Sonny seems to know this is both a sarcastic and rhetorical question, so he shuts his eyes and refuses to acknowledge it.
I head back into the kitchen and go over the checklist I’ve printed that details every hour of the weekend: what I’m making and when; staff schedule; turndown service. I’ve planned every minute. My heart begins to race as my mind flashes back to last week’s disastrous run-through at the inn.
I’ve planned every minute as if things will go according to schedule, I think, correcting myself.
“Don’t panic, Adie Lou,” I tell myself. “You’ve got this. Remember what Scooter said—‘You can prepare all you want, but sometimes you just gotta play the game.’”
“C’mon, Sonny,” I say, heading into the living room and up the stairs. “One final walk-through.”
Sonny and I recheck every guest room: personalized guest books, with maps, and my own dining, driving and shopping recommendations, sit on each dresser. The rooms are clean as a whistle, the bathrooms spotless.
“Better go take a shower,” I say. “Today is not a day to rush or be off guard, right, boy?”
Sonny barks. And then he lifts his head and barks again.
I cock my head, just like he’s doing, and realize that he’s not barking in agreement with my question. He’s barking because the doorbell is ringing. Over and over again.
I tighten my robe, head downstairs and open the door.
“Can I help you?”
I am greeted by a gray-haired couple who look to be in their sixties. They are surrounded by a mountain of luggage, and the woman is wearing a giant red hat festooned with feathers.
“Hi! We’re the Cranstons!”
I blink hard, once, twice.
“We’re here!”
I continue to stare.
“Mark and Mildred,” the woman says. “Cranston.”
“I don’t know any Cranstons,” I say.
“Isn’t this The Summer Cottage Inn? Aren’t you Adie Lou Kruger, the innkeeper?” Mark asks.
Oh, no, I think, trying to pull it together while not allowing shock to register on my face. They’re over three hours early.
Mark pulls a pair of reading glasses from the front pocket of his jacket and takes a step back, closely eyeing the cottage and then me. He then yanks his cell from his jacket pocket and taps on it. “Sure looks like you,” he says, holding the phone up to my face.
Mark has pulled up a picture of me from the inn’s website. I smile.
“That’s me all right,” I say with a small laugh. “I’m so sorry, but check-in’s not until 3:00 p.m.”
“But we’re here,” Mildred says, waving her arms, the jumble of necklaces and bracelets she’s wearing setting off a cacophony of brain-jarring jangles. “You’re not just going to throw us out on the streets, are you?”
Mildred’s face—which is caked in heavy makeup—sags. “Are you?” she asks again, the red circles on her cheeks drooping, her tone pitiful.
“Of course not,” I say quickly. “I’m still doing a lot of last-minute things. Please, come in.”
“Good,” she says. “Because I need to use your ladies’ room.”
Mildred enters, the feathers from her hat brushing my face. I sneeze, and Sonny begins to bark.
“Who’s this?” Mildred asks.
“Sonny,” I say. “The inn’s mascot.”
Mildred takes a step back. “Oh. I see.”
“He’s very friendly,” I say. “And I’ll have him in my suite most of the time.”
She takes another step back.
“Are you allergic?” I ask.
“No,” Mark says for his wife. “She’s just not a pet person.”
“Messy,” Mildred says. “Like children.”
“Well,” I say in a cheery voice, “I have both.”
“I see,” Mildred says, her arms now raised as if she’s going to be mugged.
“Let me put him in my office, while I show you to the bathroom.”
I lead Mildred to the new guest bathroom Frank encouraged me to build on the main level, and then trick Sonny into my suite by pretending to have a biscuit in my robe pocket.
“C’mon, Sonny,” I say.
“Who doesn’t like dogs?” I ask Sonny once my door is closed. I pat the bed, and he jumps on it, wagging his tail for a treat that doesn’t exist. “And children? People who cover their furniture in plastic and put down rubber runners on their carpet, that’s who.” I steam for a second. “And who shows up four hundred hours early?” I take a deep breath, go to the bathroom and dab some lavender onto the back of my neck.
