Nothing?
That was when she saw a brand-new electric opener sitting on the counter.
And a fancy bottle opener, too?
Sam felt a ping of guilt at her better-than-everyone-else urban attitude. She began to cut off the seal at the top of the bottle and then realized the top screwed off.
Sam chuckled at herself and then stopped cold, as Shakespearian whispers were carried along softly by the summer breeze through the screen door and floated into the kitchen where they hit Sam like a brick:
Has she seen Connor?
I don’t know. Does she even talk to him anymore?
I don’t think so. But did you see she’s still wearing his necklace?
And the key to the recipe box.
Is she dating anyone now?
Why is she home?
She seems too stressed to be on vacation.
Sam felt her knees buckle, and she took a seat on the wood floor of the kitchen still holding the bottle of wine. The whispers continued.
Did she get fired?
Did she quit?
Did she give up?
Sam leaned back against the wine fridge, the door cool on her now-flushed skin.
Why am I here? she thought. Why did I quit? Have I given up?
The late evening’s light shone off the old pine planks of the kitchen floor, illuminating every ancient dog scratch and dent, the footpath worn from refrigerator to kitchen sink, seemingly every memory and every step of Sam’s life embedded in the floor.
Sam screwed the top off the wine and lifted the bottle to her lips.
“Hard day?”
Sam spewed a stream of white wine from her mouth, startled.
Sam nodded, and Willo took a seat next to her granddaughter, her knees creaking as she bent.
“Do you mind sharing?” Willo asked once she was next to Sam. “Or was it a bottle for one?”
Sam winced more than she smiled.
For a moment, the two sat in silence, handing the bottle of wine back and forth, taking small sips.
“I raised you to be a real class act, didn’t I?” Willo asked.
This time, Sam smiled.
“We’re all so happy you’re home,” Willo said gently, “but we’re … well … we’re just surprised to see you.”
“Should I leave?” Sam asked a bit too defensively.
“Of course not,” Willo said. “We want to support you, but we need to know how. I know, in due time, you’ll tell us what’s going on.”
Willo stopped and touched Sam’s arm. “We just want you to be happy.” She hesitated. “And you certainly don’t seem like your old self.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Sam said, again a bit too defensively.
“Maybe,” Willo said. “Change is good. But sometimes you can’t run from something, some place, or someone. Sometimes you have to run toward something.”
“Is that a bumper sticker?”
“Sam,” Willo said, following it up with one of her trademark under-the-breath tsk-tsks. “It’s the foundation for a happy life.”
Willo took the wine from Sam’s hand and raised it to her mouth, taking a healthy drink.
“Grandma!” Sam said, her face in shock.
“I’m girding myself to tell you a story I haven’t told anyone,” she said. “Only my mom knew.”
Sam’s eyes grew wide, and she took the bottle back and matched her grandmother’s healthy drink with her own chug.
“I think I need to gird myself to hear this,” she said.
Willo waited for Sam to finish. And then she said, “I almost didn’t marry your grandfather.”
Eight
Summer 1965
Willo Beck stood on the runway of the Charlevoix Airport, eyes as big as the sun, mouth open, scarf billowing in the wind. She was clutching her suitcase tightly, her knuckles white, refusing to give up her bag.
“It looks like a toy plane,” she said, her blond hair whipping in the warm summer breeze. “My friend’s little brother has one just like it.”
The pilot, a tall man with a square jaw and gray eyes whose face looked worn and rugged, looked at Willo and cocked his head at the plane. “We’ve been flying to Beaver Island since 1945, miss,” the pilot said. “Plane goes up, plane goes down. Birds fly farther in a day.”
“It’s the ‘down’ part that makes me nervous,” Willo said, looking at the tiny plane with big wheels and propellers on each side.
The pilot smiled. “I flew a fighter in World War Two, miss. This is like takin’ your dog for a walk.”
Willo’s hand eased on her suitcase. Blood flowed back into her knuckles.
