The Summer Cottage

by Viola Shipman

  Grace turns, her head cocked, her eyes following my voice.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” she says. “The room is just beautiful. I love it.” She smiles at me. “I have age-related macular degeneration. I can still see, but it’s difficult for me to make everything out. Things can look a bit blurry.”

  Grace stops and thumps her cane on the floor, and then lifts it to tap Bob on the rear. “I have these two to get me through it, though,” she says with a laugh.

  “Oh, my gosh,” I say. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

  “Please stop apologizing,” she says. “There’s absolutely nothing to be sorry about.”

  Evan shoots me a glance as if to say, “Told ya so, Mom.”

  “It smells like heaven in here,” Grace continues, lifting her nose and sniffing the air. “Peonies. My favorite.”

  “Always have been, right, cupcake?” Bob asks, before looking at me. “How’d you know?”

  I duck my head. “I didn’t,” I say. “But they’re my favorites, too.”

  Grace takes a seat in a chair, her cane perched in front of her, and shucks off her raincoat. I take it from her and hang it in the closet while Bob continues to walk around the room, lost in thought, studying the artwork on the wall and my father’s Helmscenes.

  “You kept your father’s memories alive in here,” Bob says. He raises his hand to the picture’s knob. “Do you mind?”

  I shake my head with a smile, and he clicks it on, the light flickering before illuminating the picture. He runs a quavering hand over the photo as if he were painting it.

  “You kept your grandfather’s memories alive in here, too,” Bob says, turning to look at me. “This cottage may have been renovated, but it still has all the feel of the old fish house.”

  Bob walks over and takes a seat on the couch I placed against the wall where I found the time capsule. He sighs as he sits, grabbing a cushion and placing it behind his lower back. “Your grandfather,” he starts, looking at me before looking at Evan and pointing at him with a shaking finger, “your great-grandfather was quite a character.”

  My heart swells.

  Bob removes his vintage-style horn-rim glasses and rubs his eyes. “He was the grand grocer of old Chicago. If you walked in and wanted something that he didn’t have, he’d get it for you,” he says. “And that wasn’t easy. Italian grandmothers wanted a certain sausage, German grandfathers wanted a different sausage, and he’d get it for them, no extra charge.”

  Evan’s eyes grow wide, and he catches my attention. Like you, Mom, he mouths.

  “I got to know him because my family delivered dry goods all across Chicago. Boy oh boy, could that man tell a story.” Bob laughs. “He invited me up to this cottage to fish. Took me way out on the lake, and we pulled in a haul of fresh salmon. He kept it on ice in this cottage, right next to his boat. You know the water came right up to Lakeshore Drive back then, don’t you? We could just pull the boat up here. He smoked the fish where your patio is now, and we drank beer.”

  Bob stops and looks at Grace. “Just one, cupcake,” he says to her with a wink.

  “Of course,” she says. “Like your martinis, right, sweetheart?” Grace says, matching his wink. “You know what men say about martinis, don’t you? One martini is all right. Two are too many, and three are not enough.”

  Evan and I laugh.

  “Can’t take credit for it,” Grace says. “James Thurber. One of my favorites.”

  “Okay, we had a few beers, and the fish was the best I ever had.”

  “My father continued that tradition,” I say. “He smoked food right outside the cottage just like his father. He kept this cottage just the way his father had.” I hesitate. “Sometimes I feel guilty about changing it all.”

  “My dear,” Grace says, gesturing around the cottage, “the point is you honored their tradition. You kept the cottage in the family. Change is inevitable. Forgetting is inexcusable.”

  Images of my parents and grandparents fill my mind. Her words hit me so deeply that my knees turn to Jell-O, and I find myself gripping a wall for support.

  “Your grandfather’s grocery store in Chicago is now a Gap,” Bob says, more than a hint of disgust in his tone. “An IKEA stands where my family’s company used to be. We are becoming a homogenized society. We shop at the same stores, we eat at the same places, we dress the same. We are losing everything that made us unique, everything that made us who we are.” He stops, brushes some invisible lint from his pant leg and continues. “So many young people today don’t know their family stories of how they came to be who they are.”

