The Summer Cottage

by Viola Shipman

  I begin to line the buffet with chafing dishes and then bring out the food, setting explanatory nameplates before each dish: the two casseroles, the coffee cakes, fresh fruit, a pot of steel cut oatmeal, a variety of cereals, along with bacon and sausage. I place wheat, white and rye bread near a toaster, along with a variety of jams and jellies made by a local orchard and pie pantry.

  I retreat back into the kitchen—other innkeepers have instructed me to let guests find their own flow—and place the remaining casseroles in the oven to bake. I crack the kitchen door and watch the guests gather for breakfast.

  It’s a bit like watching students on the first day of school claim their places in the lunchroom. Some guests—like Mark and Mildred, who is already dressed and in full makeup, feathered red hat atop her head—are the first in line and first to sit at the expansive dining room table.

  Other guests hold back, eyeing the crowd and the space. Some continue to sip coffee in the living room, while a few remain asleep upstairs.

  “Good morning! What’s your name? Where are you from?” Mildred asks every guest who passes.

  Everyone responds politely, some joining Mildred and Mark at the table. Others, I notice, are not your typical B and B patrons: they take their food and find a quiet spot elsewhere, while some whisper that they want to eat in the turret.

  Many couples do not speak as they eat. Some read the newspaper or a book while their spouse stares at a cell phone. Some couples plan their itinerary for the day, writing down timelines and activities.

  What a fascinating social dynamic, I think, spying on my own guests.

  I step out of the kitchen to refresh the food.

  “Have a seat,” a middle-aged woman named Bev says.

  “Oh, thank you, but I can’t,” I say. “Too much to do.”

  “Have a seat,” Steve insists from his chair under Darryl in the living room.

  I pull up a chair at the dining room table, and guests bombard me with questions, about Saugatuck, the cottage and its history, what it was like to renovate it. But most of the questions center around buying a second home in Saugatuck.

  “Where should we look?”

  “What do you think of the market?”

  “How expensive is the lakeshore?”

  “What’s it like to live here?”

  “It’s...” I stop, searching for just the right word, and my voice wavers with emotion when I finally find it. “Magical.”

  I tell them the story of my grandparents and of coming here every summer as a girl, and they stare at me—eyes wide—captivated by my every word.

  I head back into the kitchen with an armload of dirty dishes, and I fill the sink with soap and turn on the faucet. My legs feel shaky, and I take a seat by the patio door and pet Sonny, who has laid his big head in my lap.

  “They want the dream,” I say to Sonny, my voice still shaky. “They want a little peace and happiness.” I stop. “They want to be a kid again. They want to regain the joy we lose as adults.” I smile. “They want to leave their troubles at the door. They want the rules of this cottage, Sonny.”

  He stands and licks the tears from my face, when I hear a soft knock on the kitchen door.

  “Would it be possible to get some more of the casserole and coffee cake?” Bev asks when I open the door. “My husband loves everything, but he’s too embarrassed to ask.”

  “Of course,” I say. “The casserole is warming in the oven. I’ll bring both out right now.”

  I bring out the coffee cake and then place the casseroles in the chafing dishes, shutting the door behind me each time to hide the growing mess in the kitchen.

  “Can I ask you how to get to this winery?” Mildred asks.

  “Can you tell me where this cottage is located?” another man asks. “My navigation app keeps locating it in the middle of Lake Michigan.”

  I laugh. “Let me get you both some old-school maps,” I say, returning from the entry and taking a seat at the dining room table. I chart out how to get to each place, when Steve walks in to fill up his mug with coffee.

  “Um, Adie Lou,” he says. “There’s water coming from underneath your kitchen door.”

  I turn, and a lake has formed in the dining room. As I try to run into the kitchen to shut off the faucet, I slip and go down—hard—splashing water everywhere.

  Steve sprints into the kitchen, while guests throw their napkins into the water.

  Mildred walks up and extends her hand.

  “Is it too soon to say, ‘Go Jump in the Lake, Adie Lou?’”

  I look at Mildred, her red cheeks sagging toward me, the feathers on her hat flying, and I laugh like a kid who just got finished engaging in a food fight.

  “No,” I say to her, taking her hand. “Not at all.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  “No flood!” I announce following Sunday’s breakfast.

  The guests break out into spontaneous applause.

  There is a distinct difference in the guests today: people finally seem more relaxed.

  This, in spite of my waterworks and the abnormally chilly and windy weather that has forced the cancellation of nearly all of my planned activities, from yoga to sunset cruises.

  And yet fewer people are working on their laptops, more are interacting, and more are, well, just chill.

  How long does it take people to unwind and finally relax? I think. How long did it take me to relax on vacation?

  “We were supposed to have a sandcastle-building competition today,” I say. “But I think it might be too cold to spend hours on the lake. But for those who might be interested, I thought we’d just cut directly to the rock hunt and go on a long beach walk. So, maybe around one we’ll leave from here. Meet me in the lobby, and bundle up!”

  Nearly every guest—including Trey and Cissy, who have yet to join the others for breakfast—is waiting in the entry when I walk out. We head to the beach, me handing out extra scarves, mittens and gloves for those who I see are unprepared.

