The Summer Cottage

by Viola Shipman

  “Good,” I say. “It’s part of this place’s history anyway.”

  Scooter disappears, and, within a few moments, I can hear hammers, electric drills, vacuums.

  I turn to Iris, who I now realize is the only one who has come dressed as she always does: Joan Collins pantsuit, full makeup, wigs fluffed.

  “I’m not so handy,” she says, giving me a big wink with a false eyelash. “But I’m a great organizer and supervisor.”

  “You are,” I say.

  “Do you mind if I take a look around?”

  “It didn’t stop you before,” I say, matching her earlier wink.

  “Touché, Adie Lou.”

  I head back upstairs and return to cleaning, my nervousness and exhaustion fading with the camaraderie of the group. I order pizzas to feed the throng, and we are eating when Iris walks in the front door.

  “May I speak with you for a moment?” she asks me.

  The group grows quiet—as if I’ve passed a note in class and gotten busted by the teacher—and I follow Iris down the hall toward my suite.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I got so busy again. Where did you go?”

  She pulls a small, beautifully wrapped box from her bag and hands it to me. “For you,” she says.

  I cock my head and shoot her a questioning look, but she says, “Go on, open it.”

  I rip off the pretty gift wrap and open the box. I pull back a bed of tissue paper, look at Iris and smile, my eyes instantly misting.

  “I pulled a few strings to have it made so quickly,” she says. “That’s why I wanted to look around your inn first. I wanted this plaque to match the others. I thought you needed one for your own suite.” She stops, and I swear I can hear her voice waver just a touch. “I thought the rule breaker needed to add one of her own to her family’s.”

  ADIE LOU’S COTTAGE RULE

  ALWAYS BE AN UNCONVENTIONAL WOMAN!

  “It’s perfect,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “It is,” she says with a nod.

  Impulsively, I grab Iris and hug her with all my might.

  “Are you okay?” she asks loudly.

  I release her and turn to see her minions watching us, their mouths open, as if they’ve come across two unicorns crossing the road.

  “She was choking,” Iris says. “I saved her life.”

  The women nod and exhale with relief, my near-death experience more believable than a hug from the Dragoon Lady.

  “Come on, ladies, we have a fund-raiser at seven,” Iris says, continuing to cover, “and we are not leaving until we’ve hit our $10,000 goal.”

  As Iris exits, she turns and gives me another wink.

  To unconventional women! she mouths.

  THIRTY-THREE

  My gratefulness is short-lived.

  The first morning of my inn’s dry run is in full swing, and I am drenched in sweat and could already use a strong drink. All of the local innkeepers I spoke to urged me to hold a full weekend run-through before officially opening, like when restaurants do a soft opening. I invited dear friends from Chicago and Saugatuck for the weekend, and some of Scooter’s workers and clients filled the rest of the inn. I told them to take the weekend seriously, to act as if they don’t know me, and—so far—everyone has turned in an Oscar-caliber performance.

  I nod at each of my pretend guests who are gathered in the dining room eating breakfast and nod politely before rushing out onto the porch, hiding behind the arborvitae hedge and screaming into a dish towel.

  “You have eggs in your hair.”

  I look up, and Trish is smiling at me, her head and coffee cup cocked at ironic angles.

  I manage a small laugh. “These are my friends,” I say. “What is a cottage filled with paying strangers going to be like?”

  “Lord of the Flies,” Trish says, “but just a touch more civilized.” She stops. “Sort of like your marriage.”

  I smile and sigh. “This is way harder than I imagined,” I say. “Do you know the woman I hired to help with breakfast service and cleanup didn’t show this morning, or even bother to call? And the person I hired to clean rooms and do laundry texted and said she was going to be two hours late because her car wouldn’t start.”

  “Welcome to the world of entrepreneurship,” Trish says, not an ounce of sympathy in her voice. “Every single day is going to be a battle for survival until, one day, it’s not.”

  “Gee, thanks for the pep talk,” I say.

  Trish sets her cup down on a small table and holds out her arms. I slump into Trish’s body, nearly knocking her off her feet.