When I return, Mildred and Mark are in the kitchen. Mildred is opening cabinet doors, and Mark’s head is in the refrigerator.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“It’s lunchtime,” Mark says. “What are you serving?”
I can feel my last nerve—the lone cable that’s keeping my personal elevator from collapsing a hundred floors—begin to fray.
Keep it together, Adie Lou, I think.
“This is the inn’s opening day, and you’re my very first guests,” I say in a faux chipper voice, which makes me sound a bit like a demonic pageant contestant. “Could I get a photo of you two to commemorate this historic moment?”
Mildred turns, her face beaming. “How thoughtful of you,” she says, a slight Southern lilt in her voice.
My plan of distraction worked, I think, my heart soaring.
“I’m very photogenic,” Mildred tells me. “I’m president of my Kentucky town’s Red Hat Ladies,” she continues, her voice filled with pride. “I’m always in the local paper for our philanthropic and social duties. Always have to look my best. Never know when the paparazzi might jump out and take your picture, am I right?”
I nod.
“Where do you want to take the picture?” Mark asks, as Mildred licks her fingers and slicks down his hair.
“How about the front entry?” I propose, leading them in front of the Cottage Rules sign. “Every room in the inn is themed around one of these rules, which are meant to remind visitors of what’s most important in life—the simplest things. My grandparents owned this cottage, and my parents came up with these rules and created this sign.”
Mildred analyzes the sign and turns to me. “Kinda dull, don’t you think?” she asks. “And the lighting here is terrible.” She cocks her head in thought, the feathers on her hat fluttering, as if Mildred is about to take flight. “How about the entrance to our room?” Mildred suggests, a big smile on her face. “First check-in.” Mildred looks at me. “What room are we in?”
I don’t know off the top of my head, I want to say. You’re THREE HOURS early.
“I know we’ve already paid in full,” Mark says, his chest puffing.
“Let me check,” I say with a smile.
Thankfully—after inspecting other inns—I placed a small stand in the entry, much like the ones restaurants place their hosts and hostesses behind. Scooter built it from reclaimed wood, and it’s not only beautiful but fits the decor of the cottage. He added hooks for room keys, space for my laptop, calendar, notepads and maps. I place my laptop on the top of the stand.
“You’re in...” I begin, before nearly choking on my words. “Go Jump in the Lake!”
It takes all of my willpower not to bust out laughing.
How appropriate, I think.
“It’s a beautiful en suite,” I say, “decorated with my family’s photos and paintings of Lake Michigan. And, yes, you’re paid in full.” I stop, squelch a laugh and say with complete sincerity, “I picked this room especially for you.”
Mildred beams.
“I can show you to your room,” I say, grabbing the key. “It’s on the third floor.”
Mildred’s face sags. “Third floor, Mark,” she says with a big
sigh.
“We have a ranch,” Mark says. “Mildred likes ranch homes.”
“This is a historic 1800s cottage,” I say. “Lots of nooks and crannies.”
“And steps,” Mildred sighs.
I move toward the steps when Mildred says, “Our luggage...”
I look at her.
“I can store it for you until 3:00 p.m.,” I say. “There are some wonderful lunch spots in Saugatuck. I know you’re hungry.”
“But our luggage will be in our room when we return, right?” Mildred asks, her voice rising, her head shaking, her feathers—literally—beginning to ruffle.
No, Mildred, I want to say, thinking of the mountain of luggage on the front porch, my back already aching. You’re responsible for that. This is a B and B, not the Four Seasons.
Instead, I inhale my lavender and say, “Yes, of course.”
“Good,” Mildred says. “And do you offer a welcome glass of champagne?”
I need one, I think.
“Bubbles and Bites are at five,” I say. “Champagne will be served.”
“But not now?” Mildred asks. She has yet to move.
