Perfect beach day, Willo thought. And perfect beach reading day.
Willo put on a swimsuit and then some shorts and a cute sleeveless top, grabbed a dollar her mother had given her and a little beach bag, placing a towel in it, and headed back toward downtown, stopping at a little sandwich shop to grab a donut and cup of coffee, as well as a pimiento cheese sandwich and a Coke for later. She sat on the front porch of the shop, ravenously downing her donut and coffee, asking a local passing by where the prettiest and quietest beach was located.
“Long walk,” said the old man with skin like pine bark, spitting a dark rivulet of Skoal off the porch.
“I expect heaven to be a long walk,” Willo said with a serious nod, drinking her coffee.
The man roared. “You got a story, ma’am,” he said. “I can tell.”
He kneeled down, pulled a pencil from the front pocket of his overalls, and grabbed a napkin from Willo, then drew a map to the beach.
“Go lay your story to rest here,” he said with a wink, grunting as he stood, then headed into the shop.
Willo stood, stretched, studied the man’s map, and headed out on foot.
The map the man had drawn led Willo through a maze of Beaver Island natural wonders. She trudged through dense pine forests and across clear streams with only stepping-stones or fallen limbs as bridges; she walked through fields of wildflowers, the buzz of bees filling the air; she climbed a dune, the sand hot from the summer sun, emerging atop a peak that offered a breathtaking view of Lake Michigan and its pristine, undeveloped coastline.
Willo hiked down the hill, the dune grass scraping at her legs, and—out of breath—emerged at the shoreline. She kicked off her shoes and walked into the water, the chill of Lake Michigan taking her breath away as it always did. Willo washed her legs and turned, scouring the beach.
Not a person in sight, Willo thought, smiling. The man was right.
She pulled out her beach blanket, gave it a flip in the wind, and tossed the latest Agatha Christie novel on top, using her shoes to anchor the ends. Willo wiggled out of her shorts and top, rubbed some Coppertone onto her arms and legs, and plopped onto the blanket with a big sigh. She sat watching the waves, which instantly lulled her.
Lay your story to rest here.
The man’s voice reverberated in her mind.
It’s not that easy, she thought. Because my story has no happy ending.
Without warning, Willo began to cry. Big tears rolled down her cheeks and plunked onto her thighs. She lay back, the sun drying her tears, and lifted her paperback.
Take me away, Agatha, she thought.
Despite the suspense surrounding Hercule Poirot, Willo’s eyelids grew heavy, and the book swayed in her hands. Slowly, she dropped the book, closed her eyes, and succumbed to her weariness.
You’re getting red.
Willo dreamed that Agatha Christie’s eccentrically refined Belgian detective was standing over her, his mustache twitching.
Why are you wearing a tuxedo on the beach? Willo asked him.
You’re getting red, he kept repeating.
Willo opened her eyes and screamed. Standing over her was not Poirot but a shirtless young man whose skin and hair were as golden as the sand, his stomach rippling like the water.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, backing away. “You look like you’re starting to get a little sunburned.”
Willo sat up and put her arms around herself, trying to gather her wits.
“How long have I been asleep?” she asked groggily.
“Let’s put it this way, if I hadn’t shown up, you’d likely have slept long enough to look like a lobster,” the boy said with a smile. “Which aren’t common around here. Right now, you have time to get some more lotion on.”
Willo studied herself and grabbed the lotion. “Who are you?” she asked, more than a slight tone of indignation in her voice.
“Who are you?” he mimicked with mock indignation.
She laughed. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m Willo. And I’m not myself today.”
“I’m Gordon,” he replied. “And this beach is the perfect place to lose yourself.” He stopped. “Or find yourself.”
He walked to the shoreline and stood ankle deep in the water. To Willo, he resembled Troy Donahue, and her heart skipped a beat.
“What brings you to this beach?” he called over the waves. “Not many people know about it. Just the locals.”
“A man at the sandwich shop in town told me about it,” she said. “Are you a local?”
“Sort of but not really,” he said.
“What’s that mean?”
“My dad and I come up here every few weeks to fish,” he said. “We have a friend who owns a little cabin here, a shack really, and we boat over here from the mainland. Beaver Island used to be the largest supplier of freshwater fish consumed in the United States.”
“You’re a regular treasure trove of information,” Willo said, standing up and walking over to join him in the water.
