The Summer Cottage

by Viola Shipman

  “Leave your troubles...” I start.

  As I say the words, a chorus of voices joins me. Suddenly, the front yard is illuminated. People are lighting sparklers, and it looks as if a million fireflies are in the air. The guests are holding the Cottage Rules cards I had printed for guests in front of their faces.

  My heart leaps into my throat. “Evan...” I say, tears now racing down my face as people recite the first rule.

  “Leave your troubles at the door!” the guests yell.

  “The second rule of the summer cottage?” Evan calls.

  “Soak up the sun!” everyone yells.

  “Rule number three?”

  “Nap often!”

  “Four?”

  “Wake up smiling!”

  “Five?”

  “Build a bonfire!”

  We recite every rule as quickly as we can—go rock hunting, dinner is a family activity, ice cream is required, be grateful for each day, go jump in the lake, build a sandcastle, boat rides are a shore thing, everyone must be present for sunset—until we get to the last one.

  “And what’s the final rule, Mom?” Evan asks. “I just want you to answer.”

  I look out at the guests, their sparklers ablaze.

  “Shake the sand from your feet, but never shake the memories of our summer cottage. It is family.”

  As I finish, the sparklers fizz out, and the world goes dark. Guests break into applause, and Evan draws me in for a long hug.

  “You did it in time!” he says. Evan stops and looks at me. “I love you more than anything, Mom.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Evan heads off the porch and down the stairs.

  For a brief moment, I stand alone on the front porch, feeling just as happy as the little girl who knew she’d be spending her summers here at an old, shingled cottage sitting on a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan. It is just me and the cottage again. The cool wind coming off the lake whistles, the leaves rustle in the aspen trees, and the needles of the tall pines surrounding the cottage quiver.

  The cottage moans, as if it’s happily yawning at the end of a wonderful day, and then I hear Scooter yell, “One more surprise! Adie Lou, where are you?”

  I step inside and grab my shoes off the rug. There is sand on it, and I smile. I pull them on, scuttle down the steps and take Scooter’s hand.

  “There’s my bride!” Scooter says. “Follow us!”

  The crowd murmurs as we head down the beach stairs, which are illuminated with beautiful paper luminaries. The beach is aglow with candles, and the guests begin to yell, “Look! Look!” when they see the Adie Lou bobbing on the lake.

  “Adie Lou and I have decided to honeymoon in the same town that so many people come to vacation and where so many friends live,” Scooter says. “Saugatuck!”

  The crowd applauds. “We’re not telling you where we’re staying, but it’s not here!”

  The guests laugh.

  “May I?” Scooter asks, taking my hand.

  I kick off my shoes, lift the train of my dress into the air, holding my shoes with it, and step into Lake Michigan. We wade out a few feet, and Scooter helps me clamber into my wooden namesake.

  “Ready!” Scooter yells.

  The guests think we are leaving, but the boat remains still. For a few seconds, the crowd is silent, the only noise the lapping of the waves. And then, BOOM!

  Fireworks explode overhead, illuminating the night sky.

  The guests crane their heads, mouths open, and watch fireworks on the Fourth of July, my favorite holiday, my wedding day.

  I get lost in the simple beauty of fireworks on a summer night, and I feel like a little girl again, one whose dreams are as big and bright as the comets and cones exploding overhead. Scooter puts his arm around my back, and I lean into him. The Adie Lou rocks gently as we watch the show.

  When the fireworks end, I grab the bouquet sitting in the front seat of the boat, hold it over my head and yell, “Line up on the lakeshore, ladies!”

  I turn around and toss the bouquet with all my might. I pivot just in time to see the wind catch it and make it take a sharp left turn at the last moment. The bouquet unexpectedly falls into the arms of Trish, causing her to drop her ever-present glass of champagne. A look of absolute horror covers my friend’s face, and—before anyone can react—she tosses the bouquet at Iris, whose reaction is even more shocked than Trish’s. Iris tosses the bouquet back into the air, where it lands directly in the hands of Ashley.