“Of course,” I say. “Let me show you to your room first.”
As I head toward the staircase, the Cottage Rules sign fills my eyes.
“Go Jump in the Lake, Mildred!”
I didn’t mean for the words to come out, but they do.
Mildred’s eyes widen, and she stares at me.
“Your room,” I say, the hidden meaning in my proclamation giving me the strength to move forward. “This way.”
“Oh,” Mildred says. “Yes.”
THIRTY-SIX
I click my cell, and its light illuminates the front porch.
Nine thirteen p.m.
I grit my teeth so hard I can actually hear them grind. I force myself to stop, worrying I might crack one and spend my first weekend as an innkeeper looking like an extra from Deliverance.
It is pitch-black, and I am rocking on the glider—Sonny’s head in my lap—waiting for my final guests to arrive. Other innkeepers had warned me about the dreaded “late arrivals”—those who showed up hours after check-in—but I didn’t anticipate it happening day one.
Right now, I think, remembering the words of Mrs. Dawkins, one of Evan’s teachers who became a good friend, my classroom is 90-10.
She used to say that every year 90 percent of the children’s parents in her classroom—like their kids—were incredible people. But 10 percent were a nightmare, and—in the beginning—she ended up focusing nearly all of her energy and attention on the smallest, most negative percentage.
“I learned I was shortchanging the ones who needed me most,” she said.
I think of my first guests—an adorable couple named the Donovans and a sweet woman named Bev and her husband—who have been so kind and gracious.
Don’t shortchange them, Adie Lou, I tell myself. Don’t let the marvelous Mark and Mildred and these latecomers take away from the others’—and your—experience.
All of the inn’s guests have gone to dinner, and the cottage, for a blessed moment, is silent. Cozy Cottage is at rest.
The snow flurries have ended, and the skies have cleared, making it abnormally cold, even for May in Michigan. But the stars are spectacularly bright, and I lift my head and search the night skies.
Spring up and fall down, I can hear my father say. The Big Dipper shines high in the sky on spring evenings but close to the horizon on autumn evenings.
When it was warm, my dad would let me sleep on the front porch in a sleeping bag, the waves lulling me into a deep slumber. When he’d tuck me in, he’d lie down beside me, and we’d search the skies, my dad pointing out the planets and the stars, naming each one.
I nervously click my phone again. There’s an app for stargazing now. Just hold it up to the sky and—Bingo!—it tells you.
As I wait, I study the stars and then the cottage, thinking of my dad.
Where does the wonder go as you age, I muse. Did I trade in the magic of this place for selfish reasons?
I am exhausted. So tired, in fact, that my head is buzzing and my shoulders ache. Sonny groans and rolls onto his side, making the glider swing.
I look out over Lake Michigan, and it looks as if it’s cloaked in ethereal light. I look up and spot the Big Dipper.
My mind turns to Sadie. When she looked out the turret, she saw the same stars—the same Big Dipper—as I do now. But her stars were “cross-grain’d.”
Mine seem to be shimmering with hope and pointing in a definitive direction.
The Big Dipper seems to be telling me—with its bright stars—that life is all interconnected, a connect-the-dot pattern to something bigger if we just take the time to see it, to follow it.
“No,” I say to myself, petting Sonny. “There is wonder, and this place is still magical. I’m just sharing it now with the world.” I stop. “I am seeking my own stars.”
I consider how many times my parents sat in this exact spot—on this same glider—waiting for me to come home. How many times did my grandparents do the same? And now, that continues, just in a completely new way.
My first day has not gone as planned. For some reason, I anticipated all of the guests arriving at the same time, like summer campers descending from a bus. I was planning to hand them sparklers—as my dad had done with my family for so long—and recite the rules of the cottage to them as an introduction to the beauty and spirit of the inn. But Mildred and Mark had thrown me off-kilter, and by the time I’d showered, I returned to the front desk to find more guests who’d arrived early.