“I promise,” he reassured. “Never lost one yet.” He looked up at the sky. “And look at this day. It’s perfect. It’ll be like flying in heaven.”
Willo handed her bag to him. The pilot walked to the back, tossed in her suitcase, and then reached for her hand.
“Step here,” he said, helping Willo climb into the plane. “Watch your head. And buckle up.”
Willo fastened her seat belt and then watched the pilot circle the plane, checking doors and hatches. He jumped in and checked all the gauges.
“Am I the only one on the plane?” Willo asked.
“Looks like it,” he said. “A lot of people boat over to the island. You’re lucky. You’ll be there before any of them.”
A man on the runway gave the pilot a thumbs-up. “Watch your ears,” he said. “Gets kinda loud. And make sure your seat belt is tight. Sometimes one of the doors will just swing open.”
The engines revved to life, drowning out Willo’s screams. Before she could unbuckle her seat belt and run, the plane was scooting down the runway and then, shakily, slowly, unsteadily, taking flight.
Willo clamped her eyes shut. She could feel the plane bank left, then right, and then climb higher, her ears popping at its ascent. Her stomach dropped and lurched as the small plane was buffeted by the wind. Images of Willo’s mother and father popped into her head, and she said a little prayer, the one her parents had taught her when she was a young girl to say every night before she went to sleep so she would wake up safely again in the morning.
Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep …
Willo panicked as she started to recite the next line about dying before she woke.
I never thought about what it meant until now, she thought. What a terrible prayer for a child!
“Open your eyes,” she thought she could hear her mom and dad say to her.
“Open your eyes!”
Willo finally realized the pilot was yelling at her, his voice barely audible over the roar of the engines.
Willo opened her eyes, and the pilot turned his head. “Life’s an adventure, miss,” he said. “You have to keep your eyes open or you’ll miss it.”
He scanned the panoramic view beyond the plane. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Willo slowly turned her head and leaned toward the window. Her heart leapt into her throat. The plane was much closer to the water than Willo had dreamed it would be, and she felt as if she were in a dream. She took a deep breath, shut her eyes, and then quickly looked again. The waters of Lake Michigan were a mix of aqua, turquoise, and emerald.
It looks just like the photos of the Caribbean in National Geographic, Willo thought.
The sunlight illuminated the sandy bottom of the lake, revealing an intricate, striated pattern below the surface of the water. The shadowy silhouette of the plane appeared on the water’s surface. It looked like a black bird winging its way to the island.
“It is beautiful,” Willo whispered to herself, before lifting her voice and calling to the pilot. “It is beautiful.”
“Why are you headed to Beaver Island?” the pilot called back.
Willo looked at him, and then out the window. “I don’t know,” she said.
“Beautiful few days to find out then,” he said.
As the plane approached Beaver Island, Willo saw that dense forest
s of pines enveloped the island, hugging the entire perimeter up to its sandy shores. The island looked largely uninhabited, unexplored, and Willo felt as if she were dropping into a remote jungle. That was when she saw the waves gently lapping the golden shores. Willo relaxed all at once until the plane suddenly lurched lower, and the pilot called, “Hold on!”
Willo saw no apparent runway, just a thicket of trees as the plane crouched lower, lower, lower to the ground. Then, out of nowhere, a runway no bigger than a driveway appeared in a clearing, and the plane just dropped as if it had run out of gas.
Willo screamed and checked her seat belt, and then, quickly, the plane’s wheels were on the ground, and it was screeching to a bumpy halt.
“You kept your eyes open,” the pilot said after he turned off the engines. “Proud of you.”
He scrambled out of the plane and helped Willo off before grabbing her bag from the back of the plane. “Where you headed?” he asked, setting her small suitcase on the ground.
“I don’t really know,” Willo said.
“You don’t know?” the pilot asked, a look of amusement and concern crossing his face.
“I’m headed to my friend’s cottage by the lighthouse,” she said.
