The Summer Cottage

by Viola Shipman

  “That’s not what I meant,” I say, taking a bite of my sandwich. “But it’s true. How were finals?”

  “Good, I think,” he says. “I feel like I did really well. Grades should post in a week or so.” Evan finishes his sandwich and downs a bottle of water. “How did your first weekend go?”

  I fill him in on more of the details—save for the information about his father—and he leans forward, enraptured by the stories.

  “Well, I hope I can take some of the pressure off,” he says. “When do the next guests arrive?”

  “I have a few midweek guests, but the inn is booked again for this weekend.”

  “Wow,” Evan says, reaching over to pull a piece of crust off my sandwich and feeding it to Sonny. “That’s great.”

  “It’s my first women’s weekend,” I say.

  “That sounds ominous,” he says with a laugh. “Is it okay for a man to be here?”

  “Depends on the man,” I say with a smile, before explaining the various weekends and activities I have planned. I get up and begin to deadhead a few flowers around the patio. “I can’t tell you what it was like to see a group of strangers come into our cottage and—after a few days—become real people again. They became the people we used to become when we’d come here for the summer.” I toss some spent stems onto the patio. “I felt like I finally had found my purpose.”

  Evan smiles. “That’s amazing, Mom,” he says. “But I have to ask one more question. Is it weird to have strangers here?”

  A cardinal lands in a tree and begins to chirp, deep red on vibrant green. I cock my head, just like the bird, and turn toward Evan. “I feel like the cottage has found its purpose, too,” I say.

  “So, what do you want me to do around here?” Evan asks. “I have some ideas, but I know you do, too.”

  “I’m impressed,” I say. “I half expected you to spend most of your days hanging out on the beach and meeting girls.”

  “Oh, that’s definitely on my list,” Evan says with a big smile. “But in the few minutes I will have free...”

  I laugh. “Let me hear your ideas first,” I say.

  “Hmm,” Evan says. “From that misdirection, I have a feeling I might not like your ideas as much as mine.”

  “You know me too well,” I say. “I just think your ideas are going to be, well, a little more fun than mine. Shoot.”

  “I want to focus on marketing and social media,” Evan says, his deep voice growing higher with excitement. “I want to post lots of pictures and video on Facebook, Twitter and other social media to show everything the inn and town have to offer. I want to bring it alive for people. In today’s world, they need to experience it to understand it.”

  He continues. “I want to brainstorm some fun contests and giveaways, so that we get people interacting with us and sharing with their friends. And I want to expand your women’s weekends, especially since summer will wind down and your outdoor activities will need to become indoor activities.”

  I pick up the stems from the patio—pulling one from the mouth of Sonny, who has decided to try to eat one while I wasn’t paying attention making it look as if he has a green cigarette dangling from his mouth—and take a seat again. “I kind of forgot about that being so focused on the launch and short-term,” I say.

  “There are so many ways to expand on what you’ve started,” he says. “Seasonal cooking classes, the fall Gallery Stroll combined with your own painting classes, winter women’s pamper weekends...”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I think some women will love your empowerment weekends, but I also think some women just want to get away from their kids and lives for a weekend,” he says. “You could have in-room massages, wine tastings, maybe a fashion show with a local shop.

  “And a lot of people love winter, too, Mom,” he continues. “We could theme it Winter at The Summer Cottage and have cross-country ski weekends with hot cider and hot chocolate, holiday shopping and decorating, romantic Valentine’s getaways... Don’t most of the shop owners in town say you thrive in the summer but off-season is what keeps you alive?”

  My mouth drops as I stare at my son.

  When did he become so grown up? When did he become so savvy? When did he become a man?

  “Evan! I love this!” I say.

  And then he blows his bangs from his eyes and ducks his head, and the confident man I just saw becomes the little boy I know.

  “Thanks,” he says, his cheeks flushing.