  “It’s not all going to be roses. You dreamed of this,” Trish whispers into my ear. “Look how far you’ve come. You should be grateful.”

  I pull out of her arms. “If you post a picture of a sunset on Instagram, or say ‘hashtag blessed’ right now, I will never speak to you again.”

  Hashtag blessed, Trish mouths, before breaking into a laugh. “I didn’t say it out loud.” She stops and takes a seat in an Adirondack chair whose wooden back has been cut to resemble the iconic shape of the state of Michigan.

  The sun is playing hide-and-go-seek with puffy white clouds that resemble cotton balls. The arms of sugar maples are waving in the warmish breeze, and the lapping of Lake Michigan in the distance fills the air.

  “Look at what you’ve created here,” Trish says. “It’s magical. People dream of a getaway like this. You made that possible. And, you get to live here every day.”

  “Remember the winter?” I ask. “The chimney fire? My bank account?”

  “It’s exciting to be alive, isn’t it?” Trish asks. “It’s exciting to control your own destiny.”

  “Do you have more coffee?”

  I look up, and Herb—one of Scooter’s employees—is looking at me. He shrugs his shoulders in his Michigan State sweatshirt and holds out his empty cup.

  “And can I get another muffin?” Herb’s wife, Linda, asks. “And some woman is still complaining about her pillowcase.”

  “And her husband is still complaining about the music,” Herb says.

  “Yes, of course,” I say with a smile. “Thank you. Sorry for the delay. I’ll be right there.”

  I look at Trish. “My destiny is calling.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  After completing breakfast service, cleaning the kitchen and starting the first of a dozen loads of laundry, I turn and scream, thinking a ghost is standing before me.

  Tori, the college girl I hired to help clean rooms, yawns.

  “You scared me,” I say. “How’s your car?”

  “My car?” she asks. “Oh, yeah. Um, so, it’s fine.”

  My antennae go up. My experience as a mother has already taught me that Tori is lying. Her eyes are bloodshot, her mascara smudged, the back of her hair is ratted, and she would likely make a ghost scream, too.

  “What’s wrong with your car?” I ask.

  “My car?” she asks again, as if I’m Alex Trebek and have stumped her on Jeopardy. “Like, the battery.”

  Tori seems nothing like the sweet, college girl I interviewed multiple times over the course of the last month, the one who was a “hard worker” and “needed the job to pay off college loans.”

  “But it’s fine now?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she says.

  I am already tired and overwhelmed; Tori is making my blood boil. She has yet to apologize or ask what she needs to do.

  Calm down, I tell myself. You need her today. Think like a millennial.

  “I’m excited for you to start and be part of my team,” I say. “As you know, this is the big test run.”

  Silence.

  “So,” I continue, “like I showed you in training, I want you to start cleaning the rooms. Strip the beds, remake them, clean the rooms and bathrooms, do t
he towels and sheets, make sure bath products are restocked. We’ll need to set up the turret for happy hour at five. I’ll be making some light appetizers, and I’ll have chocolate-chip cookies ready at three. Just check the tiered cookie stands in the dining room and refill them when they get low. You should have the checklist on your phone. If you have any questions, just come see me. I’ll be leading yoga for guests at 11:00 a.m.”

  Tori nods as she pulls gloss from her purse and applies it to her lips. She then musses her hair—her look is intentional, I suddenly realize—and retrieves her phone.

  She’s double-checking the list I’ve sent her, I realize, relieved. Finally.

  But when she doesn’t respond, and I watch her type a quick message on her cell, I see red.

  Think like a millennial, I tell myself again.

  I grab my phone, pull up Facebook and type in Tori’s name. A flurry of photos greets me, most of which show Tori doing shots last night, dancing at a club in Grand Rapids and “hooking up” with a guy named Gabe.

  Part of me knows I’ve been in her shoes, and part of me still understands the emotions and thrills of being young. But I’ve also held jobs since high school, and I have never missed a day of work much less treated an employer with disrespect.

