“Am I the first customer of the season?” I ask.
She laughs again. “Oh, no,” she says, her white apron already flecked with a rainbow of colors. “I think the locals secretly microchipped me years ago. First sunny day over fifty-five degrees, and there’s a line forming before noon.” She stops. “Actually, I open and close the shop based as much on the weather in Florida as Michigan. If it’s gonna turn nasty here earlier in the fall, I head to Florida. But if it’s going to be a glorious October, I stick around. On the other hand, if it turns rainy in Florida, I like to head back to Michigan to watch everything come back to life. Like today.” She smiles and looks around, even though we’re the only two in the store. Then she lowers her voice and leans over the glass counter, whispering to me conspiratorially. “Wanna know the real truth? When my six months are up in Florida, I have to head back. It’s really not a mystery. IRS is the one who really has me microchipped.”
I roar, my laughter echoing off the walls of the little shop.
“You look familiar,” the owner says. She removes the plastic glove she’s wearing and extends her hand over the counter. “I’m Teresa.”
“Adie Lou Kruger,” I say, finally getting my name right. “I’ve been coming here since I was a little girl with my mom and dad. Bet you hear that all the time, right?”
“Oh, my goodness,” Teresa says. “You’re Jon and Jo’s daughter, right? I sure do miss them. They were characters.”
Characters. I smile.
“They sure were,” I say. “And I miss them, too.” I hesitate. “Actually, I’m starting a new business in town. Turning my family’s summer cottage into a B and B.”
“You say that as if you’re on trial,” Teresa says. “I heard about your endeavor already. Word gets around town fast.”
I nod.
Teresa continues. “You know what they say about resort towns, don’t you? ‘The nice part about living in one is that when you don’t know what you’re doing, someone else does.’”
I nod again. “So true,” I say. “Actually, do you mind if I pick your brain for a second? I know you’re busy, but...”
“Don’t apologize,” Teresa says. “Of course. I may not have all the answers, but I’ll sure act like I will.” She winks. “Hit me.”
“What’s your secret to a successful small business?” I ask.
“Staying sober during business hours,” she says in a deadpan.
I laugh. “It’s just that you’ve been around forever,” I say. “And I’ve never heard a bad word about you or your business.”
“That just means you haven’t been listening,” she says. “Seriously? I just focus on the important things—a great product and great customer service. What sets us apart from all the other ice cream shops around the region? We make the best ice cream in small batches. Our waffle cones are handmade in front of customers. These are recipes passed from my parents and grandparents, ones I found in an old recipe box. I believe in consistency and honesty. I work long hours, but this little business has helped put my kids through college and allowed me to work only six months a year. I think that’s a pretty good trade-off.”
I listen intently. “Thank you,” I say. “I think I just need a little encouragement. It’s been a long few months of renovation and work.” I stop. “And spending money.” I hesitate and continue, my voice suddenly quaking with emotion. “I just want to do right by my parents. I just want to do right by our cottage.”
Teresa reaches her hand across the counter. I take it, and she squeezes my hand. “Are you following your heart?” I nod. “Are you doing what you love?” I nod. “Then you’ll never work a day in your life. You will be successful.”
I can feel a lump in my throat. “I needed to hear that. Thank you again.”
“What else is going on?” Teresa asks out of the blue. “I can tell something else is on your mind.”
Without hesitation, I spill my guts about Iris Dragoon.
“The Dragoon Lady?” Teresa asks. “You have my sympathies.”
“You call her that, too?” I ask, my eyes wide.
“She’s been a thorn in my side for years,” she says. “First year in business, Iris and her brood brought me a ‘welcome basket.’”
“I think I got the same one this year!” I say with a laugh.
“I bet your ‘welcome’ was under false pretenses, too,” Teresa says, nodding, her hat seeming to make an emphatic exclamation point. “Iris claimed my mannequin, its bikini and its waffle cone legs were, quote unquote, ‘too racy’ for a family-friendly resort town. When I refused to take it down, she forced me to appear in front of the city council, alleging that the mannequin and its legs were dangerous to pedestrians, that it might fall and injure someone.”
“What did you do?”
“I fought her,” she says. “I spent a lot of money I didn’t have my first year in business hiring an attorney to respond to her claims and then on an engineer to ensure the mannequin was ‘secure.’ What’s she hammering you about?”
I fill her in about the history of and renovation to the fish house as well as the plan that Evan has hatched, although my heart pings at the realization I didn’t have the courage to follow up with her about Sadie Collins.
A smile grows on Teresa’s face. “I love it,” she says. “You know, she’s really just a modern-day Gladys Kravitz. She’s bored and lonely, so she takes her frustrations out on other people. She thinks it’s for the good of the town, but the town would never change if she had her way. Change is inevitable. And change is usually a good thing.” She stops. “And this is Saugatuck. We may be family friendly during the day, but Iris needs to step out at night. It’s like Peyton Place after dark. And that’s really why people come to a resort town.” She looks at me and then reaches for a new plastic glove. “Honestly, look at what a good businesswoman I am. I haven’t even asked what I can get you.”