  “How can they know where they’re going if they don’t know where they come from?” Grace interrupts.

  Bob’s eyes sparkle. “Well stated, cupcake!”

  Grace bows her head and doffs an invisible cap.

  “She’s right,” Bob continues. “Miss Kruger...”

  “Adie Lou, please,” I say.

  “Adie Lou,” Bob says. “You respect the history of those who came before you, and you respect their heirlooms. Your love for them shines in every detail.” He stops. “The Summer Cottage Inn is an heirloom. There will never be another place like it not just because of how it was built, but because of the memories that have been collected.”

  As if on cue, a gust of wind sweeps over the inn and guest cottage, and the walls shudder.

  “Do you hear that?” Bob asks, cocking his head to listen. “Those aren’t just sounds. They’re the voices of your family—and of all those who came before them—talking to us.” Bob looks at me and then Evan. “All we have to do is listen, and they will tell us what to do. The problem is too few of us do.”

  My knees weaken even more. “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for saying that. Do you mind if I show you something?”

  As if reading my mind, Evan heads for the door, saying, “I’ll be right back.” Moments later, he returns with the copy of Sadie’s letter. Bob reads it aloud for Grace, the cottage creaking in concert with his voice.

  When he finishes, Grace says, “You listened. You listened.”

  * * *

  Bob and Grace appear in the entry dressed to the nines, and guests ooh and aah over their appearance.

  “Very Ocean’s Eleven,” says a man. “You look like Sinatra.”

  “You’re the cutest!” his wife exclaims.

  Bob is wearing a dapper vintage tuxedo, while Grace is dressed in elegant black slacks and a beaded jacket.

  “Are you ready?” I ask.

  They nod. Bob takes Grace’s arm, and we slowly make our way to the beach. This was Bob’s idea: he and Grace had been married on the beach—just the two of them—and he wanted to replicate that intimate memory before the mega-party his children had planned in the city next weekend. Evan will be driving them to dinner after sunset.

  “I was hoping for better weather,” I say as we walk. “At least it stopped raining. Hopefully, it will clear up by sunset.”

  “It hasn’t dampened our spirits,” Bob says. “Has it, cupcake?”

  Grace stops and thumps her cane emphatically on the ground. “Not at all,” she says, before taking another step very slowly.

  Evan looks at me, shaking his head in wonder at their determination. When we make it to the steep beach steps, Evan takes Grace’s left side, while Bob holds her right. When we reach the bottom, Grace kicks off her shoes and stamps her cane in the sand.

  “We made it!” she crows.

  When Grace finally looks up, she cries, “Bob! What have you done?”

  Evan and I have set up a small tent with a table and beach chairs perched just-so on the lakeshore. Dean Martin’s voice wafts on the lake breeze.

  That’s amore...

  I rush over and grab the bottle of champagne we put on ice. Grace applauds when the cork pops. I fill two glasses as the couple appro
aches. They grow quiet when they see the cupcakes in the shape of a diamond sitting on a silver platter.

  “What do we have here?” Grace asks. “It’s beautiful, Bob.”

  “I wish I could take credit for this,” Bob says. “Adie Lou, what did you do?”

  “It was Evan’s idea,” I say.

  “Sixtieth anniversary is the diamond anniversary,” he says shyly. “And, well, cupcakes for your cupcake.”

  Grace looks at Evan, her eyes brimming with tears. She opens her arms, and Evan hugs her tightly.

  “Thank you,” she says. “You are about the sweetest soul I’ve ever met.” She lets go of Evan and looks at me. “You done good.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “So did you.”

  I hand them glasses of champagne and ease them into their beach chairs.

  “Maybe it will still clear off for sunset,” I say, although steel-gray clouds are locked in over the lakeshore, and no one is on the beach. “We’ll let you two enjoy your champagne.”

