The Summer Cottage

by Viola Shipman

  The women laugh nervously.

  “Uprooting my life and starting over no longer seemed like a risk, it seemed like a necessity,” I continue. “That said, I wouldn’t change a thing. I had a beautiful son, who has grown up to be an incredible young man. I have friends who have supported me. I have my own set of rules that now guide me.” I stop and look at each of the women. “All I can do is speak from the heart. I believe that I am here because of all of that, not in spite of all of that. My history, good and bad, has made me who I am.”

  I take a deep breath and continue. “You may not have the tangible assets I do, like this inn and this beach, to start over, but you do have all of the intangibles necessary to become the person you always dreamed—strength, resilience, confidence, realism, independence, kindness, intelligence and souls that are ready to soar. Most importantly, we have the capacity to love greatly, and that is a great blessing and one we should never lose despite how much we may have been hurt in the past.”

  I can see some of the women nodding their heads, and that encourages me to keep going.

  “Listen, I’m not a life coach, I don’t have a psychology degree, and I don’t know everything that you’ve gone through in your own lives that has deterred you from your dreams and led you right here, right now—be it children, mortgages, illness, caring for your parents, divorce or just plain old bad luck—but I do know this. We are united as women and that means we can do anything, especially together.”

  I look back at the inn and can picture Sadie alone in the turret. “We too often let others take our dreams from us. We let fear overwhelm us. We take the path of least resistance. We stop trying to build our own castle.”

  I pick up my cup from the beach, walk to the lake and fill it with water.

  “We destroy ourselves one small decision and indecision at a time,” I say, trickling the water onto one of the turrets, which slowly begin to collapse, one drop of water at a time. “It happens so slowly—from childhood to adulthood—that we don’t realize what has happened to our dreams and self-esteem.”

  I pick up the bucket, walk to the lake and fill it to the top.

  “And then one day...” I stop and pour the bucket over the top of the sandcastle, images of Iris and Sadie and my previous life flooding my mind. “It all collapses without warning. We realize our castle—everything that protects us, that we believed would keep us safe—is just a facade that can be washed away in the blink of an eye.”

  I take the bucket and fill it with sand. I take a seat and begin building towers for a new sandcastle.

  “But you can start over, you can build what you dream,” I say, “and that begins right now.”

  Slowly, the women join me—where I tell them all about Scooter—and we build a new sandcastle.

  Together.

  When it is completed, I place the pink peony I picked on top of the highest tower.

  “It’s beautiful,” one of the women says.

  “Because it’s ours,” another says.

  “To unconventional women!” I say.

  “To unconventional women!” the group responds in unison.

  Part Twelve

  Rule #12:

  Boat Rides Are a Shore Thing

  FORTY-TWO

  The Adie Lou putters down the channel, garnering admiring glances and appreciative honks from passing boats and captains.

  I run my hand over its beautiful varnished wood and lean over to look out the side. I can see the wake reflected on the wood of my shiny Chris-Craft and my face reflected in the water.

  I smile and wave at myself, just like I did when I was a girl and my dad was steering the boat.

  “You look happy,” Scooter says, one hand on the wheel.

  “I am,” I say. “Despite the fact I’m in a mountain of debt.”

  “Not for long,” he says, nodding with his head behind him. “Look at what you’ve already created, the lives you’ve already impacted.” He reaches over and grabs my hand, and I hear a chorus of giggles behind me.

  “Aaaahhhh,” three ladies from the women’s weekend sigh in unison.

  After a full day of empowerment, many of the women are now acting like schoolgirls.

  “Scooter,” one of the one women purrs. “You sound like you should be in a romance novel.”

  “A boat captain?” another says. “How romantic.”

  “A full head of hair and a full-time job!” Marge, who is in her seventies, exclaims. “Marry him now!”

  The women laugh again.

  I feel like I did when Justin Brown asked me to go steady on the school bus and placed a mood ring on my finger, and all the girls clapped.

  “This isn’t very empowered of you,” I say, turning around in the front seat to face the women, who are seated in the small second row, which is just big enough to comfortably hold three.

  I realize too late that my tone has a decided tsk-tsk to it and that I sound a lot like Iris Dragoon.

  Marge, who admitted earlier to the group that she still hasn’t discovered who she truly is and desperately wants to write before it’s too late, says, “Everyone should be giddy when they’re in love.” She looks at me. “Or even when they’re in like. That’s not stereotypical behavior for women. It’s simply human behavior.”

  The word love hangs in the air, and suddenly I want Scooter to gun the boat so the word will fly out of it.

  “Hear, hear,” the other two women say, knocking me from my thought, holding up their champagne glasses to clink Marge’s.

  “I think the teacher has just been schooled,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  I hold up my glass as a sign of a truce, and Marge clinks it and gives me a wink.

  “Women are demeaned in American society for our emotions,” she says. “In other societies, it’s revered. Emotion is a strength, not a weakness. It’s ultimately what makes women better survivors than men. We’re in touch with how we feel. We don’t bury our emotions, so we’re able to cope better.”