  I laugh as I watch Nate’s mouth fall open, his reaction—literally—taking the cake.

  Scooter starts the Adie Lou, turns on her lights and begins to motor slowly into the lake. I turn and watch the crowd head back up the steps, Evan still standing at the shore, waving. Scooter slows the boat, and then idles her, as I wave at my son, who finally turns, walks across the beach and up the steps. His body is silhouetted on the stairs, the cottage behind him, the moon overhead.

  I take a picture of this in my mind and shut my eyes to store it there forever. As I do, the cottage creaks, adding the perfect soundtrack to my home movie. I can hear my father whisper, “Some people don’t get the beauty of a summer cottage, but the magical campers do, don’t they, Adie Lou?”

  “They do, Dad,” I whisper, as Scooter heads the boat into the lake, the summer wind tossing my hair and my dress around. “They do.”

  * * *

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I have been blessed that my life has been filled with incredible optimists. As an author and person, I am usually the realist, the occasional pessimist, always the debater. And yet I know my shortcomings, which is why I’ve surrounded myself with those whose eyes are wide, hearts are open and souls always hopeful. Even my grandparents, whose lives were hard, believed that every day was filled with great beauty and opportunity. All of this—despite the many difficulties, challenges and tragedies in my own life—has made me an optimist, as well. And that’s really what my new novel, The Summer Cottage, is all about: being hopeful despite all odds.

  To my two greatest optimists, Gary Edwards and Wendy Sherman: thank you for not only believing in my dreams but also showing me that dreams, indeed, can come true, that life is an ongoing grand adventure and that tomorrow will be even better.

  Susan Swinwood, thank you from the bottom of my heart for the great opportunity to work with you and your entire team at Graydon House Books and for believing in me and my work with such incredible faith and enthusiasm. I’m honored and excited for all that lies ahead.

  Jenny Meyer, there is no greater honor than seeing my works translated around the world and no greater joy than receiving notes from readers in a dozen different languages. Your work demonstrates the universal power of literature and—in these turbulent, divisive times—the power a book still has to unite people, no matter the state or country, the politics, ideology or miles that separate us, and reminds us of what’s still most important in life: family, friends, love and kindness.

  Carol Fitzgerald and your entire team at The Book Report Network, you are not only great at what you do but believers in what I do (and wonderful therapists).

  Let’s be honest: a man writing women’s fiction using his grandmother’s name as a pen name sounds like a terrible literary remark of Victor, Victoria. How would readers respond to that? Moreover, how would authors respond to that? One of my greatest honors, and surprises, has been not just the warm welcome other authors have given me in joining their genre but the overwhelming support, encouragement, friendship, advice, guidance and, yes, wine. The authors I’ve long admired, and who inspired me to write the types of books I do, have been great guides and inspirations to me, literary Yodas, if you will. My mom, a lifelong nurse and hospice nurse, always told me, “Work with women! They will lift you up, over and over and over.” How right she was! So, huge, heartfelt hugs and thanks to Dott
ie Frank, who is bigger than life, sweeter than my grandma’s cherry-chip cake and more giving than a lucky slot machine; Rita Mae Brown (who calls me Tallulah Bankhead) told me never to give up and to always kick a** (or she’d come for them); Jane Green, whose early novels inspired me to want to write women’s fiction; Adriana Trigiani, the literary tornado of positivity; Nancy Thayer, the queen of the summer read and first to blurb my first novel; Debbie Macomber, who supported me from the start; the gracious Laura Lane McNeal; the generous, sweet Caroline Leavitt, whose writing advice is always top of mind; and, oh, yes, two men! The wonderfully kind and talented Richard Paul Evans and Garth Stein.