  Think like an entrepreneur, I hear my brain whispering.

  “You’re fired, Tori,” I say. She stops texting long enough to finally look up. Her face doesn’t register much of anything. “Go sleep it off.”

  Trish appears in the hallway and watches my first fired employee shuffle away, still texting.

  “You have a gift for picking employees,” Trish says. “Need some help until you can find another winner?”

  I bust out in laughter. “I’m laughing only because it will keep me from crying right now,” I say.

  Trish holds up a pillowcase that is covered in makeup. “Did she sleep here last night?” Trish asks.

  I switch the washer cycle to hot.

  “Things will go better with yoga,” Trish says, throwing the pillowcase into the washer and giving me a side hug.

  * * *

  They don’t.

  Along with Trish, I have two former colleagues from work and two wives of Scooter’s employees. Only Trish has done yoga before.

  “Last time I exercised I wore leg warmers,” a woman named Dee cackles. Her hair is dyed red, and she has a big bow on one side of her head. Dee has shown up for yoga wearing mom jeans, while her friend, Sandy, sports a skirt and heels.

  This is what I dreamed of? I think.

  Trish looks at me and mouths, Smile!

  “This is not about competition,” I begin. “This is not about competing with anyone else. This is about finding your inner strength and inner peace,” I say. “I’ll go slowly from pose to pose, and I will come around to adjust each of you as needed.”

  “My husband’s the only who does that,” Dee says with a cackle.

  I take a deep breath. “Still your mind,” I say.

  “Let’s start with mountain pose,” I continue, standing straight, planting my feet firmly in the ground and positioning my hands in prayer at my chest level while pulling my shoulder blades back. “Shut your eyes. This pose requires us to be present and aware, to stand rooted and tall.”

  I open my eyes. Dee and Sandy are standing as if they’re about to knock back a beer, legs loose, shoulders slumped. I walk over to position them. “Plant your feet in the ground,” I whisper to them. “Gently activate your quads to lift the kneecaps and stabilize your posture. Like this,” I say, demonstrating.

  Both women seem incapable of standing straight without wavering. They resemble flower stems in a stiff breeze, waving to and fro unsteadily.

  “Let’s move to child’s pose,” I say, lowering myself to my knees. “Bring your big toes together, spread your knees wide, sink your hips back over your heels as your chest lowers to the ground. Walk your fingertips to the front of the mat and relax your forehead down, allowing the chest to open and your mind to soften. Like this.”

  I hear a series of alarming pops and look up to find Dee and Sandy lying flat on their stomachs as if they’re tanning on the beach. I walk over to them. “Like this, ladies,” I whisper.

  “We can’t do that,” Sandy says. “Bad knees.”

  “Have you tried?” I ask.

  “Isn’t this close enough?” Dee asks.

  “Let’s try downward facing dog, then,” I say, returning to my mat and demonstrating the pose.

  “Who do you think we are,” Sandy says. “Jane Fonda?”

  “Jane Fonda is eighty,” I say, my yoga demeanor dropping and the tension in my voice escalating. “And she can still do downward dog, I promise you.”

  Trish looks up at me, her eyes wide. Smile, she mouths again.

  I take a deep breath. “Remember, it’s yoga practice, not yoga perfect,” I say. “We must remember we are all on a journey, and every day we can do better, be better, improve our minds, bodies and spirits.”

  I continue. “How about sukhasana?” I ask, sitting cross-legged on the floor, my back straight. “This is also known as easy seat.”

  Anyone can do it, I don’t say.

  Again, there is more popping like someone is going to town on a sheet of Bubble Wrap. I look up and am nearly blinded by the sight of Sandy sitting cross-legged in her skirt. Dee is seated sidesaddle.

  Before I can move to correct them, they stand, knees popping. “Yoga’s too easy,” Sandy says. “We’re gonna hit the town and shop. Get in some real exercise. What time’s happy hour?”

  I open my mouth, but Trish stops me before I can insert my foot.

  “Five p.m.,” she says, her voice chipper. Trish looks at me and winks. “Though a few of us might start a wee bit earlier.”

