The Summer Cottage

by Viola Shipman

  I do, and his smile grows wider as I build the story to its climax.

  “You’re amazing,” he says. “And so is she. Color me shocked.”

  “Speaking of color,” I say, opening my mouth and wagging my tongue. “The whole time I was playing Capone, it looked like I’d drank a bottle of Nyquil and eaten a box of blue crayons.”

  Scooter laughs. “That is quite a sight,” he says. “You know you look like a Smurf.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “That analogy crossed my mind as soon as I saw my reflection.”

  Scooter squeezes me and draws me close. “A very smart, very savvy, very beautiful Smurf.”

  I look up and into Scooter’s eyes.

  “This is me, you know,” I say. “A woman in her forties with a blue tongue who likes her ice cream way too much, who is starting over, who has a son, who still may not know who the hell she is or what she’s doing.”

  Scooter considers this for a moment and then kisses me. He tastes like rocky road.

  He’s a keeper, Adie Lou, I can hear my grandma say again.

  I can’t help it, and I think again of Sadie and of Iris and wonder, Do I need to be kept?

  Part Nine

  Rule #9:

  Be Grateful for Each Day

  THIRTY

  May

  I am standing and smiling much like I have done in every milestone photo of my life, from high school and college graduations to my prom and wedding. My spine is rigid while my stomach is sucked in, and I am holding my breath while maintaining the demurest of smiles.

  “Uh-huh, uh-huh. I see.”

  I would guess the age of the county health inspector to be twelve years old. I had expected a grumpy, weathered, elderly man—say a Wilford Brimley—but instead was surprised to be greeted by a scrawny young man named Zach Millwood who bears an uncanny resemblance to Screech, the nerd in the TV series, Saved by the Bell, that I loved when I was younger.

  “Interesting. Yes. Yes.”

  The fact I even needed a health inspection came as a bit of a surprise. I mistakenly thought that since my B and B had only eight rooms for rent that I didn’t need to pass any inspections. But, in Michigan, owner and family rooms count toward the total number of rooms, and a B and B with over nine rooms must be licensed with the county health department when serving a full breakfast.

  “I assumed I didn’t need an inspection,” I say to Zach, whose entire body is nearly inside my freezer.

  He leans out of the freezer, his cheeks red and his lashes icy. “You know what they say about assumptions?” he asks. “Makes an ass out of you and me.”

  I think of Trish, and when she told me that in college.

  Zach throws his head back and laughs as if it’s the funniest thing anyone has ever said, and then reinserts much of his upper body—along with his notepad—back into the freezer, where he remains silent for much too long.

  “What did you find in there?” I ask. “Bigfoot?”

  Shut up, Adie Lou, I tell myself. Why do you babble when you get nervous or people are quiet?

  Zach doesn’t respond.

  “Body of my ex-husband?”

  This time, Zach reappears, eyeing me suspiciously before writing furiously.

  “I was just, you know, joking.”

  Zach stares at me. “I assumed you weren’t funny,” he finally says. He waits a beat, and then breaks into uproarious laughter. “Get it? Assumed? I used that word again.”

  “Good one,” I say, nodding. “You’re very funny,” I continue, attempting to butter him up.

  “Thanks,” he says. “Everyone says I probably should have gone into stand-up.”

  “Oh, yes. God, yes,” I say, continuing to nod excitedly. “You’re like Seinfeld. Maybe Ellen. It’s a talent.”

  Zach returns to scribbling on his notepad.

  “So? What’s the verdict?”

  “Guilty,” he says.

  My heart leaps into my chest before Zach starts to laugh. “Get it? You asked what the verdict was?”

  Suddenly, I feel like pushing Zach into my freezer and closing the door. Instead, I smile and hold my breath.

  He looks down at his pad. “A few issues,” he says. “You need to move the kitchen cleaning supplies away from the prep and cooking station. And you need new cutting boards, but, overall, everything is brand spanking new—refrigerator, oven, freezer, pots and pans.”

  “Do I pass?”

  “Like a speeding car,” Zach says. “Get it?”