  “This wind is sobering,” Bev says, as the group heads toward Pier Cove.

  I point out different rocks and stones to the group, sharing stories of how my parents and I collected them, and most guests excitedly begin plucking ones they want to take home.

  Even Trey, I notice, is hunkered down over the stream running into the lake, picking stones from the clear, cold water and examining each one closely.

  Cissy is staring out over the water—looking like a model in her expensive coat and leather gloves, stunning and serene as if she’s filming a perfume commercial.

  “So, did Nate send you guys here to spy on me?” I ask, startling her.

  She turns, her face falling, my question catching her completely off guard.

  For a split second, I can see by her expression that she is thinking of lying to me, but instead she flashes the softest of smiles and says, “How did you know?”

  “This doesn’t seem like your type of vacation,” I say. “Oh, and I saw Nate’s name flash on Trey’s cell when I was checking you into your room. I then double-checked your reservation, and saw that someone in Nate’s office had made it.”

  “Nice job, Nancy Drew,” Cissy says with a small laugh.

  She turns to me and puts her hand on my shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t want any part of this, and I certainly don’t want to hurt you.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  Cissy turns toward the water, sighs and then turns back to me. “Trey says Nate misses you.”

  “He what?” I ask, my voice suddenly bellowing over the roar of the lake, loud enough to cause guests to look at us. “What about Fuschia?”

  “I think they didn’t work out,” she says, adding with an eye roll, “Shocker. According to Trey, Nate wonders if he made the right decision. Between us? I think he’s
kicking himself, and he wanted us to gauge if you were truly happy.”

  I turn toward the lake, and it suddenly begins to spin.

  Did I give up on our marriage too soon? No, I think. He gave up on me, though.

  I feel dizzy, and I think of Evan. What does this even mean? Would he be better off with his parents back together?

  “Whoooop!”

  I turn and see Steve running toward the water, shucking his coat and gloves as he does. He runs directly into the lake, screaming, and dives in, headfirst.

  “What’s going on?” I yell.

  He emerges, his face blue, his lips trembling. “I’ve always wanted to do that!” he says, shaking his arms. “Polar bear plunge!”

  “Are you crazy?” Steve’s wife says, bringing him his coat and gloves. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “No,” he says, laughing and turning to the group. “When did we lose our sense of adventure? When did we stop being kids?”

  Steve looks at me and says as his teeth chatter, “What rule of the summer cottage is that, Adie Lou? Go jump in the lake?”

  “Number 10,” I say.

  All of a sudden, my eyes well with tears.

  “Are you okay?” Steve asks.

  Before I can answer, Mildred kicks off her shoes, rolls up her pants and takes a few clumsy steps into the water. “It’s cold!” she yells.

  “Mildred,” Mark says, approaching the water. “Get out of there. You’ll catch your death of cold.”

  “Nonsense,” Mildred says with a yelp, before leaning down and splashing her husband with water. She wades out of the lake and calls to me, “Time I have a little fun, right?”

  I nod, seeing Mildred—like I now do Iris—in a completely different light. And then I think of what Evan’s teacher had told me.

  I didn’t give in to the 10 percent, I think, a smile emerging. These guests have honed in my joy rather than my negativity and stress.

  I turn to Cissy. “I made the right decision,” I say. “I love my new life.”

  I stop and look at Steve and Mildred, who are giggling like children.

  “You can tell Nate to go jump in a lake,” I continue. “He never did.”

  Part Eleven

  Rule #11:

  Build a Sandcastle

  THIRTY-NINE

  June

  “Fantasma! Fantasma!”

  I am stripping sheets and remaking beds on the second floor when I hear my new employee, Esme, scream. I sprint out of the Go Rock Hunting room, Sonny following and barking his head off, and round the corner into the Boat Rides Are a Shore Thing room, where I see Scooter with a sheet draped over him, his head sticking out, a sheepish look on his face.

  “I’m so sorry,” he is saying over and over to Esme. “I thought you were Adie Lou.”

  He turns when he sees me and flails his arms, the sheet flapping, making him look very much like a ghost.

  “It was a joke. I wanted to surprise you.”

  “Surprise or scare?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. “Are you okay, Esme?”

  “Sí, Adie Lou,” she says, before looking at Scooter and wagging a finger. “Dia de los Muertos is already over.”

  “Lo siento mucho,” Scooter apologizes, pulling the sheet off his body. “Lo siento mucho.”

  “I can take over in here, Esme,” I say. “If you don’t mind changing the laundry and then starting on the bathrooms, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Sí,” she says, giving Scooter a wary look one last time. “Vámonos, Sonny.” The dog follows his new best friend out the door.

  “Sorry,” Scooter says again, dragging the word out for emphasis. “I wanted to see if you survived the weekend. I’m sorry you weren’t able to take the Adie Lou out for a sunset cruise.”

  I take a seat on the mattress and begin tugging fresh cases onto the pillows.

  “Yeah, I survived,” I say. “The weather was a total nightmare, I had to cancel nearly all of my planned activities, I considered killing my first two guests, and my final guests arrived six hours late and—oh!—were sent as spies by my ex-husband.”