  “My ideas aren’t so exciting. More along the lines of manual labor,” I say, giving Evan an “I’m sorry” expression. “I need help with a lot of the outdoor maintenance that I really didn’t budget for, like mowing, weeding, trimming trees, keeping the steps and patio clear of moss, wiping down chairs in the morning, hauling beach chairs, towels and picnic baskets down for guests...”

  “So, I’m the pack mule,” he says.

  Esme comes out carrying two huge rugs. She walks into the yard, tosses the rugs onto the grass and then lifts them up one at a time, giving them giant shakes. Dust motes fill the shafts of light, scattering this way and that like pollen.

  She turns to us and says, “Just like mi madre,” before heading back inside with the rugs.

  Evan looks at me, his eyes filled with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to imply manual labor was beneath me,” he says. “I didn’t mean that I was too good for it.”

  I reach out and take my son’s hand in my own. “I know, sweetheart,” I say. “I know.”

  I begin to tie the spent stems I’ve laid on the patio table into a chain, just like I did when I was a girl.

  “I couldn’t find one person who wanted to work here and was actually capable of doing the job until a woman at a local orchard recommended Esme,” I say. “Her husband picks fruit all summer, and then they return to Mexico. Their children are always on the move. And do you know what she told me when I interviewed her? ‘I want my children to have a better life than me.’”

  Without warning, my eyes well with tears.

  “That’s all any parent wants,” I say. “And people judge her and her family every day, but she never complains. She shows up, works hard and helps make this inn run smoothly.”

  I stop. “We have a lot that is wrong in our country right now, but I can tell you this woman and her family are not one of them.”

  Evan squeezes my hand as Esme returns with two more rugs.

  Evan stands and walks over to Esme.

  “Show me how you and your mother do this,” Evan says.

  Esme looks over at me, a big smile crossing her face. She picks up a rug and flips it in the air—once, twice, three times—before floating it gently to the ground.

  “I think you’re stronger than I am,” Evan says.

  “Sí,” Esme says. “Probablemente.”

  Evan laughs.

  “You try,” Esme says, nodding at the remaining rug.

  Evan picks it up, gives it a flip and promptly smacks himself in the face with the back end of the rug.

  Esme laughs and claps as Sonny comes running. The dog grabs the rug out of Evan’s hands and starts running through the yard, Evan giving chase. He finally retrieves it from Sonny’s mouth at the edge of the woods.

  “Sonny is mas fuerte than you,” Esme says. “He did better job. I think it’s clean now.”

  “Do you mind showing Evan what you do during the day?” I ask as she returns with the rugs.

  “Of course,” she says.

  As the two head inside, Evan asks, “Esme is such a pretty name. What does it mean?”

  Esme stops. “Emerald,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “Mi madre said I had the most beautiful green eyes when I was born.”

  “You do,” Evan says, nodding.

  I twist the braided stems in my hand and then slip it behind m
y ear, wondering how the beauty of childhood and equality of humans too often gets lost in the absurdity of adulthood and inequality of the world.

  FORTY-ONE

  “Esme and I have the inn under control, Mom,” Evan says. “Go do your thing.”

  “Sí,” Esme confirms, before bumping Evan with her elbow. “Especially since every guest will be with her.”

  The two try to stifle their laughter, which only succeeds in making their bodies shake even more.

  I try to move, but my legs won’t work. My stomach is filled with butterflies, and I feel a tad faint.

  “Are you okay, Mom?” Evan asks.

  “I haven’t been this nervous in ages,” I say. “What if they don’t get anything out of this? What if they paid all of this money and walk away empty?” I stop, and when I speak, my voice is as wavy as the lake. “What if they see that I’m a sham?”

  Evan puts his arm around my waist. “What if, what if, what if,” he says in a soft tone. “What if ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ were candy and nuts? Then every day would be Christmas.”

  I look at him, eyes wide, a big smile crossing my face. That’s the old phrase my dad quoted to me and Evan growing up: we all doubt ourselves, which ultimately paralyzes us from becoming who we want to be.