“That’s quite a ways from here,” he said. “South end of the island. Need a ride?”
Willo looked at him and shook her head. “I think I need some fresh air,” she said.
“Head down this road and go into town,” he said. “Keep walking until you hit the end of the island. Lighthouse is the biggest thing around. Can’t miss it … unless you get lost.”
He laughed. “Everyone knows everyone here,” he said. “Someone will always help you out … if you actually come across another person.”
“Thank you,” Willo said, picking up her suitcase. She began to walk away from the minuscule airport—one small building that served as arrival and departure gate—but stopped and turned. “And I’ll keep my eyes open from now on.” She smiled.
Less than a mile into her walk, Willo was kicking herself that she had worn a pair of cute saddle oxfords instead of her sneakers. She had yet to see a car, much less a person, and felt as if she were the last person on earth.
I have never felt so alone, Willo thought, despite …
The whole island smelled like pine and water, and she could hear the wind and roar of the lake all around her, as if she were in a movie theater. Her shoes crunched on sand and gravel, and she switched the suitcase from arm to arm each time her shoulder began to ache. Finally, she stopped at a little picnic bench along the side of the road, where a small, shallow creek burbled through lake stones, carrying pine needles slowly downstream. She set down her suitcase and looked into the creek, catching her reflection in the water.
Who am I? Willo asked herself.
Willo took a seat at the table, opened her suitcase, and pulled out a sandwichlike piece of slab pie her mother had made and stored within a pillowy safe haven of shorts and T-shirts.
Thanks, Mom, Willo thought. Slab pie. My favorite.
Her mother and her best friend, Sally, were the only ones who knew of her escape to Beaver Island, which sat roughly thirty miles off the shores of northern Michigan. Sally had told Willo she could borrow her parents’ cottage.
“You’ll have it all to yourself,” she told Willo, giving her a hug. “The quiet will give you time to think.”
Willo knew the island had a certain unusual history and lore to it, but the isolation was what appealed to her at the moment.
I’m like an escaped prisoner, Willo thought. On the run for my life.
Willo’s heart ached as soon as the thought entered her mind.
How can I be so heartless? she wondered.
As she took a bite of her pie and continued to think, the sun glinted off the ring on Willo’s finger. Her heart ached again.
She lifted her hand and studied the engagement ring, turning it in the light.
Why did I say yes? Willo thought.
Two cardinals landed near the creek, dipping their beaks into the water. They stopped and began splashing one another in a playful manner. The birds fluttered their wings, water droplets glimmering in the light, and danced around in playful skips. Then they grew still for a moment, tossed back their heads, and began to sing a chorus to one another.
That’s love, Willo thought. Look how they complement each other, enjoy being in each other’s company. She stopped and asked herself again, this time out loud, “Why did I say yes?”
Willo watched the birds flap their wings, singing as they took flight. I did what I thought society expected, she thought.
Willo had dated Fred since he asked her to homecoming junior year in high school in Suttons Bay. Fred was steady, hardworking, earnest, quiet, and introspective. He wanted to stay in Suttons Bay, one day take over Mullins Family Orchards with Willo.
Ants began to march onto the picnic table, picking up crumbs of crust as large as their bodies and then silently turning to trek back home.
Yes, Willo thought. Fred is just like an ant.
After high school, Willo had gone to college to study business while Fred had stayed home to work his family’s small farm. College had changed Willo’s life, opened her mind and her way of thinking. Learning about the world had made her own world seem small, and she wanted to travel, move, make her mark on places she had yet to see.
Is a life on the orchard the life I want? she asked herself. Is Fred the man I want? Forever suddenly seems like a very long time.
And at her graduation dinner—just hours after she’d gotten her diploma—the waitress brought a cake to the table, one slice already cut. When she served it onto Willo’s plate, a ring was sitting atop the icing. When Willo looked up, Fred was already on his knee, their families applauding, Fred’s mother in tears.
