The Summer Cottage

by Viola Shipman

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean what I said. Can I have a do-over?”

  Scooter nods.

  “What a surprise!” I say, reaching out to hug Scooter.

  He breaks into laughter and scoops me in his arms.

  “Better?” I whisper into his ear.

  He puts me down, grabs my face and kisses me. “Much,” he says.

  Memories flood my mind as we board the ferry. I feel as if I’m literally stepping back in time, not only in history but also in my life.

  The ferry was built in 1838—a sign over the ferry proclaiming that fact—and was originally used to carry horses, rather than people, across the river. Today, it is the only remaining hand-cranked ferry of its kind still in use in the United States, and people happily pay a dollar a person for a little nostalgia.

  The ferry still looks as if it’s been brought to life off a vintage Victorian postcard: it is painted crisp white and its posts and top are outlined with intricate gingerbread trim.

  Scooter escorts me on board, and we cross the ferry and stand near the front. The ferry is jammed today: tourists with bikes, and families with floaties and beach towels, all of whom wish to avoid either the cost of the day pass to the beach or the hour-long wait to find a parking spot on the beach. Even from across the river, I can see the snaking line of cars plugging Park Street.

  Scooter puts his arm around my waist, and I lean into him, the sun warm on my face. Two teenage boys secure the ferry—shutting and locking the gates—and then launch into an intense game of rock, paper, scissors.

  “Look,” Scooter whispers to me. “They’re doing the same thing we used to do.”

  I laugh. “They are!”

  The first thing you learn as a chain ferry operator is that your shoulders collapse more quickly than your ego. Although the ferry travels only a total of about a hundred yards across the river, your shoulders feel as if you’ve hand-cranked to the moon by the time the day is done.

  As teens, Scooter and I—along with our friends—would use two tactics to save our arms. The first was rock, paper, scissors to decide who would crank and who would get the easier job of blowing the air horn and sharing the history of the ferry. The other was to solicit manual labor from unsuspecting tourists, by cajoling or embarrassing them.

  “Darn it!” one of the teens says after holding out scissors while his friend produced a rock on their third go-round.

  As the ferry begins its journey into the river, the winning teen produces an air horn and blows it—to the surprised looks and shocked screams of many on board—to announce to oncoming boat traffic it is in the midst of crossing. He then launches into the history of the ferry. In the midst of his narrative, his friend locks eyes with Scooter.

  “Hold on, Tommy! Hold on!” the kid yells, interrupting the same prepared speech I used to give. “We have a celebrity on board.”

  The passengers all look around the boat, eyes wide and excitedly murmuring, “Where? Where?”

  “Mr. Stevens,” the teen continues as he cranks. “Would you wave to the crowd?”

  Scooter’s face immediately turns as red as the chain ferry sign. He gives an embarrassed wave.

  “Mr. Stevens is Saugatuck High School’s most famous athlete,” the teen shouts, as he continues to crank. “He led our high school to its last state championship and nearly went pro.”

  The passengers clap.

  Scooter ducks his head. “This is revisionist history,” he whispers.

  “I’m quite enjoying this,” I say.

  “He now brings vintage wooden boats back to life,” the teen says, stopping briefly to point at a boat in the middle of the channel. “Like that one.”

  Again, the passengers on the ferry applaud.

  “Why don’t you show us that arm?” the teen says, a big smile coming over his face. He winks at Scooter like a carnival barker might a stooge. His face is covered in sweat, and he is beginning to gasp for air.

  “Great idea!” I say, encouraging the crowd. “Let’s see the famed QB’s famed arm!”

  Scooter removes his arm from around me and lifts it part way into the air, a big grimace coming over his face. “Old football injury, unfortunately,” he says as the passengers groan. Scooter gives the cranking teen a wink as if to say, “I know how to play your game way better than you do.”

  “But,” Scooter continues, his voice rising in enthusiasm, “we happen to have another celebrity with us today, as well! Adie Lou Kruger not only runs the The Summer Cottage Inn here in town, but she was also the very first woman to work on the chain ferry!”