  I inhale, hug Evan and take a step toward the door, my legs stronger. I stop on the rug by the front door and turn. “Bring everyone to the beach at noon,” I say. “I want to get everything set up first.”

  Evan nods, and as I turn to leave, my eyes catch on the Cottage Rules sign by the front door, almost as if my father is standing by it, waving his arms and pointing.

  I see it, Dad, I think. I hear you.

  I turn, feeling emboldened, my gait suddenly filled with confidence, and walk out the front door.

  It is a magical June day on the lakeshore, the kind of day that guests cross their fingers to get while on vacation. The sun immediately warms my skin.

  A gift, my father used to call days like these. A gift from God, Adie Lou.

  The wind is light and carries the scent of sunscreen, newly mowed grass and gas from boats on the water. But above those is the unmistakable, perfumed scent of peonies.

  My mom’s roses are clambering up the trellis and about ready to pop, while the hydrangeas that circle the cottage are already as big as VW Beetles, their electric blue and stunning pink blossoms—which will fill my McCoy vases all summer long—just a few weeks away from bursting.

  On the way down to the beach, I stop and admire the tiny cottage gardens I planted, tiered surprises of color to greet guests upon their arrival: a stand of iris—tall and proud—in every color from dark chocolate to deep purple; cheery white daisies with centers as round and golden as the sun; and my favorite flower in the entire world, peonies.

  My grandma used to say that heaven must smell like peonies, and I pray this is true. I stop and bend down to pull a flower to my nose. I inhale the sweet scent, and then do it again, before admiring the peony’s perfection: a powder puff of fragile pink-white petals as soft as a baby’s skin, a blossom of breathtaking beauty so heavy it exhausts the stem that holds it.

  An army of ants marches around a burgeoning blossom, and they resemble ballerinas performing The Nutcracker on a beautiful stage.

  I can’t help myself, and I pluck the peony I was just admiring and hold it to my nose as I walk to the beach.

  A mix of music fills the air: pop, jazz, classical, rock. I turn toward Lakeshore Drive behind me. Bikers, joggers and walkers fill the narrow beachfront road, their heads turned toward the water as if pulled by a magnet. Resorters have their newly washed and shined convertibles out for a ride, tops down, music blaring.

  I crane my neck and scan the old road. The ancient limbs of towering sugar maples and pines have created a canopy over Lakeshore Drive, and it resembles a tunnel of trees, a byway for gnomes, perhaps. This simple view remains one of my summer favorites, as pretty as the beach, the dunes, the lake.

  Such a difference from this winter, I think.

  I turn and look back at the cottage, the turret winking.

  Such a difference from this winter, I think again, winking back.

  I walk to the beach steps and stop at the top. Lake Michigan is stretched out before me, flat and sparkling like a blue sequined dress. The sandy shore arcs both directions until it fades into a hazy mist like a mirage. The sky is cloudless, and the lack of humidity has turned it as blue as my hydrangeas. Boats and Jet Skis fly by in the distance, the noise briefly overpowering the sleepy lull of the waves lapping the shore before they fade into the distance.

  I head down the steps and kick off my flip-flops when I reach the sand.

  “Ow!” I say, not expecting the sand to be so hot. “Ow! Ow!”

  I step back into my shoes and trudge toward the lakeshore, my sandals flipping sand up my legs.

  The lakeshore is jammed today. People walk the shore, and the screams of swimmers diving into the still chilly water echo over the lake. I laugh at the whoops and hollers of visitors to Lake Michigan, who don’t realize the water often doesn’t edge above seventy degrees until July Fourth.

  My little section of the lakeshore is empty, however. When my grandparents purchased Cozy Cottage, they also purchased over a hundred feet of lakeshore frontage. This sandy stretch is worth as much or perhaps more than the cottage itself, and is one of the secret reasons I wanted to keep this in the family.

  “People want to be on the water,” my grandfather used to say, referencing not only Saugatuck but also Chicago. “And, one day, there just won’t be any more waterfront property to buy. And when it sells, few will be able to afford it.”