  One note: the resort communities of Saugatuck-Douglas-Fennville where I live have changed my life and inspired my writing. And all of the organizations that seek to enhance the arts, history, preservation and well-being of the towns I love and call home make our community a better place. Moreover, the towns are filled with wonderful souls—artists, authors, entrepreneurs, neighbors as well as countless volunteers and donors—all of whom give of their time and talent to make this the special place it is. So, let me restate the obvious. The Summer Cottage is—and all its characters are—a work of fiction, and what I write about in the book is just that: made up in my mind, save for the beautiful towns I call home. So thank you to all the residents of Saugatuck-Douglas-Fennville, and the state of Michigan, for embracing me so fully.

  Finally, thank you to my readers. I would not be able to write the types of books that I do—ones inspired by my grandmothers’ and family’s heirlooms, lives, love and lessons, books about difficult things that happen to good people—without your support. Over the past two years, I’ve done nearly one hundred events across the United States. I’ve visited bookstores, libraries, book clubs, women’s groups and churches. I’ve spoken to a handful of readers and to auditoriums filled with hundreds of people. As an author, I spend much of my time alone (usually drinking coffee in an old, but very soft, robe), my characters my company. When I write, I don’t think of the outcome: how the book will do, what readers will think, the places I will visit. I’m in another world, joyously lost for months. And when I’m done, and I set out on the road, I still don’t know what you will think of my new work.

  I’ve been beyond thrilled that my novels have resonated so deeply with you. Moreover, I’ve been happy and humbled that so many of you have not only turned out to greet me at events but also that you’ve brought pieces of your lives and hearts—your own family heirlooms—to share with me. I’ve been overwhelmed by the many, many readers who have worn charm bracelets and jangled them while I read. I’ve been touched by the family Bibles, quilts, photo albums, dishes and vases that readers have taken time to bring to events. And, oh, the family recipes and recipe cards you’ve shared! I can’t wait to see photos of your summer cottages and hear your heartfelt stories of your own family, naps on screened porches and reading books in favorite hammocks, BBQs and ice cream, card games at the table, s’mores at the firepit, sand on the floor and wet swimming suits tossed over the railing. Above all this, however, is the fact that you’ve shared your family histories, your dreams, hopes, sacrifices and souls. We’ve laughed together and cried together, and there is no greater joy for an author than when readers share as much of themselves as we do with them. So, thank you from the bottom of my heart!

  AUTHOR NOTE

  Dear Reader,

  I’m so happy and humbled that you’ve chosen to read my new novel, The Summer Cottage.

  My grandparents—especially my grandmothers—were all tremendous influences in my life, and I use my maternal grandmother’s name as a pen name as a way to honor the women whose heirlooms, lives, love and lessons inspire my fiction. My grandparents’ journeys and sacrifices helped make me the person I am today, which is why I like to say that I didn’t choose a pen name, a pen name chose me.

  I was born and raised in the Missouri Ozarks, and grew up spending summers at my grandparents’ log cabin. The cabin was actually in the middle of nowhere. It sat on a high bluff overlooking a beautiful creek—crick as we called it—named Sugar Creek. I would get dropped off by my parents on Memorial Day and stay with my grandparents—my parents visiting on weekend—until school started again. We had nothing at the cabin—no indoor shower, no phone, no TV, no microwave—nothing but an outhouse, fishing poles, inner tubes, books and each other. This is where I got to know my grandparents as real people, and my grandmas as real women, not just my grandmas. There was something magical about that old cabin: its creaks and quirks; the smell of the logs, the creek and the fireplace; the sleeping loft jammed with cots; jumping into the ice-cold water; cooking and baking with my grandmas; fishing with my grampa; floating on inner tubes with my mom and brother as we stared into the hydrangea-blue sky; making homemade ice cream with my dad, our shoulders aching as we took turns cranking the machine; ringing the bell on the back door to call everyone to dinner; reading books on a barn-red glider that sat on the edge of a bluff. The only rule my grandparents had at the cabin was to be happy.

  My family sold the cabin when my grandparents died and I went off to college. I was devastated. My summers were never quite the same. And the rules of adult life never seemed to fit with my own set of rules.