  I toss a finished pillow onto the bed and then begin pulling the next case on another one.

  “Besides that, Mr. Lincoln, how was the play?” Scooter asks, his eyes wide.

  “You know, in spite all of that, I have to say that it was pretty remarkable,” I say. “I surprised myself.”

  “In what ways?”

  I pull the case onto the pillow and toss it on the bed before looking at Scooter. “In every way.” I stop. “I think...no, strike that...I know I made the right decision in spite of everything I’ve gone through. This is what I was meant to do.”

  Scooter takes a seat on the bed and puts his arm around me. “I’m proud of you, Adie Lou,” he says.

  “Thanks.”

  “So...” he finally says. “What about the spies? Aren’t you going to tell me about that?”

  “Let’s just say I made the right decision about that, too,” I say, slapping his thigh.

  “Okay,” he says. “I won’t ask any more questions.”

  “Thanks, Barbara Walters.”

  “You’re dating yourself,” he says.

  “I thought I was dating you,” I say.

  Without warning, Scooter pulls me close and kisses me with such passion I fall back onto the bed, Scooter on top of me. He kisses me again, and I feel as if the world around me is falling away—the mattress, the room, the cottage—and it’s just us, holding one another while floating in the air. It feels nice. It feels right.

  “You smell like fabric softener,” he finally says with a small laugh.

  “You’re so charming,” I say, as he kisses me again.

  When I open my eyes, I scream. There is yet another apparition hovering in the door.

  “Ghost!” I yell as Scooter sits upright.

  “What the hell?” he yells.

  “Fantasma!” I hear Esme yelling, Sonny barking wildly. “Fantasma!”

  Esme rushes into the room and tosses the laundry basket she is holding over the ghost’s head as if she is corralling a wild horse. She holds on to the basket as the figure struggles to free itself.

  “Oww! Stop!” the ghost yells, before struggling to shrug off the basket and then the sheet.

  “Evan?” I ask, bolting upright.

  “Tu hijo?” Esme asks.

  “Your son?” Scooter asks.

  Sonny barks.

  For a moment, we all stare at each other, doing hammy double takes, as if we’re in an episode of I Love Lucy.

  Finally, Evan says, “Actually, I think I’m the one who should be a little bit scared by what I just saw.”

  “I’m sorry,” Scooter says, scooting away from me on the bed, his hands in the air.

  “C’mon, Ethel,” I say, grabbing Evan’s hand. “Let’s talk.”

  FORTY

  “This isn’t how I pictured you two meeting for the first time,” I say, standing in the kitchen making sandwiches.

  “That’s not how I pictured surprising you,” Evan says. “At least I know we both have the same sense of humor.”

  “That may not be a good thing,” I say.

  We both burst into laughter at the same time.

  “You know, I’ve been ghosted before, but this takes it to a whole new level,” Evan says. “Such a normal family.”

  “Don’t I make you proud?” I ask. “Walking in on your mother making out with a stranger, and then getting a laundry basket thrown over your head?”

  “Like a Hallmark movie,” Evan says.

  “How do you know about Hallmark?”

  “All the girls watch them on campus,” he says. “I’ve been forced to watch a few of the holiday movies, too.” Evan blows the bangs from his eyes. “They’re not so bad.” He hands
me a tomato, and I can tell he wants to ask me something.

  “Yes?”

  “When were you going to tell me about your friend?”

  “Friend? That sounds so old-fashioned,” I say.

  “That’s what Grandma and Grampa always used to say, wasn’t it?” he asks.

  “It was,” I say, a smile crossing my face as I remember. I take the tomato and begin to slice, avoiding eye contact with my son. “Soon. I just didn’t want to seem like I was rushing things.” I look up at him. “I didn’t want to upset you.”

  “I know,” he says. “I appreciate that. Don’t get mad at me for asking, but do you think you might be rushing things? I mean, the divorce, the job, the inn, the renovation, the grand opening...and a boyfriend?”

  I finish slicing the tomato, thinking of the right thing to say. Nothing comes.

  “Probably,” I say, placing slices of tomato on top of the turkey breast. “Believe me, I’ve questioned and second-guessed myself more than a victim in a Lifetime movie.” I stop and look at Evan. “But it feels right. It feels nice to feel good again...to feel young again...to feel happy again.”

  Evan nods. “I bet,” he says. “Good for you. And I want you to know I’m okay with it, really. I just want you to be happy.” He grabs his sandwich and shoves it in his mouth, taking a monstrous bite. “I mean, it’s way better than seeing your potential new stepmother on campus.”

  “Now that would be a Lifetime movie,” I say with a laugh. I take my sandwich and head toward the patio as Evan polishes his off without a plate. “Grab another one and join me.”

  We take a seat and Evan looks around. “This is beautiful, Mom,” he says. “I still can’t believe all that you’ve done in such a short time.” He takes a bite of his second sandwich. “You should be so proud. I’m so proud of you.”

  “Thanks, honey,” I say, my heart in my throat. “It’s so good to have you home. I can’t believe you’re going to be here for the summer. I need the help.”

  Evan laughs. “Gee, thanks, Mom.”