  Evan and I move toward the dunes. The silhouettes of Bob and Grace are as beautiful, delicate and fragile as the outlines of the dark waves, the dunes grass and the aspen trees.

  “It doesn’t matter if it’s cloudy,” Bob says as he looks over the horizon, his voice drifting on the wind. “There’s still a sunset happening. You just have to look a little harder.”

  He reaches over and grabs his wife’s hands.

  “Isn’t that right, cupcake?”

  Grace turns to him and nods. He leans over, and the two kiss.

  She raises her glass of champagne.

  “Cheers, my love,” Grace says. “To sixty more.”

  Bob clinks her glass. “I love you, cupcake.”

  I shut my eyes and pray for a miracle, for the clouds to disappear and for the lake to sparkle. I open my eyes, but it is still cloudy.

  I watch as Bob turns to Grace. He looks deeply in his wife’s eyes and says, “There it is, there it is. There’s my sunset.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  The call of a lone whippoorwill fills the air, and I open my mouth and return its call, whistling just like my father taught me years ago from this very same glider on the front porch.

  Whip-poor-will.

  I wait and smile when the bird replies.

  Whip-poor-will.

  It is Sunday evening, and the inn is still. The sound of suitcase wheels on wood, footsteps on stairs, heartfelt goodbyes and car tires on gravel has ended. Nearly all of my weekend guests have returned to their lives in the city, save for a few couples who understand the secrets of a quiet Sunday by the lake.

  Whip-poor-will.

  My parents did. On bucolic Sunday afternoons, they often retreated to the beach with towels, a bottle of wine and their favorite paperback. It was all really a formality: they went there for sunset.

  It was the most important rule of Cozy Cottage: everyone must be present for sunset.

  “It’s the reason we’re here,” my mom used to say. “There is a miracle in every single one...because we’re here...together... They are mini-celebrations. When you look back on your life, you should remember endless sunsets.”

  I stand, the rocker bucking as I do, and head inside.

  “Evan!” I call.

  Silence.

  Evan had a friend, Cole, from college visit, and they must have gone into town before Cole heads back to Chicago.

  Sonny suddenly comes racing down the stairs, running so fast that he skids as he hits the final landing of the staircase and slides into the wall, bouncing off it like a pinball and taking the final stairs in one jump before leaping into my arms.

  “He got locked in one of the rooms,” Esme calls, her voice echoing down the stairs.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, kneeling to stroke his fur.

  He looks at me, smiling, and I can feel such love that I plop onto the floor and let him lick me until I start to giggle.

  “Want to go to the beach?” I ask, ruffling his fur.

  Sonny barks his agreement.

  I change into my suit, and tuck sunscreen and a towel into a beach bag Trish got for me that says, Rosé All Day! On the way out, I nab a chocolate-chip cookie I made for guests and pour some freshly made lemonade into a to-go cup.

  “So strange,” I say to Sonny, “actually grabbing things as if I’m the guest.”

  I begin to head out the door but stop, seeing the Cottage Rules sign and thinking again of my parents. As if pulled by a magnet, I rotate toward their bookshelves. I scan the shelves.

  Which one? I think.

  The names of books and authors my parents loved fill my eyes. I look up and down, left and right, and then I see it: The Shell Seekers by Rosamunde Pilcher, one of my mother’s favorite books.

  I pluck the paperback from the shelf and slip it into the beach bag.

  “C’mon, Sonny,” I say, finally heading out the door, calling upstairs, “I’ll be at the beach, Esme!”

  “Que tengas una tarde maravillosa!” Esme yells.

  I catch my breath as Sonny and I head toward the beach. The weather has finally cleared, and it is a stunning day on the lakeshore. The water is flat, the wind calm, the sky that deep blue that makes your heart ache. I take Sonny off his leash, and he bounds down the stairs, races across the sand and runs into the lake, barking at me to hurry up.

  I lay my towel down and nestle my beach chair in the sand near the dune. I head to the lake, take a deep breath and dive in, yelping as I go under. When I come up, Sonny is dog-paddling around me, his smile even bigger.