  Get out, I want to say. Instead, I smile and say, “Good one.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  “I used to think a punch list consisted of booze, juice and fruit,” I say.

  Frank laughs and looks down at his list. “We might need a drink after this,” he says.

  Frank’s punch list—the document prepared at the end of construction that details every item that needs to be addressed before final occupancy and payment—is three pages long. We start in the kitchen and move from room to room. The amount of work and endless tasks to be completed is overwhelming: hardware in all the bathrooms, missing trim pieces, flaws in the paint, plumbing fixtures that have been installed incorrectly, light fixtures that have yet to be installed.

  “And I wanted every threshold between the bedroom and bathroom to be marble,” I say, my voice rising in exasperation. “Some are wood, some are marble, some are missing. I have staff coming to train next week, and a soft opening in two weeks in which I’ll be doing a dry run of the entire operation, from turndown to breakfast to yoga and activities.”

  Frank tucks his punch list under his arm and looks at me. “I promise you this will all be done by next week, Adie Lou.”

  I look at him, my face etched in skepticism.

  “I promise you,” he says, before repeating it slowly again. “I. Promise. You.”

  I nod.

  “Don’t freak out,” Frank continues. “Right now, you can’t see the forest for the trees. That’s natural. Just try and take a step back. Look at all you’ve accomplished in such a short time.”

  Sonny barks his agreement, and then leaps at Frank for a hug.

  “I don’t know what he’s going to do when you leave,” I say. “He will miss you.” I duck my head. “I will miss you. You’re like my Eldin.”

  “Who?” Frank asks.

  I smile and think of the house painter on TV’s Murphy Brown who showed up one day and never left her house.

  “A friend,” I say, which is the truth. Frank has been my friend.

  He leans down and gives Sonny a kiss on the head. “I’ll miss both of you,” he says. “This project has meant a lot to me, Adie Lou. You’re like family. I feel like I’m part of something special here. Something big.” He stops, and a huge smile comes over his bearded face. “But with an old cottage like this, I know I won’t be gone for long.” Frank winks, and I laugh.

  He is my Eldin, I think.

  “Let me earn some money first,” I say.

  “I’ll be back this afternoon, and we’ll get started on the punch list.” He turns to leave but stops. “Take a deep breath. Take it all in. You should feel very proud.”

  The cottage creaks as Frank departs.

  I do as he suggests: I take a deep breath, step into the hallway, shut the door and my eyes, and act as if I’m in the B and B for the very first time.

  I open my eyes and am greeted by a sign on the door that reads:

  ROOM & COTTAGE RULE #9

  BE GRATEFUL FOR EACH DAY!

  I smile and imagine that, as a guest, this cheery but direct reminder would immediately clear my mind of life’s clutter, just like arriving at the cottage did every summer.

  I open the door, and the room’s cheery colors—pale blue walls, white trim and crown molding—greet me like a warm hug. The ceiling in every room h
as been covered in wood slats, painted bright white, and a wooden beadboard bed—crisp white and covered with an expensive blue duvet and loads of pillows with nautical symbols—floats like a cloud in the room. A pair of vintage oars are crisscrossed over the bed, and the walls are adorned with simply framed watercolors that my mother and I painted together over the years. Every painting—the lake glowing at sunrise and sunset, a sandcastle being built by a child’s hand, marshmallows on sticks roasting over a bonfire, my dad napping on a hammock strung between two sugar maples, pink roses climbing a trellis and lavender-blue hydrangeas in full bloom—sum up the room’s rule.

  I look out the new, larger window that not only enhances the view of Lake Michigan but also keeps the cold air from penetrating the cottage. The ice is gone, the water is deep blue and lapping waves lull me into a relaxed state. I walk into the new adjoining bathroom, which is small but welcoming and well-laid-out. I splurged on the bath products and towels—thanks to Trish’s advice—and the bathroom is a nice mix of luxury hotel and homey cottage.

