I think of the neighbors in my former tony small town who offered to get me into country clubs, or Evan into the right prep school if...if...if...
And then I think of my friend Scooter, who defended the city girl in the small town again and again.
“I’m sorry,” I finally say. “Thank you.” I search for more words. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he says. “I just want the Adie Lou to be in tip-top shape for your first summer.” Scooter stops. “You know, if you’re busy and need a captain for sunset cruises, I’m available.”
“Thank you,” I say yet again. “But I’m trying to be as frugal as I can budget-wise. I’ll be doing most of the cooking, cleaning, captaining...”
“I wasn’t planning on charging you, Adie Lou,” Scooter says. “Thought you’d need a break.” He looks around his warehouse. “Running your own business is exhausting. You work nonstop, partly because you love what you do but partly because you have to. Its success is completely on your own shoulders.” He stops and looks at me. “I, at least, get a Sunday off. You won’t, Adie Lou. Running an inn is 24/7. You will need a break, or you’ll break.”
The weight of what he says finally hits me, and I suddenly feel exhausted and overwhelmed. My knees buckle, and Scooter grabs me.
“Whoa, there. Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I say, shaking my head and taking a deep breath. “Just tired.”
“Let’s get you to my office so you can rest and get a drink of water,” he says. “I have something I want to show you, too.”
Scooter gets me seated in his office and hands me a bottle of water. I can feel the color come back to my face.
“Feeling better?” Scooter asks. I nod. “I told you people tend to genuflect around my work.”
“Ha ha,” I say without a smile. “You’re right. I’m too stubborn. I will need a break. Thank you for offering to lend a hand, especially with your hands full here. It means...” My voice breaks, and my cheeks redden. “The world.” I look at Scooter. “Sometimes, I feel like this new life I’m trying to build is sitting atop quicksand.” I stop, searching for the right words. “It’s just so rocky starting over.” I stop again. “Quicksand. Rocky. Totally incongruous analogies.”
Scooter smiles. “Actually, that’s the perfect segue.”
“For?”
“For this,” he says, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a Tupperware container of rocks. “I found these under one of the front seats.” He walks around his desk and hands me the rocks.
“Oh, Scooter,” I breathe. “These were from my last boat trip with my mom and dad.” I rifle through the rocks, admiring each one. “My dad anchored near Oval Beach on a beautiful summer day. School had started for both Nate and Evan, but I had so many unused vacation days and saw how gorgeous it was going to be in Saugatuck. I swam around the shoreline all day, while my mom and dad sipped on glasses of rosé, and picked out rocks.” I hold one up that is shaped like a heart, and my eyes fill with tears. “I remember screaming when I found this one. I crawled out of the water and handed it to my parents. I said, ‘Your love will live forever here.’ They toasted, and we sat in the boat watching people walking the beach. It was one of those perfect summer days where, from the boat, the beach looked draped in gauze.”
I run my hands over the smooth stone shaped like a heart. “Thank you,” I say. “For finding these. For doing all the work. For offering to captain.” I stop. “For everything.”
“You’re welcome,” he says in a husky breath. “But I’m not done. I found something else.” Scooter returns to his desk and pulls something from it, which he quickly hides behind his back. He walks over to me and says, “Shut your eyes.”
“This is getting weird now,” I laugh.
“Shut your eyes,” he repeats, before adding with a laugh, “and shut up for a second.”
I shut my eyes, and I can feel something being placed around my neck. When I open my eyes, a stone necklace is draped over my sweater.
“Remember?” Scooter asks.
I lift the necklace. A series of small adder stones—little gray ones with naturally occurring holes in them—surround a little lightning stone, perfectly smooth and round, crossed with white lines, that has been wired onto a thin leather band.
I look at Scooter, my eyes wide. “You made this for me,” I say. “You gave it to me the last day we worked together on the chain ferry. I forgot all about this.”
“Obviously,” Scooter says. He means to say it jokingly, offhandedly, but it comes across in a more serious tone.
“I must have taken it off before I went swimming one day and just left it on the boat,” I say.
“A long time ago,” he adds.
I study the necklace and stones. “I never asked, but when—how—did you do this?”
“Every time we finished work and would run down Mt. Baldhead to Lake Michigan to go swimming, you’d go rock hunting,” he says. “If there were a stone you put back down, or dropped, or said wasn’t big enough, I picked it up.” Scooter stops and shuts his eyes as if remembering, a huge smile lighting his face. “I thought you should take a piece of Saugatuck—of us—to college with you.”
My heart leaps. I don’t remember Scooter being this thoughtful before. Or was I just not paying attention? Was I too young and self-involved to see... I dismiss the thought that is forming.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. “Can I keep it?”
“Of course. I made it for you.”
Scooter looks at me for a beat too long, running his hands through his silver hair, and I can again feel my knees get a bit weak.
“It will ground me,” I say. “I need that right now.”
“I’m glad,” he says. Scooter kicks at his office tile with the toe of his boot and dips his head. “Listen,” he starts, his eyes on the ground like a little boy in class. “I was thinking...you know, maybe...we could...you know...”
The confident quarterback—the one who everyone said never got happy feet on the field—is really kinda cute when he’s nervous, I think, stifling a smile.
“Well...” he continues, still kicking at the floor. “Maybe we could go for a walk sometime, grab dinner?”
Is he asking me out? As a friend? Or on a date?
>
“I’d love that,” I say, still unsure. “Let me know a time that works.”
“Tonight,” he says as though he’s about to explode. “Does that work?”
He really is nervous, I think.
I think of my afternoon. I think of the fact I have no food in the cottage. I think of how much I don’t want pizza again. Maybe ever again in my life.
“Sure,” I say.
“I’ll drop by your cottage around four,” he says.
“Four? Is there an early bird special somewhere?”
He smiles. “I was thinking we could go for a quick walk on the beach before dinner, before it gets dark,” Scooter says.
“It’s awfully cold,” I say.
“Won’t get much warmer or clearer than this, I guarantee,” he says. “And the snowmelt is a boon for rock hounds. The melting ice and rushing water usually uncovers lots of beautiful stones that get buried under sand during the summer months. And the water is so clear right now. It’s sort of a perfect storm.”
“Am I a rock hound?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “You can’t be a rock lobster in these parts.”
I laugh. “We played a lot of B-52s when we didn’t have riders on the chain ferry, didn’t we?”
“We thought we were so punk,” Scooter says, his voice wistful. “But really, we were just kids.” He stops and kicks at the floor again before looking at me, his eyes sad. “We were just kids.”
The emotion of his words moves me. I nod in silence.
“See you at four?” he asks.
I nod again and stand, unconsciously touching the stones around my neck.
“The necklace looks beautiful on you, Adie Lou,” Scooter says as I leave.
I pass by the Adie Lou floating in midair, and I suddenly feel as light as she does.
TWENTY
As if led by divine intervention, I steer my car toward the local library. It feels as if it’s on autopilot.
I haven’t been to the Saugatuck-Douglas library since I was a girl. The little library sits in the midst of downtown Douglas, Saugatuck’s neighboring town, in an adorable white clapboard building that looks like a dollhouse come to life. My mom often volunteered at the library, and I spent countless hours here as a little girl on rainy days.
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