  And then I discovered Michigan. My aunt bought a cottage in a quaint little town in northern Michigan called Leland (Fishtown, they call it) and years later I ended up on vacation in a magical resort town on the west coast of Michigan called Saugatuck-Douglas. I fell in love. The little artists’ town was like something out of a Currier & Ives print, and it was nestled in the midst of towering dunes and golden beaches alongside Lake Michigan. I returned a few weeks later and, without thinking, went looking for homes with a real estate agent. I spent two full days of vacation daydreaming. And then the Realtor said, “There’s a cottage that just came on the market. I think it may be what you’ve been dreaming of.”

  As we drove just outside of town, she pulled down a long gravel drive that sat under a canopy of pines and sugar maples, and I saw a little cottage hunkered in the woods. When I walked inside, I gasped. It was a knotty-pine cottage filled with shiplap and soaring ceilings, old fireplaces, a farm sink like we had in the old cabin, a screened porch with views of enchanting woods, the sounds of Lake Michigan—just a half mile away—filling the porch. It had nearly as much quirk, character and history as my grandparents’ log cabin.

  “I want it!” I said, though I couldn’t afford it.

  That turned out to be the dumbest-smartest decision of my life. That cottage, now deemed “Turkey Run” for all the wild turkeys that amble through the yard and call back at the thunder, changed my life. It filled me with so much hope and happiness that I ended up quitting my job, moving to Michigan and becoming a writer. Adie Lou, the main character in The Summer Cottage, goes through a similar transformation. And she does it in Saugatuck-Douglas!

  The Summer Cottage is inspired by all of this—down to Darryl, the moose head, which was a fixture in my old cabin—which is why I’m so, so proud of this novel. It truly is meant as a tribute to family, love and kindness, things we need more than ever in today’s world. It is also a tribute to our shared histories and connections, things we need to rediscover these days. It was written in hopes that readers will take even the briefest of moments to think about and connect with those you love, as well as to pursue your dreams and passion, before it’s too late. Mostly, I’m proud that readers will say my grandma’s name for centuries to come. I truly hope you love The Summer Cottage and that you tell all your friends and family about it...word of mouth is the greatest compliment to an author.

  Happy reading and happy summer, no matter where it is you call home!

  xoxo,

  Viola

  www.ViolaShipman.com

  The Summer

  Cottage

  Viola Shipman

  Reader’s Guide

  Questions for Disc
ussion

  The Summer Cottage was inspired by the author’s family’s beloved family cabin, where he spent childhood summers with his grandparents. Do you have a summer cottage? What memories does it hold, and what does it mean to you? How long has it been in your family? Do you intend to pass it along? What are your favorite quirks or items in your cottage?

  The Summer Cottage is also inspired by and set in the author’s beloved, real hometown of Saugatuck-Douglas, Michigan. Do you live in a resort town, or vacation in a favorite place every summer? What memories do you have there? What emotions does it evoke when you arrive?

  In The Summer Cottage, each chapter is centered around a “cottage rule.” Do you have rules—funny or real—for your home? What are the importance of rules in our life? How do they help us? How do they hinder us? Do you think we have too many rules in society, or too few?

  Do you still spend time with your family? What does that mean to you and them? Are we losing that connection?

  Adie Lou, the main character in the novel, wants to recapture not only the dreams she had growing up but also the person she was. Do you have dreams that never materialized? What were they? What stood in the way of those coming true (children, mortgages, illness, caring for your parents, money, divorce or just plain old bad luck)?

  A main theme in the novel is the importance of home and history. As Adie Lou renovates her summer cottage, she uncovers a fascinating history about Sadie, a young woman who lived in the cottage in the late 1800s. Does your summer cottage or home have a fascinating history? Share.

  Sadie’s history is fraught with sadness and tragedy, as her young life has already been predetermined for her by men. Adie Lou’s life and career has also been influenced by men. Has your life or decisions ever been influenced by men in a negative way? How so (divorce, equal pay at work)? How have women and women’s rights changed over the last century? How have they not?