  I roam from room to room, each one surprising me with its own personality. Soak Up the Sun is happy and yellow, while Boat Rides Are a Shore Thing is filled with photos of the Adie Lou and vintage boat finds given to me by Scooter. Shiplap walls line the Wake Up Smiling room, while an adorable wallpaper dotted with, appropriately enough, tiny ice cream cones greets guests to the Ice Cream Is Required room.

  But perhaps my favorite of the cottage’s guest rooms is Go Rock Hunting. I took a risk—and spent some cash—to have Frank create a wall behind the bed built out of the rocks and lake stones that I have collected over the decades. The result is a large-scale art piece that resembles the stone walls and fireplaces in the historic cottages of northern Michigan.

  “Not bad, Adie Lou,” I say to myself. “Not bad at all.”

  Sonny leads the way up the turret, whose staircase has been revamped and widened. Although my heart didn’t want to change a thing about my beloved childhood hideaway, Trish had warned the staircase was, in her words, a lawsuit waiting to happen so, at great cost and anxiety, I had Frank blow out the opening and build an easy-to-climb staircase—with a rail—for guests. I found some vintage curtains my grandmother had used long ago in her bedroom—forest green with scenes of deer and rabbit scampering through a forest of sugar maples, their leaves ablaze in fall color—and reupholstered the cushions my father had made for the turret’s circular seat. A mix of new and old end tables, along with two ottomans topped with vintage trays, have been placed for guests to set their drinks and food. I added a small wet bar and a microwave—which Frank cleverly notched into a space once eaten up by the old circular staircase—to serve wine and appetizers at sunset.

  I take a seat, and the view takes my breath. I briefly think of the hole in the roof that greeted me not so long ago, but the spectacular view of the lakeshore again transports me. In the haze, I can see my life as it was flashed before my eyes: as a young girl playing in the waves with my parents, as a teenager lying out with my friends, as a new mom building sandcastles with Evan.

  Now, I’m alone, I think.

  As if reading my mind, Sonny nestles next to me. Stroking his fur relaxes me, and I think of how strong he was to survive, how strong I am to have survived, and I picture myself as a modern-day Wonder Woman who has somehow overcome the odds.

  You are the unconventional woman, I can hear Iris say.

  “C’mon, kiddo,” I say to Sonny, standing. He jumps off and leads me down the stairs to the kitchen, the new appliances—a restaurant-quality Wolf stove, huge refrigerator, double ovens—gleaming in the sun. I open the patio door and forget how much the space has been transformed, especially now that the construction on the fish house is completed and Frank’s crew and equipment have finally disappeared. The new concrete patio has been divided into two distinct spaces, separated by a row of arborvitae. The smaller side features a built-in grill and cooking station. The larger side showcases a built-in water feature, a six-foot-high meditating Buddha sculpture, a Tibetan singing bowl and some beautiful polished planters that I will fill with trailing vine and annuals. The concrete pad merges into what will soon be newly planted sod, a large outdoor space where I will lead—weather permitting—my yoga sessions. The space looks nothing like my parents’ largely forgotten patio, and I am awestruck by how gorgeous it is, especially now that the trees are once again leafing out and providing a verdant canopy over the space.

  Sonny walks over to me and does a perfect downward dog.

  “You’re hired,” I say with a laugh, bending down to pet him.

  I cross the lawn to the fish house, now a pretty guest cottage and honeymoon suite tucked behind a newly planted hedge. “Thank you, Mr. Capone,” I say. “Thank you, Sadie.” I stop. “Thank you, Iris.”

  I worked with her to ensure that the guest cottage retained the authentic look and character of the fish house, down to its shingles. And a plaque citing its historical significance was added to the front. I open the door and smile. But I was able to renovate the space completely, adding new, bigger windows, a small kitchen as well as a master bath.

  Most importantly, I kept many of my father’s favorite things that made the fish house so special. Vintage Cubs pennants have been made into pillows, some of his prized catches are mounted on the wall alongside my drawings. But the cottage’s centerpieces are his vintage Helmscenes. I softened the overall look of the cottage with beautiful fabrics and lush throws and rugs, but it still feels like a throwback, a getaway cabin, a place where you want to hide from the rest of the world.