  The passengers break out in applause.

  “And her arm is still in perfect cranking shape!” Scooter continues, before chanting, “Adie Lou! Adie Lou!”

  “Adie Lou! Adie Lou!” the passengers chant.

  “I hate you,” I say.

  “I’m quite enjoying this,” Scooter says, giving me a sarcastic wink.

  The teen steps aside, giving me a dramatic bow. I place both hands on the giant handle that juts in front of me, take a deep breath and lean into it. My shoulders emit a loud pop, but I put my back into it and begin cranking as if my life depends on it.

  “Adie Lou!” Scooter begins to chant again, which fires up the passengers to follow suit.

  I find a rhythm in the cranking, just like I did when I was a kid.

  “My dad actually trained me to prepare for this,” I tell those on board, refusing to act as if I’m already out of breath, despite the fact my heart is leaping out of my chest. “He used to have me make homemade ice cream on our old hand-crank machine. Remember those?”

  The older adults nod and smile.

  “I want to let every little girl on here know that you can do anything you set your mind to do,” I say. “Whether it’s to be the first girl to crank the chain ferry, or be president.”

  Within seconds, little girls are lining up with their moms and dads, and asking if I can show them how to do it. By the time we make it to the other side, I have posed for about a dozen photos.

  “You both have better game than we do,” one of the teens says as we exit the ferry on the opposite side of the river.

  “Old game is the best game,” I say. “Have a great day.”

  Scooter grabs my hand as we head up the narrow path leading from the ferry. “Are you calling me old?” he asks.

  “Old football injury, my behind,” I say.

  “And were you inspiring the youth of tomorrow or simply using them for their youthful arms?”

  I laugh.

  “You really are amazing,” he says, slowing his pace and looking me in the eyes. Scooter kisses me softly on the lips as we stand beneath the pines, and I can’t tell if the amazing scent is the trees or Scooter or both.

  He always smells like the outdoors, I think.

  “Thank you,” I say. “Back atcha.”

  As we head up the narrow dirt path that leads from the ferry to the road, I ask, “Where are we going exactly?”

  “Beach day,” he says. “I bet you haven’t had a real one yet, where you just do nothing.”

  I think of my days on the beach since I moved here—throwing my Two Buck Chuck on the ice, crying, worrying, working—and shake my head. “I haven’t,” I say.

  “I figured,” he says. “Follow me.”

  We cross the road and head into a circular unpaved parking lot ringed with cars. I look up and then at Scooter.

  “We aren’t, are we?” I ask.

  “We are,” Scooter says.

  Mt. Baldhead sits before us, the region’s tallest sand dune, rising six hundred feet into the air. Three hundred two steps go straight up the middle of the forested dune, like a wooden zipper.

  “It’s been years since I’ve done this,” I say.

  “I’ve been doing them
nearly every day—even in winter—for years,” Scooter says. “Great training for the fall ten-mile Mt. Baldhead run. You run these stairs at the halfway point.”

  “Of course you do,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “You should do it with me,” he says. “And it would make a great weekend getaway for exercise enthusiasts.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Not a bad idea,” I say. “The last part, I mean.”

  Scooter laughs and looks at me. “Ready?”

  I shake my head no, and we head up the steep steps, a canopy of trees covering the stairway. Every dozen steps or so there is a landing, and people at every elevation gather on them, some taking photos while others gasp for breath. Scooter is like a squirrel, scampering up the steps, taking two at a time, stopping at the landings to wait for me.

  Halfway up the steps I am sweating, and people are passing me.

  “On your left!” they call.

  “I feel like a broken-down Datsun on an autobahn filled with Beamers,” I say to Scooter, who laughs.

  He grabs my hand. “Let’s do the last half together, okay?”

  A step at a time, we make it to the top, my thighs shaky and my quads quivering like jelly when we finally do.