  Scooter corkscrews his body in his seat, just enough to turn toward Marge.

  “You’re the writer Adie Lou was telling me about, right?”

  Marge’s eyes widen, and she smiles. “You called me a writer?”

  “You’ve always been a writer,” I say. “You just need to write.”

  “You should write that,” Scooter says, his hair ruffling in the wind.

  “Write what?” Marge asks.

  “What you just said,” he continues. “I bet you are filled with wisdom and advice, and have endless stories about how you and society have and haven’t changed over the time you’ve been alive.” He stops and considers what he wants to say, his eyes glowing in the fading sun. “If you just wrote about your life—essays about love, work, not discovering who you are until now—I think you might be onto something.” He stops again, and when he speaks, his voice is filled with emotion. “I loved my father. He built my business and taught me so much. But my mom and grandma taught me to be a good person. And their voices, lives and lessons—just like the voices of so many of our elders—were too often overlooked and undervalued.” He turns toward Marge. “That’s what you should write.”

  “I think I might be too old,” Marge says.

  “What about Frank McCourt?” Scooter asks. “He didn’t write Angela’s Ashes until he retired from teaching, right?”

  The boat grows quiet with his question, before Marge shouts, “Dammit, you’re right!” She turns, leans over the boat and, without warning, spits off the side of the Adie Lou.

  Everyone is staring at the septuagenarian, mouths open.

  “What?” she asks innocently. “It’s good luck.”

  Scooter laughs. “It is,” he says. Scooter leans over and spits off the boat.

  Marge lets out a big whoop of a laugh, which echoes across the water. “Cheers!” s
he says, taking a big sip of her bubbly.

  Scooter steers the Adie Lou down the channel, which meanders past cottages dotting the forested dunes along the river before emptying into Lake Michigan. I provide a history of the area as we go along, just like they do on the Star of Saugatuck, a historic, two-story paddlewheel boat, which is churning up water in front of us and heading to see the sunset just like we are.

  I feel my phone trill in my pocket, and I pluck it free.

  All good here, Evan texts. Everyone enjoying the music and picnic. Have fun!

  Since the Adie Lou can hold only three people in the second seat, we drew numbers on who would get the sunset cruise. Marge didn’t draw a winning number, but another woman let her take her place, a surprise that brought tears to my eyes and made me realize how much our group had already bonded in the course of a day.

  Evan and I planned a picnic on the giant lawn at the end of the boardwalk alongside the river. We laid blankets and set up tables under the ancient weeping willow whose long limbs reach the water, sweeping back and forth as if soothing the river.

  A white gazebo sits in the center of the lawn. It is the spot of weddings and celebrations. Tonight, a jazz band is playing. I set up a large spread of snacks: artisan chèvre from a local farm, a selection of jams and fresh fruit from a local orchard, herbed crackers and seedy salt bread from my favorite bakery, freshly made whitefish dip from the local farmhouse deli and wines and hard ciders from our local wineries.

  I had thought the other guests might be jealous when we motored by on the Adie Lou, but I was pleased to see they were having as much fun—if not more—than we were.

  The boat nears the end of the channel, and I can see Lake Michigan open up before us.

  “It looks like the ocean,” one of the women gasps.

  It does, I think, agreeing with the common refrain I hear from guests.

  No matter how many times people see Lake Michigan, they almost can’t believe their eyes. When they think of “lake,” they think of an inland lake where you can see across to the other side. But Lake Michigan is as big, beautiful and grand as any ocean.

  The water is as flat as glass tonight, and Scooter eases the Adie Lou onto the great lake with little wake.

  “Hold on!” he yells, gunning the boat across the water.

  I turn, and the women are yelping, their hair flying, gripping their glasses.

  Scooter motors by Oval Beach—Saugatuck’s stunning stretch of golden public beach with towering dunes framing it. This beautiful night people amble down the boardwalk, arms filled with blankets, picnic baskets and pizza boxes, ready to enjoy sunset like we are.

  The Adie Lou putters around the bend of the lakeshore until it slows. I point up at the inn, which—from the lake—looks as if it has been tucked into the dunes grass like it’s going to bed under a goldeny-green blanket for the night.

  Scooter shuts off the engine, and the boat bobs on the surface as the women take pictures.

  “We need a proper date,” Scooter whispers in my ear.

  I look at him, an amused expression crossing my face. “Ssshh,” I say.

  “We do,” he says. “Meet me downtown at 1:00 p.m. on the boardwalk off Water Street. Your guests will all be gone then, right?”

  I nod. “But I have to clean and...”

  “I’ve learned as an entrepreneur that you must take your own time to replenish your spirit,” Scooter says.

  The same expression crosses my face again. “I didn’t know I was dating Deepak Chopra,” I say with a laugh.

  “You just admitted you were dating me,” Scooter says.

  “Ssshh,” I say again, glancing back at the women, who are still taking pictures.

  Scooter reaches over and puts his hand on my thigh, and my skin tingles with goose bumps.

  “Okay,” I whisper, trying to catch my breath.

  “Look!” Marge yells suddenly, making me jump.