  A recent listing near mine for an empty, half-acre lot with fifty feet of frontage was on the market for one million dollars. I pick up a handful of sand and let it filter through my fingers. It looks like gold.

  Fitting, I think.

  I search for the perfect spot and find a flat area near the lake, where the receding tide has dampened the sand, but the sun has begun to dry it. Perfect.

  I set down the only things I’ve brought with me: a bucket filled with a funnel, a cup, a melon baller, a spatula and a small shovel. I take a seat and begin my work: building a sandcastle.

  Like painting, writing, fashion or decorating, there is an art to creating a sandcastle. My dad and grampa took sandcastle building as seriously as if they were building a house.

  I pick up my shovel and dig into the sand, stopping when the sand turns darker. I squeeze a ball of sand in my hand for a few seconds and roll it around in my palm.

  Always use moist sand, I can hear my dad and grampa tell me. If it stays together in your hands when you roll it around, it’s perfect sand for a castle.

  This is perfect sand, I think again, a soft wind off the lake tossing my hair around and carrying a soft mist that moistens my face.

  I begin to dig in earnest, like Sonny does on the beach, rear in the air, tossing sand left and right. I start with my shovel, but then quickly switch to a bucket in order to move more quickly. When a big reserve of sand is piled high, I find a flat spot and begin stomping around like a horse to create a strong foundation.

  I begin to build, using my hands and the shovel to create an imposing wall. I fill buckets with sand and place them on my foundation, creating towers, and then use my cup to create turrets. I create roofs, walls and windows, before using the melon baller and spatula to scoop out and carve doors and details like steps and stonework on the towers.

  I stand and brush the sand off my backside, and begin combing the shoreline near the dunes. I find a few nice pieces of driftwood as well as some feathers, which I add to the tops of my towers. I grab my shovel and begin digging a trench to the shoreline, going deep and far enough that water begins to fill the trough I’ve dug.

  “That’s quite a castle,” a woman says as she walk
s the shoreline. “With a moat, no less. Very Game of Thrones.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  I stand back and admire my work, when I see Evan leading a group of a dozen women down the beach steps. My heart quickens.

  “Welcome!” I say. “Thanks, Evan.”

  He nods and then gives me a secret wink, before heading up the steps again.

  I take a deep breath and scan the group. For some reason, I didn’t expect the participants in my first women’s empowerment weekend to be so varied. I had the guests introduce themselves at breakfast, and the women span ages from their thirties to their seventies. They are of every race and ethnicity, and from all over the Midwest: Chicago, Detroit, Indianapolis, St. Louis, Milwaukee.

  “What has brought you here today?” I ask the group. “Something led you to this place and this moment. What was it?”

  The sun is beaming on the women, and I can see them change in front of me, as if the light is illuminating not only their faces but also their souls.

  “Divorce.”

  “Unhappy in my job.”

  “My mother died, and I feel alone.”

  “Empty nest.”

  “My children don’t seem to appreciate me.”

  “I want to leave my job and write.”

  Some of the women become emotional, and others reach out to grab their hands, wipe their tears, give them hugs.

  “You may be wondering why I brought you here and why I built a sandcastle,” I say.

  The women nod.

  “I spent a lot of my childhood right here on this beach building sandcastles,” I say. “I grew up blessed in so many ways—this cottage, this beach, a family who loved me deeply. Because of that, I grew up believing in love. I jumped into it headfirst, just like I did this lake as a little girl. I ended up marrying a man who turned out to be much different than the one I fell in love with. He cheated on me. How many times? I don’t know. I still beat myself up over it. Did I ignore it? How could I not have known? What I do know is that I was raising a child, working full-time, running a house and barely sleeping. When my parents died in quick succession, I not only experienced such monumental, soul-shattering grief, I also experienced an awakening. How long did I have left? What was the mark I wanted to leave on this world? My son was in college, my job wasn’t fulfilling, and my husband fell in love with a college student in his class named Fuschia.”