  “I think this was worth the effort, don’t you?” Scooter asks, his mouth agape, his hands on the railing.

  From the top of Mt. Baldhead, there is an unobstructed view of all that makes the area so stunning. The towns of Saugatuck-Douglas are stretched out before me like a beautiful oil painting on canvas, the light gleaming off the river and bay. Everything is adorably miniature, like a doll village, even the boats floating down the river toward the lake.

  Beyond the towns, the canvas turns to a quilt, blocks of green and gold, squares filled with linear patterns of orchards and vineyards.

  “I forget sometimes,” I say, “that I am a part of something bigger.”

  I think I am saying this to myself until Scooter puts his arm around my back. “Me, too,” he says softly, before gesturing with his free hand into the distance. “But look. How many people are coming here to experience this beauty because of you and your inn? How many memories are people making in the boats I’ve restored? We are all so small in the scale of things, but can be so big in our impact on the world.” Scooter stops. “We are more than meets the eye.”

  My eyes shift to a massive cottonwood tree growing straight out of the dune. I remember hiking with my father, who pointed out these trees.

  What you are actually seeing is the very tops of the trees, he explained. The trunk and roots are buried deep below, and yet the tree has managed somehow to grow through the sand. It’s just like us, Adie Lou. We can’t see everyone’s past—the hardships and sadness people have gone through is often buried deep—but we all have the ability to continue growing until the world is able to witness our growth and beauty.

  “Ready?” Scooter asks.

  I nod, and we turn in the opposite direction. Through the trees, Lake Michigan sparkles. There is no staircase heading back down the dune, just a mountain of sand, a narrow trail dotted with footprints. When I was young and we would come during the winter, my parents would bring me here to sled downhill. It was a breathtaking ride.

  “I haven’t gone down this dune in ages,” I say.

  “There’s only one way to do it,” Scooter says. Without warning, he grabs my hand, and we start running down the dune, our feet churning sand.

  I scream as we pick up momentum, going faster and faster, until the sand, the trees, the water before me is just a blur. When we reach the bottom, I am out of breath, as much from my screams and laughter as the exertion. We trudge over yet another smaller dune, which leads to the parking lot of Oval Beach, and head directly toward the beach. We stop at the edge of the boardwalk and remove our shoes and socks, dumping what seems like pounds of sand.

  The beach is jammed this beautiful afternoon with vacationers as well as with resorters who have delayed their journeys back to the city in order to soak up as much of their Sunday as possible. We head right at the end of the boardwalk, where the large beach grows a bit quieter. Scooter grabs my hand, and we walk along the shoreline. I yelp as the still-cool water laps my legs, zigzagging in and out of the lake to escape the waves. Scooter slows and leads me onto the beach.

  I look up, and a thatched tiki umbrella—its skirt shaking in the breeze like that of a hula dancer—is anchored over a giant blanket set with two beach towels, a cooler and a picnic basket.

  “At your service,” Scooter says, motioning toward the setup.

  “Scooter, I don’t know what to say. This is amazing.”

  He smiles and pulls me toward the blanket. We take a seat.

  “Evan helped me,” Scooter says, opening the picnic basket and the cooler. “We packed some of your favorite things—a little rosé, some artisan bread and goat cheese, some gossip magazines...” He stops, reaches into the basket and turns around. “Even a swimsuit.”

  “You thought of everything,” I say, until I see the suit, a one-piece with mesh panels on the sides. “Leave it to a man to pick out the skimpiest swimsuit I own. Which, by the way, I haven’t worn in ages. Nor will I be wearing today.”

  “What? I’m sure it will still look great on you. You do yoga.”

  “Let me explain something to you,” I say, my sweet smile not matching the tone of my voice. “I’ve had a child. I’ve raised a child. I’ve worked long hours at a job, chauffeured my son around for eighteen years, cared for a family, gotten divorced, started an inn, eaten way too much pizza, drank way too much wine and life hasn’t afforded me the luxury time to head to the gym or do yoga whenever I felt like it. So—” I stop and toss the swimsuit back at him “—what you see is what you get. And what you don’t see is not what you think it is.”