  I follow her fire-engine red nail, which is pointing toward the beach.

  “There!” she continues. “Our sandcastle!”

  I smile. The sandcastle we all built earlier in the day is not only still standing—strong, solid, perfectly intact—but beachgoers have added to it. Now, there is a stone wall protecting its entrance. Three sandy horses are on standby near a tower. In addition, a variety of decor—feathers, flowers, shells—have been placed on tops of turrets and onto the castle’s walls and doors. The petals of my pink peony flutter in the wind.

  But the pièce de résistance is a Barbie doll that someone has stuck into one of the towers, headfirst, feet sticking out into the air as if she is trying to escape.

  “She’s on the run!” Marge says, letting forth a big cackle.

  Somewhere deep inside, I can feel my soul reverberate, as if my entire body is a sound bath and my heart a quartz bowl that is humming and vibrating.

  I hope a young girl heard us today and watched us build that, I think. I hope she believes in herself forever and never gives in to fear or forgoes her own dreams. I hope she is the queen of her own castle and never a prisoner.

  “Look!” Marge says again.

  I swivel to look at Marge, whose body is now pointed the other way.

  I turn and catch my breath.

  The sky is lavender, the clouds dark purple. Within seconds, the horizon has turned red, then orange, before the sun—an orb of magenta—slowly melts into the lake.

  I tilt my head and can hear a calm come over the lake, Michigan sighing as the sun sets, her coast taking a moment of satisfaction in all the wonder she has created in a single summer’s day.

  “Can every day be so beautiful?” Marge asks, eyes wide and still fixed on the horizon as others continue to snap photos. “Can every day be so perfect?”

  I pull a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket on the floorboard and turn to the women seated behind me.

  I do not say a word as I fill their glasses. I lift my own glass toward the sunset and then to each of the women, remaining silent while gazing intently into each of their eyes.

  It can, I think as I stare at each of the women, who came here seeking something—empowerment, confidence, hope—to make their own lives more fulfilled. It can.

  They nod, and when I clink glasses with Marge, tears well up in her eyes.

  Thank you, she is mouthing at me. She then lifts her glass and her head toward the sky.

  I turn back toward Cozy Cottage, my heart in my throat, and take a seat. I lean out over the Adie Lou and look at my face reflected in the water. I am smiling, tears splashing into the lake below me like a surprise thunderstorm quickly rolling by.

  FORTY-THREE

  “This is way too Fifty Shades of Grey for me.”

  I arrived at the end of Water Street for my “official” date with Scooter, who was waiting on a bench by the channel. With a blindfold.

  “Are you pushing me in? What are you doing? Where are you taking me? This is way too kinky for me.”

  Scooter cocks his head at me, sighs and shrugs his shoulders.

  “It’s a blindfold, but I’m beginning to think I should use it as a gag.”

  I reach out to slap him on the shoulder.

  “I just want it to be a surprise,” he says, a crestfallen look crossing his stubbly face. “But if you don’t want to play along...”

  “No, no, no,” I say, throwing my hands in the air. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so difficult. Do it.”

  “Blindfold or gag?” Scooter asks with a laugh.

  “Ha ha,” I say, as he ties the blindfold over my eyes, helps me up and then puts my hands on his shoulders.

  “Follow me,” he says. “As if you have any choice.”

  Scooter walks slowly down the boardwalk, which I can feel eventually transition to a sidewalk and then grass.

  Without sight, I am s
uddenly and acutely aware of everything around me, especially the sounds and the smells.

  I can hear the water rushing to my left, along with the passing of boat engines, so I know we are still walking along the channel in Saugatuck.

  I can also smell the unmistakable scent of beans roasting at the local coffeehouse and the smell of burgers grilling at the Mermaid, so I know the direction we are traveling.

  Finally, we slow and then stop, and Scooter eases me onto a concrete bench.

  I hear the rustle of footsteps and whispers, and the sound of water slapping land.

  “Why is that lady blindfolded, Mommy?” a child asks.

  “I should do that to you!” I hear a man say.

  “Ssshh!” their companions all whisper in the same, embarrassed tone.

  There is a loud clanging of metal followed by a series of creaks, and I can feel the ground around me shaking.

  Suddenly, my blindfold is off. It takes my eyes a second to adjust to the light.

  “This is my surprise?” I ask at exactly the same time Scooter yells, “Surprise!”

  We are sitting in front of the Saugatuck Chain Ferry, where we used to work. The metal gate to the ferry has been lifted, and visitors are flocking down the sloped wooden plank onto the little boat.

  Scooter comes in front of me and hunches down. “We live and work in a resort town, but sometimes we forget to have fun here,” he says, a wounded tone in his voice. “I just wanted us to have a day like everyone else who comes here during the summer.” He hesitates. “Like we used to enjoy as kids.”

  I feel a lump in my throat as I watch happy tourists scramble aboard the adorably cute ferry, excited for their journey across the Kalamazoo River. The scene is so throwback, so Pure Michigan that I immediately want to erase what I said and throw this day into reverse by a minute.