I look through the shiny glass at the endless options. My mouth waters as my eyes scan cappuccino chocolate chunk, cotton candy confetti, Mackinac Island Fudge, county blackberry, Milky Way, snickerdoodle and Superman. But my eyes lock on the container filled with Smurf-blue ice cream. “Double in a waffle,” I say.
“You’re a true Michigander,” Teresa says with a laugh.
“But I’m from Illinois,” I say.
“Not if you order this,” she says with a wink.
There is a phenomenon in the Great Lakes known as Blue Moon ice cream. The ice cream is iridescent blue, marshmallowy sweet and has an elusive taste that many describe as a combination of lemon and fruit. I think it tastes like the leftover milk from a bowl of Froot Loops. It’s addictive, and the recipe is largely kept secret by the different dairies, ice cream makers and shops in Michigan and Wisconsin. Blue Moon ice cream turns your tongue blue, and it is a favorite of children.
And mine, I think.
Teresa turns on the waffle machine, which sits on a table between the long rows of ice cream. When it is hot, she opens it and pours in some homemade batter and shuts the lid. After a few seconds, she pops the lid open and removes a razor thin waffle with tongs, immediately and expertly twisting it into a tight, rolled cone. She plops in two huge scoops of ice cream, which begin melting and trickling down the side. Teresa slips it into a wrapper and hands it to me along with a fistful of napkins.
I take a bite and shut my eyes. I am immediately transported back in time. I can feel myself standing in this shop between my parents, all of us licking giant cones. When I open my eyes, Teresa is smiling at me.
“It’s nice to feel like a kid again, isn’t it?” she asks. “Even if it’s only for a second.”
I nod and reach for my purse. “On the house,” she says.
“Oh, no,” I say, pulling my wallet free. “I insist.”
“No,” she says. “Consider it an inn-warming gift. I wish you only success and
happiness, Adie Lou.” She reaches into a container by the cash register and removes a doggy biscuit. “And we can’t forget your friend out there.”
“Thank you,” I say, taking the biscuit and my ice cream and heading for the door. “Truly.”
“You need something sweet before the sour,” she says with a wink.
I head out the door, bells jingling, feeling as light and happy as they sound. I hand Sonny his treat, and we stroll to the long boardwalk that winds along the channel leading to Lake Michigan. It’s still too early for the big boats to have returned to the marinas that dot the boardwalk, but a few hardy fishermen in johnboats are working the banks.
The sun is shining, the water is sparkling and Saugatuck resembles a fairy-tale village in a pop-up children’s book. Sonny and I take a seat on a bench near the water, and the dog barks when ducks approach looking for handouts.
I hold on tightly to Sonny’s leash and my cone as the ducks stand their ground, squawking as loudly as the dog is barking. Sonny stands on the bench, and the ducks flap atop the water. I laugh at the showdown, before the ducks do a swift U-turn, swimming away quickly enough to make waves.
I take a bite of my ice cream, and then hold it up in front of the sky and the water, my eyes filled with shades of blue.
Suddenly, I realize I am smiling. I am in a resort town on a pretty day eating an ice cream cone for lunch. I am living the dream.
Without warning, the ducks return, again squawking for food, which causes Sonny to bark.
Showdown, I think, watching the ducks and Sonny duel. Making waves.
My mind turns to my meeting with Iris, and yet, for once, I feel empowered by Evan’s plan and my talk with Teresa.
Time to ruffle some feathers, I think, finishing my ice cream.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The Dragoon Lady is alone.
I wasn’t expecting this.
I was expecting her to be surrounded by her Red Hat posse. Seeing her all alone unnerves me. I had entered the Saugatuck Country Club like Al Capone, guns blazing, ready to do battle with the Blue Hair Gang. But one-on-one with my nemesis—my personal Eliot Ness—freaks me out.
As I approach Iris, who is sitting as rigid and upright as the floral arrangement on the table, I feel dizzy.
I should have brought Sonny—who I left in the car, his ears blowing in the air-conditioning like Snoopy’s were when he was battling the Red Baron—for backup.
“You’re late,” Iris says as a greeting. She checks her thin gold watch and gives me a tsk-tsk.
I check my cell. “It’s 2:01,” I say, already exasperated.
“As I said...”
She sips her tea without making a sound. She has yet to look at me.
I take a seat and scan the dining room at the country club. It is octagonal and lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the first hole of the golf course. It’s old-school—parquet floors and white linen tablecloths—and the tables are filled with distinguished silver-haired couples in plaid golf sweaters.
My parents were not country club people. My dad liked a beer on his boat. My mom socialized with women who baked, and cleaned their own houses. New-and old-money locals referred to families like ours as “the ones whose parents bought their cottage when property was cheap.”
A waiter approaches as quietly as a whisper.
“What may I offer you, ma’am?”
I glance at Iris, who has yet to look me in the eye. For some reason, I think of when Trish and I dined this winter at RL in Chicago.
“I’ll have a manhattan, please. Thank you.”
There’s my reinforcement, I think. A stiff drink.
For the first time, Iris looks at me. The waiter shoots me a bemused smile and disappears.