  I look at Scooter. I have no idea how he will react to my little speech. If he thinks he’s getting involved with Christie Brinkley when she was a Sports Illustrated cover model, he has another think coming. In fact, if you’d have bet me a few months ago on whether I’d be dating again, much less ever be having sex with a man again in my life, or if I would be joining a nunnery, I would’ve put three-to-one odds on the nunnery.

  “Adie Lou,” Scooter says, taking a seat next to me, “I understand. And I’m not the same guy either. My six-pack has been replaced by a six-pack of beer.” He stops. “But I still see you as the girl you once were. To me, the years haven’t changed you at all.”

  I exhale, relieved.

  “Flattery will get you everywhere,” I say. “And it might be time for an eye test.”

  He laughs and pulls me close, kissing me, his stubble grazing my lips. He holds my face, and the green of his eyes set against the blue of the sky and the lake takes my breath away. This time, I lean in and kiss him, exploring his mouth. He runs his hands through my hair, over my shoulders, down my back and rests them on my waist. My body explodes in goose bumps.

  “Get a room!” someone yells.

  We look up, startled, and a man is watching us with binoculars while perched in the driver’s seat of a Chris-Craft boat going by close to the shore.

  “Derek,” he says with a laugh. “He works with me. I asked him to keep an eye on my picnic until we got here since he said he’d have his boat out today.”

  Scooter stands and waves at Derek and then flips him the bird. Derek honks, his laughter echoing across the water, before he hits the gas and speeds away.

  “My turn,” Scooter says. He self-consciously pulls off his T-shirt emblazoned with his company logo and then steps out of his shorts. He is wearing longish trunks, and though his body has softened since his younger days—he indeed has a little belly—my heart quickens, and I have difficulty taking my eyes off him.

  “You look great,” I say.

  “Liar,” he says.

  “I mean it.” I reach
into the cooler. “Glass of rosé?”

  “I think there’s a beer in there with my name on it,” he says.

  “Is your name Stella?” I ask.

  “It is today,” he says, smacking his stomach. “I need one to add to my six-pack.”

  I pull off the cap and hold the beer up to him, and—as he takes a long draw—I can’t help but remember Scooter’s body when he was young.

  “Remember when girls would give you their numbers on the chain ferry when you’d take your shirt off?” I ask.

  “I miss those days,” he says with a laugh. He takes a seat as I pour a glass of wine. “You know,” he continues, his voice growing soft, “the only number I wanted was yours.”

  “What?” I ask, putting the bottle of Whispering Angel back in the cooler and taking a sip. “You never asked. You had so many girlfriends. We were just friends.”

  “You,” he says, “always seemed out of reach.”

  “Me?” I ask, sitting up straighter.

  “Yes, you. You were the city girl with loads of friends, headed to college with her future all planned out. You always seemed destined for big things.”

  “So did you, Mr. All-State Quarterback with a college scholarship.”

  Scooter looks at me and then out at the lake, taking a sip from his beer, his cheeks already growing red from the sun. “What if the big thing we were always destined for was each other?”

  The warmth in Scooter’s voice makes my heart stop for a split second. His words seem to drift on the lake breeze like the seagulls overhead who are interested in our picnic. I look into this man’s eyes, the kid I met on Lakeshore Drive, the teenager who became my friend, the man who is now becoming my boyfriend.

  What if he’s right? I think. What if this was always meant to be?

  I think of what Frank said regarding my maiden name and how it is German for innkeeper.

  What if this has all been my destiny? I think. What if I just finally started paying attention? Do any of us pay attention to the signs in our lives?

  “I think you may be right,” I finally say, my voice shaking.

  Scooter leans across the blanket and kisses me. His tongue is ice-cold at first from the beer but it quickly turns hot, so hot that it seems to melt my mouth and then my heart.