The Summer Cottage

by Viola Shipman

  “And who’s this?” Evan says.

  “Didn’t I mention Sonny?” I ask innocently. “I found him. Someone abandoned him on Lakeshore Drive.”

  “Mom,” Evan starts, sounding a lot like me when I disapprove of something. “You don’t need to take on any more responsibility.”

  Evan suddenly takes a seat on the round rug by the front door, and Sonny crawls onto his lap and starts licking his face. Evan laughs and then holds the dog’s face in his hands. “What happened, little guy?” he asks, before looking up at me. “What happened, Mom?”

  “Don’t know exactly,” I say. “We think he was either born this way and a breeder dumped him, or he was abused.”

  Sonny rolls over in Evan’s lap, and he pets the dog’s stomach. Sonny sighs.

  “I would’ve done the same thing,” Evan says. He plays with Sonny for a few moments and then says, “It’s nice to have a dog. Finally. Grandma and Grampa always did. Why didn’t dad ever want us to have one?”

  “Too messy,” I say.

  Just like life, I don’t say. His father never liked to deal with untidiness. He preferred to sweep things under the rug.

  Evan rolls Sonny onto the floor and stands. “I can’t wait to look around,” he says. “I want to see what you’ve done.”

  We start on the main floor, and I show him the plans for the kitchen, the fish house and my eventual owner’s suite. When we head to the second floor, Evan says, “Why did you take my room, Mom?”

  I begin to explain, but he looks at me—his face changing, as if he seems to understand—and says, “I can crash in another room. No biggie. I’m used to sleeping anywhere.”

  I smile, relieved, and then laugh when I comprehend his words. “Oh, you are, are you?”

  “Figure of speech, Mom,” he says, rolling his eyes.

  “Oh, it is, is it?”

  “Let’s keep moving,” Evan says, heading toward the attic.

  He looks at all the construction and then at the renderings I’m holding. “I love that every room will be themed around a cottage rule,” he says. “I think people will love that.” He stops. “I do.”

  Finally, we climb to the turret, where we take a seat and look out over the lake. Evan sits in silence, watching Lake Michigan. Though it is overcast, there is enough of the day’s last light to highlight half my son’s face, to divide it into parts, shadow and light, man and boy.

  “We grew up here,” he finally says, unconsciously petting Sonny, who has curled up beside him on the bench seat. “This summer cottage is our connector, Mom, the piece that connects generations of our family. It means a lot that you saved it.”

  “Thanks, Evan,” I say. “That means the world to me. It wasn’t easy.”

  “You’re actually starting to think like a millennial.”

  I bust out laughing. “Watch your words,” I warn jokingly, reaching over and jostling his shoulder.

  My mind instantly fills with memories of the countless interviews I conducted with recent college graduates. Millennial applicants for job openings—entry-level copywriters and designers, assistant media planners, researchers and account executives—acted as if traditional workplace rules didn’t apply to them.

  Can I work from home?

  Have you considered eliminating print advertising completely?

  Does this company treat its employees like family?

  “It’s an entry-level job!” I wanted to tell them. “You don’t get to make up the rules! You should be grateful for the opportunity.”

  It took a lot of control—and jabbing of pens into my leg—for me not to walk out or roll my eyes.

  “It’s not a bad thing, Mom,” Evan says, breaking me out of my thoughts. “Every generation is different.” He stops and then gestures around the turret. “But there are things that unite every generation, too. Emotions, places, people. You were just as good of friends with your parents as I am with you.”

  I nod. “True.”

  Evan continues. “Starting this B and B is a very millennial thing you’re doing, Mom, whether you like to admit it or not. You’re taking a risk, you’re putting passion first, you’re realigning your entire work-life dynamic, you’re thinking in terms of missions, you’re being spontaneous, you’re willing to relocate.” He looks at me. “Those are all admirable things. Millennials get a bad rap by you older folks, but I think maybe we’ve just been raised to have the opportunity and blessing to focus on what matters most to us.” He stops. “I realize Grandma and Grampa and so many others before me couldn’t do that. But it’s not a bad thing.”