  I jog back to my beach chair, Sonny following, and dry off. As soon as I finish, Sonny shakes, covering me in water and sand.

  “You’re a mess,” I say.

  I try to dry him off, but he takes off in a happy sprint, running this way and that, in joyous circles, the chilly water having exhilarated his soul. I plop into my beach chair, and Sonny sprints toward me and stops right in front of me. He lowers his head into the sand and begins to dig furiously, tossing sand all over me.

  “Sonny!” I yell. “Stop!”

  He looks up at me briefly, before continuing. He digs until he finds wet sand, and then he turns and turns before plopping into his hole. Sonny looks at me, his face and fur thick with sand, and yawns. He sighs, lowers his head and falls fast asleep.

  I shake my head, stand and brush the sand off my body, and then plop in my chair again. And then, like Sonny, I sigh, too.

  It is my favorite time of the day on the beach. My parents called it “the bewitching hour,” that time around 5:00 p.m. when the angle of the sunlight bathes the world in an ethereal light, making everything—the water, the sand, the dunes—look as if it has been dipped in gold. This is the time when the beach grows quiet, people gather their things and head for dinner.

  I remember how my mom and dad would lie on the beach, my dad perched against a pillow of sand, my mom’s head on his chest, both reading. I thought those days would never end.

  Maybe, in some way, they haven’t, I think, lifting my face to the sun and remembering what Bob and Grace said to me.

  I grab some sunscreen and rub it over my face and body. I take a sip of lemonade and pull the paperback from my beach bag. I stare at the pretty, beachy cover of The Shell Seekers and then open it up. Sand trickles from the pages.

  Oh, Mom! I think. You’re still here.

  I lift the book and shake more sand free. Without warning, a piece of paper falls into my lap.

  It is a piece of notebook paper, flattened, deeply creased and yellowed. I unfold it slowly.

  Oh, my goodness.

  It is a Crayola drawing of a sunset, my childish signature written in purple beneath a sky of orange, red and yellow. Staring into the sunset are three stick figures of a mother, father and daughter.

  Everyone must be present f
or sunset! I’d written at the bottom of the drawing. There is a mirucle in ever one...because we’re hear.

  I laugh at my misspellings and run my fingers over the drawing.

  You must have used this as your bookmark, Mom, I think. You must have forgotten it was in here.

  I study the drawing and then the pages between, which it had called home for so many years. My heart quickens as I read the following passage Rosamunde Pilcher wrote so long ago: “The greatest gift a parent can leave a child is that parent’s own independence.”

  This catches me completely off guard, and I lift my head to the sky and say a prayer. The sun warms my face, and I can feel a great calm coming over my body. My eyes struggle to stay open. I fold the drawing and again place it between the same pages where it belongs.

  I blink once, twice, three times, my eyes heavy, and before I fall asleep, I remember drawing that sunset so long ago, my parents explaining its importance.

  Sunsets are like snowflakes. No one is the same, my mom said. We miss too many of them rushing around. They are celebrations because every day is an accomplishment, a blessing of epic magnitude that we all take for granted. No matter how difficult a day has been, a sunset proves that there is still hope and good things can happen tomorrow.

  See how slowly they seem to take, and then how quickly they fade? my dad asked. Sunsets are really metaphors for life, which is why we should slow down to enjoy them. Which is why I always want you to appreciate them.

  I wake with a start, my body chilled. Evan is shaking me.

  “Mom?” he says.

  I open my eyes, and my son is standing over me.

  “Here,” he says, handing me a hoodie. “I brought some wine.”

  “Oh, my gosh,” I say, sitting up with a start. “What time is it?”

  “Almost time for sunset,” he says. “Look.”

  The sun is melting like a Dreamsicle into the water, a puddle of orange on the horizon. Evan pours two glasses of wine and takes a seat on the beach towel, Sonny curling up beside him.

  “What are you doing down here?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?” Evan shoots me a confused look. “It’s sunset. Most important rule, right?”