Sonny’s breathing calms me, and I shut my eyes and listen to the soundtrack of Michigan. Over the rhythmic thump of the waves, the peepers sing and the bullfrogs moan.
Once spring establishes itself in Michigan, nature returns after a winter of hibernation, and a chorus of insects and frogs sing their glorious return to life. My dad, like so many Michiganders, calls a certain frog that lives in these parts “peepers” for their distinctive call—a single, high-pitched peep—which is known as a harbinger to spring and summer. As the heat and humidity increase, their peeps become a deafening chorus. Accompanying them, cicadas serve as altos to their sopranos, and their calls—akin to violins—rise and fall from song to silence as if a conductor were leading them. The baritones are the bullfrogs, whose resonant, resounding moan reverberates like a bass drum over the landscape.
The sound of a car engine shatters the symphony, and I open my eyes. Headlights illuminate Lakeshore Drive and the dunes. I squint my eyes and scan the darkness. The car—a white BMW SUV—slows, and I can now see its illuminated interior: a strip of soft blue rings the doors, and the dashboard navigation shines. It turns, and the gravel drive announces its approach. Sonny wakes and elicits a deep, long growl, a warning woof that echoes across the lakeshore.
“It’s okay,” I say as much for him as for myself. “Is this finally our last guests?”
I stand and usher Sonny into the cottage, luring him into my suite before turning on all of the outdoor lights for the new arrivals.
“I’m at least going to do things correctly for one set of guests,” I say.
I grab three sparklers and a fireplace lighter from the basket on the front door. As the guests make their way up the steps, I can hear what sounds like a man and woman arguing.
“Traffic was a nightmare because it’s Memorial Day weekend,” the woman is saying.
“I had to work,” the man says.
“Until six on a holiday Friday?”
“Yes,” he says. “Someone has to work.”
My eyes are wide when they approach.
“Welcome to The Summer Cottage Inn,” I say, finding a reserve tank of energy and enthusiasm. “You must be Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell. I’m Adie Lou Kruger. How was you
r drive?”
The two glare at one another, and I nervously shuffle my feet in the awkward silence. Finally, the woman says, “Hi, Adie Lou.”
“Hello,” I say uncertainly.
“It’s Trey and Cissy,” she says, her eyes growing as wide as mine just were.
“Hi,” I repeat, sounding like a parakeet.
Am I supposed to know these people? I think.
“Trey and Cissy Caldwell,” she continues, her voice filling with irritation. “Remember?”
Oh, my God. The Caldwells. Nate’s Caldwells. The bond trader and his snooty wife. The epicureans who get invited to all the hot Chicago restaurant openings. The couple who don’t watch TV. The ones who had a chef and maid and twin girls who modeled for J. Crew.
I realize I’m not speaking.
“Oh, my gosh! Trey and Cissy! I’m so sorry. I didn’t put two and two together. It’s been a crazy first day,” I babble. “How are you? How long has it been?”
“Well,” Cissy says.
I hate people that say “well” when you ask them how they are. I’m not specifically inquiring about their health. It’s a common phrase. You can say “good.”
She continues, “I think the last time we saw each other was when we went to that lecture by the Swedish philosopher at the university, and we all went out after.” Cissy smiles like the Cheshire cat, her perfectly capped teeth shining in the darkness. “You fell asleep at the table, remember? Nate got so upset at you for being a bad hostess.”
I remember now. I was exhausted from working all day, getting Evan to after-school practices, making him dinner, finding a babysitter and being bored out of my mind. And that was the night Nate thought it was so hilarious to call me Dr. Adeleine when he got drunk.
I hold out my arms and give Cissy a hug, before doing the same to Trey, who I inadvertently poke in the back with my sparklers and lighter.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Crazy busy,” Trey says. He stands back and looks at me. “How are you?” he asks in a tone that suggests I’ve recently been institutionalized.
“Lots of changes,” I say.
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