  I smile at my son, his face still divided by light.

  “Yes, you’re right,” I say. “Millennials—including you, my dear son—have always challenged my way of thinking, but I see that you all may be onto something bigger than simply playing by the old rules. And I’m all for that.”

  Evan nods, his blond bangs falling into his eyes. He puffs out his lower lip and—with one big exhale—blows his hair back.

  “I’m starving,” he says. “What do you have here to eat for dinner? I don’t think I can do another pizza.”

  “Me either,” I laugh. “I’ve been living off of pizza.”

  I duck my head. “But I don’t have much here,” I say. “I haven’t been too much of a grocery shopper of late.”

  “I get it,” he says. “So what do you want for dinner?”

  “You know all the places,” I say. “What sounds good?”

  “Mom,” Evan says in a parental tone. “What’s Rule #7?”

  “Dinner is a family activity,” I say.

  “That means we eat together,” Evan says, continuing to sound like a parent. “And we always made our first meal together whenever we arrived, remember? You’d do the salad, Grampa would barbecue, Grandma would make her famous potato salad, baked beans and cucumbers and onions, Dad and I would take turns cranking the ice cream maker.”

  I smile.

  “What can we make out of air?” I ask.

  Evan laughs. “Let’s run to the store and get a few things. Whip up a nice dinner.”

  “You can cook?” I ask, eyes wide.

  “Surprise,” Evan says, waving his hands in the air.

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  “A millennial,” he laughs. “Who are you?”

  I look out over the lake for a second before turning to Evan.

  “A millenni-mom,” I say.

  Evan stands and holds out his hand to help me up.

  “I’ve missed you,” I say, my voice filled with emotion.

  “Back atcha, Mom,” Evan says, his stomach rumbling. He turns to Sonny. “Ready to go shopping?” Evan pets Sonny on the head and laughs. “For Halloween, we totally need to put a patch over his eye and make him a pirate.”

  I laugh. “Remember when you were a pirate for Halloween?”

  Evan laughs even harder. “I remember,” he says. “You were so busy with work that year. You made me a patch out of duct tape and thought about giving me a steak knife to carry around.”

  “It made a good sword,” I say.

  “I was eight, Mom,” Evan says, again laughing.

  “I would have put duct tape over it,” I say. “I’m sorry. I was an overwhelmed mom. I guess I wasn’t mother of the year.”

  Evan pulls me into him. “You’ve always been mother of the year, Mom.” I shut my eyes, and I feel happier than I have in a long time. “Now, let’s shop.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  I watch in astonishment as Evan smashes garlic, dices onion, chops peppers and carefully removes seeds from jalapeños. He drizzles some olive oil into a large stockpot and adds the vegetables, turning them with a wooden spoon. When they’re tender, he adds an assortment of beans to the pot along with some chicken stock. Evan plops in some tomatoes and green chili sauce, and the
n runs out to the grill to check the chicken breasts.

  “Glad you kept this going in the winter,” Evan calls, the cold air rushing through the door. “True Michigander. Grilling in the snow.”

  “The old grill won’t be around much longer,” I say. “New gas line. No tanks.”

  “Smart, Mom,” Evan says. “New appliances will be gas then, too?”

  “Yes,” I say, as Evan races back inside and over to the spice cabinet. He carefully considers the spices—blowing the bangs from his eyes as he picks each one up to read—before choosing cumin, chili powder and a bay leaf. He adds a dash of this and a pinch of that, tasting as he goes, before shaking in some more salt and cranking a bit more pepper, tossing the bay leaf on top.

  “I feel like I’m watching Stranger Things, and a mysterious force has taken over my son’s body,” I say with a laugh, taking a sip of a lovely Malbec he also suggested at the store after scanning bottles of wine with his Vivino app.