  I shut the door and smile again when I remember what I had named this cottage.

  GUEST COTTAGE & COTTAGE RULE #3

  NAP OFTEN!

  “In honor of you, Dad,” I whisper, running my finger over the plaque.

  I head inside, Sonny on my heels, and stop in the entry. There are two new additions to the wall where my family framed the Capone bullet hole. A copy of Sadie’s letter now sits framed above Capone’s infamous outburst, while one of the cow shoes used by Capone’s bootleggers is centered in a shadow box below it.

  “This place has quite a history, doesn’t it, Sonny?” I run my hands over the glass that holds Sadie’s letter.

  I humbly implore and petition you to care for this Cottage as if I still retired here every evening.

  “I tried,” I say. “I’ve given it my all, Sadie.”

  I read the end of the letter out loud, my voice echoing back to me. “‘Papa built this Cottage to be my Castle. It is now my Prison. Still, please, do not weep for me. That is not worth a button. Instead, I propose you paint your Cheeks with rouge, I Pray that you may seek your own Stars, and I endeavor that a Smile is forever upon your face.’”

  As I turn, I see the Cottage Rules sign by the front door, my eyes locking on Rule #9: Be Grateful for Each Day!

  “I think I finally am,” I say.

  THIRTY-TWO

  “Adie Lou!”

  I rush down the stairs, a roll of paper towels in one arm and a bottle of Windex in the other, alarmed by the panic in Frank’s voice. Sonny follows on my heels. When I hit the landing, I can see Frank blocking the front door—arms outstretched, hammer drawn like a sword—as if he’s a warrior trying to fend off interlopers on Game of Thrones.

  “What in the world?” I ask before I finally see: Iris and her minions are standing on the porch. I take a step forward, and my eyes widen. Behind Iris is a throng of townsfolk—Dale from the coffee shop, Teresa from the ice cream shop and various other business owners and innkeepers from Saugatuck. In the back stands Scooter, a tool belt around his waist, giving me a sheepish grin and wave. “What in the world?” I ask again.

  “We’re here to help,” Iris says. She looks at Frank. “Excuse me.”

  Frank doesn’t budge.

  “It’s okay, Frank,” I say. He looks doubtful. “Really, it is.�
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  “I take it you haven’t told him about our burgeoning friendship,” Iris says, brushing by a stunned Frank.

  “What are you doing? Why are you here?” I ask in a rush.

  “Gladys was at the coffee shop earlier, and your handyman...”

  “His name is Frank,” I say to Iris, “and he’s a contractor.”

  “Frank,” she starts again, emphasizing his name, “was waiting for his coffee and telling Dale how much last-minute work needed to be done on your inn. Gladys told me, and I made some calls.”

  I suddenly think of the game telephone I played as a girl.

  “And voilà! Here we are! Word gets around fast in a small town,” Iris continues.

  Teresa steps forward. “Remember what I told you about resort towns? The nice part about living in one is that when you don’t know what you’re doing, someone else does.”

  I laugh.

  “The really nice part,” Teresa continues, “is that we always have each other’s backs.” She looks at Iris. “Even when we don’t see eye to eye.”

  Iris nods but doesn’t blink.

  “We work together, not against one another,” Teresa says. “If your business is strong, ours will be stronger as a result.”

  “So, what can we do?” Dale asks.

  I turn to Frank. “Can you use a hand or twelve?”

  Frank nods, still a little speechless.

  I begin to say thank you but am suddenly overwhelmed by emotion. “I’m so touched,” I say. “I know how busy you all are. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Just tell us where to start,” Becky, another innkeeper in town, says.

  “Come on,” Frank says. “Follow me.”

  “You okay?” Scooter asks.

  I nod. “You didn’t have to come,” I say.

  “I didn’t?” Scooter whispers in mock relief. “Try telling that to Iris Dragoon.” He kisses me. “And I didn’t want to look like the only jackass in town who refused to help you. As you now know, word gets around fast in this town.” He leans down, glances at Iris, who didn’t head upstairs, and whispers, “You now have the mob behind you.”