“It’s awfully early for a drink,” the Dragoon Lady says.
“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” I say for some reason, sounding like a total Jimmy Buffett Parrot Head.
The Dragoon Lady checks her watch. “Where?” she asks pointedly.
She makes me feel like a kid who constantly gets busted by a teacher for not having done her homework. Thankfully, the waiter brings me my drink, and I take a healthy slug.
“Why am I here?” the Dragoon Lady asks, staring at me before glancing around the club.
She’s embarrassed to be here with me, I think.
I take another gulp of my manhattan. “I have a proposition,” I say.
She raises an eyebrow and takes a sip of her tea. I wait for her to say something, but she doesn’t utter a word.
“Well, okay, then...” I fumble my words and reach for my bag. I pull out the requirements the Preservation Committee has provided for the fish house, and then the proposal Frank and I have for it. “I’d like to...” I stop and rephrase my request. “I need to renovate the fish house into a honeymoon suite,” I say.
“That’s not possible,” the Dragoon Lady says, cutting me off. “It’s historic.”
“I realize that, and we plan to keep the structure’s original look, but I need the flexibility to turn that space into a guest cottage.” I stop and pull out more papers. “As you can see, it’s vital to the inn’s success. It has the potential to be my biggest moneymaking room.”
“I don’t care.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, I don’t care,” she continues. “You should have considered all of this before embarking on this endeavor.”
I can again feel the rage build inside me, but I think of Evan, and the plan we have carefully orchestrated.
“I need this,” I start, trying to play to her emotions.
“Honestly, I don’t care what you need.”
I forgot she has no emotions.
“Well, then,” I start casually, “I guess you don’t care about this.”
I pull from my bag the time capsule and letter I discovered in the fish house.
“Or this,” I continue, pulling out a cow shoe.
The Dragoon Lady motions for the waiter. “I’m not interested in the trash you picked up at the antique mall to decorate your inn. Check, please. I only had the tea. Thank you.”
“You’re right,” I say as the waiter leaves. “This is trash. This old time capsule and letter I discovered in the fish house from Sadie Collins, the daughter of the man who built my family’s cottage.” I stop. “Oh, and this. This is just some, old original bootlegging trickery from Al Capone.”
Iris turns to me, looking me in the eye for the first time, and scratches her head in thought, her two wigs sliding ever so slightly atop her head.
“I was thinking I could either give them to the state historical society, or sell them via Sotheby’s to help retrieve some of the cost I’ll need to spend on your renovation and loss of income from the guest suite.” I stop and look at her. “Or, I mean, I guess I could, well, give them to you and the historical society. What a coup that would be for you and the town, right?”
I take a sip of my manhattan and lean back in my chair. The waiter drops off two checks, and I reach for my wallet.
“Oh, my dear, I’ll take care of your bill,” the Dragoon Lady says.
“How sweet of you,” I say, “but I really must be going.”
I begin to stand, but Iris grabs my arm as I start to put the items back in my bag.
“Can’t we talk?” she asks.
“Perhaps,” I say, trying to match the evil smile she always gives. “Let me know.”
I am as ruthless as Al Capone, I think. I outwitted the Dragoon Lady!
I turn to leave—my back straight, walking on air—when I hear her say, “By the way, your tongue and mouth are blue. You might want to see a doctor.”
I scamper away and head directly to the ladies’ room. I lean into the mirror, open my mouth and groan. I look like Smurfette. My lips, mouth and tongue are stain
ed blue from the Blue Moon ice cream.
“You’re a real class act, Adie Lou,” I say to my reflection. I turn around quickly, remembering the last time Iris Dragoon humiliated me. At least, I am not wearing Evan’s sweatpants today. I may not have been Capone, but I still won in my own way.
I stick my tongue out at myself in the mirror and am laughing like a little kid when Iris enters.
“We might have a deal,” she says without preamble.
How can she catch me at the most embarrassing moment every time? I think. It’s as if she’s microchipped me.
I turn with as much composure as I can muster. “Okay,” I say.
She nods and reaches for the restroom door. I try to stop myself from saying what comes next, but I can’t. “But I need your help first,” I say.
Iris turns and raises an eyebrow. “You do, do you?” she asks.
“I do,” I say.
“All right, then,” she says sweetly before adding, “I’d do anything to help you from looking so blue.”
She smiles.
I hate you, I think. “Thank you,” I say instead.
Looks like I’ve just made a deal with the devil.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Iris’s black boots echo on the floors of the historical society building as she walks around turning on lights. A series of spotlights suddenly pop on overhead, and I am illuminated as if I’m on trial.
I turn to see an exhibit behind me.
U.S. Lifesaving Service and Shipwrecks on Lake Michigan
Hanging in front of a series of panels is a restored 1854 Francis Metallic Surfboat from Saugatuck Harbor, an all-iron lifesaving boat. The panels explain that it is one of America’s first official lifeboats. It is surrounded by Lake Michigan shipwreck and lifesaving stories.
I watch Iris navigate her hallowed halls, and I can see why she is so at home in here.
The Summer Cottage Page 17