  “We all take turns cooking Sunday dinner before our weekly fraternity meeting. It’s our way of re-creating a sense of family.” Evan says this matter-of-factly. My eyes grow even wider, and he catches me. “I watch Rachael Ray, Pioneer Woman, the Barefoot Contessa,” Evan continues, tossing a dish towel over his shoulder. “When we’re not watching sports, we watch the Cooking Channel or HGTV.”

  Evan grabs a large plate from the cupboard, heads to the grill, pulls the chicken from the flames and returns. “Once those cool a bit, I’ll dice them up, add them to the stoup, and we’ll be ready to chow down.”

  “Stoup?”

  “Rachael Ray,” he says with a laugh. “It’s her term for stew meets soup.” Evan opens the refrigerator, pulls out the sour cream, hot sauce, cheese and cilantro.

  “Some of the most successful entrepreneurs today are chefs,” he says. “They’ve learned how to brand themselves so well.” He stops and looks at me, continuing to pull cilantro leaves from their stems. “And they’re women. You should be aware of what they’re doing and how.”

  I take a sip of wine as Evan dices the chicken and adds it to the stoup. He gives it a big stir, picks up a soup bowl off the counter and ladles in the stoup. Evan turns and—ever so delicately—adds a dash of hot sauce, a handful of cheese, a spoonful of sour cream and a scattering of cilantro.

  “Bam!” he says, imitating Emeril Lagasse’s Cajun accent. “Dinner is served.”

  I wait for Evan to sit at the counter—the only clean space left to eat in the kitchen—before taking a bite. My taste buds leap, and a smile crosses my face. “Evan, this is really, really good. I mean, really good.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” he says, blowing the steam off his spoonful of stoup before taking a bite. I swear I can see his cheeks flush with pride.

  “Cheers!” I say.

  He lifts his water glass.

  The stoup is so good, and we’re both so hungry that we eat in silence for a few moments. Finally, I stop, take another sip of wine and admire my son. “I should hire you,” I say with a laugh.

  Evan polishes off his stoup, rises to fill his bowl again, and when he returns, he looks at me and says, “Why haven’t you asked for my help with any of this, Mom?”

  The tone of his voice—almost wounded—takes me by surprise.

  “You’re in school,” I say. “You’re so busy and I’ve been overwhelmed. The divorce, leaving my job, selling Lake Forest, moving here.” Evan’s eyes are on his soup bowl. “I didn’t mean to upset you. It was never my intention. I just never imagined asking you to help.”

  Evan sets down his spoon and takes a big drink of water. “I’m a business major, Mom,” he says. “I know I’m just a college kid, but I’ve taken accounting, marketing, management, entrepreneurial finance...” He stops. “I mean, I kind of want to be like you when I grow up. I want to run my own business, do my own thing.” He looks at me, and his voice warbles a bit. “You’re kind of kick-ass...you know, for a milleni-mom.”

  I can feel my eyes water. “Oh, Evan,” I say. “That means the world. Honestly, it never crossed my mind to bother you with all that’s going on in my life now. But, I’d love to go over my plans with you...my website, the renovation, my budget forecast. Trish was just here, and she helped me see things I never considered.” I stop. “It’s hard not to see you as my little boy.”

  Evan smiles. “I’ll always be your little boy, Mom,” he says.

  “Okay, then,” I say as I stand. I put my bowl in the dishwasher, refresh my wine and turn to Evan. “Where do you want to start?”

  “Everywhere,” he says. “Your entire business plan, including financials and forecasts. And I’d love to hear your marketing strategy, since that’s what you did for a living—where and when you’ll be advertising, and how much that will cost, especially since you don’t have an existing customer base.”

  I take a deep breath and fill my wineglass even more.

  Evan laughs. “I have some tough professors,” he says. “They always say, ‘There’s nothing to be scared of if you’re prepared for everything.’” Evan stands and looks at me. “So, let’s prepare for everything.”

  I take a sip of wine. “Then let me start with the Dragoon Lady,” I say.

  “She’s still alive?” Evan asks, a look of shock overtaking his face.