What was I supposed to do? Willo asked herself again.
Willo finished her pie, picked up her suitcase, and continued her journey, eventually making it into “downtown” Beaver Island. She trudged through the tiny street that arced around the lake, until the sidewalk ended and she was on a dirt road that ran through a thicket of woods. Finally, she could see light, a clearing, and when she came out of the woods, the majestic end of the island greeted her, the lighthouse standing guard over the shoreline and the beautiful waters of Lake Michigan.
A lone, low-slung cottage covered with weathered, graying shake shingles sat on a grassy knoll, with the lighthouse and sandy shoreline just beyond. Little pink roses climbed a trellis, a hammock gently swayed between two knotty pines, and three rockers sat on the small front porch.
It looks just like in a storybook, Willo thought.
She set her suitcase down on the front porch and dug out the key to the house. Willo smiled when she entered: a floor-to-ceiling lake stone fireplace engulfed the living room—the whole house smelled of smoke—and the front of the house was filled with windows overlooking the lake. Suddenly energized, Willo skipped into the kitchen, bright linoleum on the floors and bright red laminate making it sparkly. Two small bedrooms, connected by a blue tiled Jack-and-Jill bath, sat on the other side of the house, both with views of the water.
Willo placed her suitcase on Sally’s bed. She looked at all the photos on the wall: Sally as a baby, Sally walking the beach with her mother, Sally as a teenager swimming with her friends, Sally growing up right in front of Willo’s eyes. Willo walked back into the kitchen and opened the icebox; there were some staples in there, for the family’s upcoming Labor Day visit, and Willo knew her mom had packed a PBJ and another piece of slab pie for dinner.
Enough until tomorrow, she thought.
Willo walked to the front of the house and stared out the living room windows. There were no curtains.
No need for them, Willo thought. No neighbors. Willo scanned the stunning expanse. And this view!
The lake extended as far as Willo could see—a watery blue fabric that moved in the wind, the lighthouse watching over everything. Wil
lo looked up at the lighthouse, and it seemed to call to her. Willo stepped onto the front porch, kicked off her shoes, and walked down to the shoreline. The lighthouse was built of white stone, and it had a few steps leading up to a door. Willo tugged on it, but it was locked. She took a step back and covered her eyes against the sun. There was a circular walkway surrounding 360 degrees of glass near the top, and an American flag whipped in the summer wind from its summit. Willo peered into the windows of the lighthouse.
Looks dark inside.
She circled around it and found, on the side closest to the water, a semicircle stone wall to which a series of plaques had been attached. One plaque told the brief history of the lighthouse and the dates it had first opened and finally closed. The other plaques commemorated those who had died in Lake Michigan just beyond the lighthouse. Willo read of people who had perished in plane crashes and shipwrecks, fishermen who could not be saved, children who had been caught in riptides, families out for a summer boat ride, and rescue officers who had died trying to save all of their lives.
People like me, Willo thought, reading the plaque, whose lives just ended without warning, never to return home to their loved ones again.
The final lines of the plaque read:
They … left our hearts with sorrows aching, Still our lamps must brightly burn.
Willo walked to the shoreline and took a seat on the sand, looking into the distance, the lake serene and flat.
What were their lives like? Willo wondered of those who had died. What had they been thinking and doing right before their lives had been so quickly taken?
She lay back and looked up at the lighthouse.
Were they happy?
Willo’s eyes opened and closed, then fluttered, and before she knew it she was fast asleep, dreaming of perishing just beyond the lighthouse. When she awoke, it was dusk and her skin was chilled. She stood, still drowsy, her mind still filled with her fitful dreams.
I need some rest, she thought. I’m exhausted and emotional.
Willo headed to the cottage, turning back to look at the lighthouse every few steps as if it were still beckoning her, before shutting the door, eating her PBJ and pie, and going to bed.
The next day dawned sunny, warm, and bright.
The Recipe Box Page 8