  Twenty-four hours later, my guests check out, and my first weekend as an innkeeper is complete.

  When the last person pulls out of the driveway, I look at Trish. “Now, this is my happy hour.”

  “Your first guests arrive in less than a week,” Trish says. “You need to hire two new people before then and work out a lot of kinks.”

  As I clean up the dishes in the dining room, I pick up a dirty plate and act as if I’m going to Frisbee it at Trish’s head.

  “Hashtag grateful,” she says.

  Part Ten

  Rule #10:

  Go Jump in the Lake!

  THIRTY-FIVE

  May

  “The kickoff to Memorial Day weekend looks to be one of the coldest on record. Could we be talking snow flurries tonight? Stay tuned.”

  I click off the TV and then throw the remote into the living room, where it slides across the wood floor before stopping on the hook rug by the front door. Sonny jumps up from his pouf in the kitchen and chases the remote. He nudges the remote off the rug and then goes round and round on the circular rug before dropping into a tight little ball.

  “I wish I could be as relaxed as you,” I say, unconsciously pulling my robe tight over my pajamas as if to ward off the coming cold. “First guests arrive in...” I stop and check the kitchen clock. “Four hours.” I look back at Sonny. “And it’s like winter outside. I’m doomed.”

  Sonny looks at me, sighs and closes his eyes.

  Memorial Day weekend on the coast of Michigan is iffier than zip-lining with a ball of yarn. Some Memorial Day weekends are cool and rainy, spring refusing to turn over its reins to summer. And some are sunny and in the seventies, a gift, warm enough even for brave souls to...

  My eyes drift from Sonny to Rule #10 on my parents’ Cottage Rules sign: Go Jump in the Lake!

  Sonny opens his eyes, thinks I’m looking at him and thumps his tail. I wave at him, and he sighs dramatically. I match his with one of my own.

  “And some Memorial Day weekends,” I say to myself, “are nightmares.”

&nb
sp; Somehow, I had forgotten that there were a handful of Memorial Day weekends growing up when it spit snow, we lit a fire every night, stayed inside, read and built fortresses out of sheets and blankets. As a kid, I certainly didn’t love a wintry kickoff to summer, but there were ways to pass the time. As an innkeeper, I couldn’t imagine anything worse.

  I walk into the dining room, where I’ve hung a chalkboard in an ornate frame. On it, I’ve written—in beautiful, looping calligraphy that took me hours as well as many glasses of wine and erasers to create—the activity schedule for guests:

  Friday

  5:00 p.m.—Welcome! Bubbles & Bites (Happy Hour in Our Turret Overlooking Lake Michigan)

  Saturday

  7:00 a.m.—Coffee

  8:30–10:00 a.m.—Farm to Table Breakfast (with coffee and mimosas)

  11:00 a.m.—Yoga (on the patio)

  2:00 p.m.—Orchard/U-Pick/Winery Tour

  6:00 p.m.—Champagne Sunset Boat Ride on the Adie Lou (sign-up required)

  Sunday

  7:00 a.m.—Coffee

  8:30–10:00 a.m.—Farm to Table Breakfast (with coffee and mimosas)

  11:00 a.m.—Yoga (on the beach)

  1:00 p.m.—Sandcastle Competition on the Beach

  3:00 p.m.—Rock Hunting on the Lakeshore

  6:00 p.m.—Champagne Sunset Boat Ride on the Adie Lou (sign-up required)

  Monday

  7:00 a.m.—Coffee

  8:30–10:00 a.m.—Farm to Table Breakfast (with coffee and mimosas)

  11:00 a.m.—Restorative Yoga (on the beach)

  1:00 p.m.—Checkout & Goodbyes

  Nearly everything, I now realize, revolves around good weather, or, at least, decent weather.

  “Not snow,” I say, my voice rising and echoing in the dining room. “Not windchill. Not this crapfest!”

  Sonny opens his eyes and stares at me.

  “What do I do now with my guests, Sonny?” I ask. “Build fortresses out of blankets?”