  “And kicking,” I say. “Mostly me. In the butt.”

  Evan laughs. “Grandma never liked her, did she?”

  “Now I know why,” I say, opening my laptop and filling Evan in on the historic restrictions on the fish house.

  His eyes grow wide as I tell him about my run-ins, and they grow even wider when I show him the renovation costs and summer forecasts as well as my ideas for women’s empowerment weekends.

  “I can tell you that you’re already not charging enough for the rooms, Mom, based on our lakeshore location and how nice they’re going to be,” he says. “And you haven’t factored in any revenue for your weekends. You can offer packages as well as each option individually, like yoga, essential oils...” He stops and smiles. “Cooking with your kids,” he adds. “We could do classes together.”

  “I love that,” I say.

  “What if this were my summer internship?” he asks, before holding up his hands. “No pay, of course. Just room and board. I can crash on a pullout in your suite.”

  My heart quickens. “I love that, too, but wouldn’t that mess up your plans for working at the bank in Chicago? And wouldn’t that make for awfully tight quarters? Trish suggested adding an extra room for you actually.”

  “That’s smart,” he says.

  “Which really means a room for her, too,” I add with a laugh.

  “You’d have your own bedroom, and I’d have my own space then,” he says. “I live in a twelve-by-fourteen room with another guy and sleep on a top bunk. I can do it. Can you?”

  I nod vigorously, set down my wine and hug my son.

  His words ring in my ears, and I feel alive and empowered.

  I can do it, I think. Especially now with my son’s help.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “What are you doing?”

  “I want to Facebook Live this, Mom,” Evan says. He is holding his cell phone about a foot away from my face, which is bare of makeup and flecked with paint.

  “Why?”

  Evan lowers the phone and exhales, a look of exasperation overtaking his face. “You should know this, former ad exec,” Evan says sarcastically.

  “I was really part of the old-school side,” I say. “Print, radio and TV. People more, um, your age did the online advertising.”

  “The techies?” Evan asks with a laugh. “The millennials?”

  I set down my paintbrush. “It’s ironic, really, because my generation was among the first to embrace technology on the fly. I actually took a typewriting class in school, before working on gigantic PCs and then moving to
Macs. I learned everything from email to design by the seat of my pants. I do know technology, but it’s moving at the speed of light these days.”

  “Then let me show you,” Evan says.

  I take a seat on the floor, and Evan walks me through Facebook Live and various other apps on his cell, like Instagram and Snapchat.

  “I didn’t know my phone could do all of this. I just learned how to increase the font size on my text messages,” I say with a laugh.

  “Consumers want a more personalized experience these days,” Evan says. “We can use before-and-after footage on your website and Facebook page, videos of you doing a lot of the work yourself. People love that. It’s why shows like Fixer Upper are so popular,” Evan continues. “And we can add historical photos of the cottage—and even pictures of us and Grandma and Grampa—on Instagram. That way people feel a deeper connection, and, thus, are readily willing to spend their money for that experience.” He stops. “And all of this might even generate some local or national media attention for you.”

  Evan leans over with his cell again. “Look,” he says, tapping furiously on his screen. “We can hashtag the heck out of this on Instagram to get you not only new—but the right—followers, and isn’t word of mouth still about the best advertising?”

  I nod. “You’ve learned a lot in college,” I say. “Besides how to drink.”

  “Hey, I had water last night with dinner,” he says.

  “That’s because you were hungover from the night before,” I say.

  “Well played, Mom,” Evan says. “Now, I want you to give this all a shot for a little while.”

  “What?”

  “I want you to create accounts for this inn on social media,” he says. “I’ll walk you through each app, but I want you to do it and get each started, so you’ll know how to do it when I’m not here.”

  I stare at him.

  “C’mon,” he says. “If you learned how to go from typewriters to Macs and did it all on your own, this should be a snap.” He stops before adding, “chat.” He smiles when I don’t. “Just a little tech humor. Get it? Snapchat.”