“Treasure trove?” Gordon asked. “You must be a college girl.”
“Just graduated,” she said. “Michigan State.”
“Congratulations,” he said, nodding in admiration. “Must have big plans for your future.”
Willo ducked her head, turned away from him, and looked out over the water without answering.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to be nosy.”
“I … I…” Willo started, unable to get out what she wanted to say.
“No need to explain,” he said. “A lot of people escape to this island for many reasons. Do you know the history of Beaver Island?”
Willo looked at him and shook her head.
Gordon walked out of the water and took a seat on the beach, patting the sand for Willo to join him. She walked over and sat, her legs just inches from his.
“At one time, it was the site of a Mormon kingdom,” he said.
“A what?” Willo asked, sitting straighter.
“A Mormon kingdom,” he repeated, nodding emphatically. “After Joseph Smith, the founder of the Latter Day Saint movement, died, most considered Brigham Young to be Smith’s successor, but many followed a man called James Strang, who moved his followers to Beaver Island over a century ago. They helped build the island and became a force here.”
Willo’s blue eyes grew larger as Gordon recounted the tale.
“Strang proclaimed himself king, and he was crowned by his followers. But others on the island didn’t like his self-declared status as island ruler, or the fact that he was a polygamist with five wives and fourteen children,” Gordon continued. “Two men were flogged after their wives refused to follow Strang’s edict to wear bloomers. As they recovered, they began to plot against him.”
“This is like a movie,” Willo said.
“One summer day, the USS Michigan entered the harbor here and invited Strang aboard. As he walked down the dock, two men shot him from behind and then ran onto the ship, which departed and let the men out at Mackinac Island. They were never convicted, and Strang died shortly after that. Mobs came from Mackinac and drove Strang’s followers off Beaver Island.”
“Wow,” Willo said. “That’s quite a story. How do you know all that? You a college boy?”
This time, Gordon ducked his head, his bangs brushing his sun-bleached eyelashes. “No,” he said shyly. “There’s a history museum downtown, and all the locals talk about the island’s history when we go fishing. I’m just a kid from Traverse Bay who helps work on and restore boats with my dad. Small family business. Always wanted to go to college, though.”
“I’m from Suttons Bay,” Willo said. “My family owns an orchard.”
“What orchard?”
“Mullins,” she said.
“Oh, my gosh,” he said. “My family used to drive over there all the time.”
“Used to,” Willo said, repeating Gordon’s words in a sad tone, her eyes shifting from his to search the water. “We’re
having some problems right now, to be honest. Farms are getting bigger, corporations are running them. Groceries have nice fresh produce in stock all the time.” She hesitated. “People watch TV or go to the movies now. Spending a day at the orchard doesn’t sound as fun as it used to for a lot of folks. I’d hate for my family to lose what they started so long ago.” She hesitated. “And I don’t know if I want to be a part of it, to be honest. Such a different life than I imagine now.”
“Your family won’t lose it,” Gordon said. “Sometimes you have to realize that the only constant in life is change.”
“Wow! Very profound,” Willo said with a chuckle. “Did you know Heraclitus, a Greek philosopher, said that a very, very long time ago?”
“No,” Gordon said. “You learned a lot in college.”
“I guess I did,” Willo said. Then she laughed. “But if knowing a dead Greek philosopher is all I know, I’m in for big trouble in the real world.”
“My dad says, ‘Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day; teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.’”
“That’s a Chinese proverb,” Willo said admiringly.
“Sort of my family’s philosophy in life and work,” he said. “I tell my dad, ‘If we don’t catch fish, we’re having a Swanson TV dinner.’”
“I don’t know if that proverb will catch on,” Willo said. She laughed and, without thinking, reached over and hit Gordon’s leg. She quickly removed her hand and stood, walking into the lake in hopes that it would cool the heat she felt when she touched him.
My hand is tingling with electric shock, she thought.
“That’s why I came out here … just to forget for a while,” Gordon said. “I’m going through the same thing as you. My dad’s business is struggling, too. The boat industry is changing … no one buys, wants, or restores the vintage wooden boats anymore. They want aluminum. New, new, new!” He hesitated. “I feel a lot of pressure to do what everyone expects. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to just be young.”
Willo could feel her cheeks quiver with emotion. She turned and looked directly at Gordon, nodding. “Then let’s forget,” she said. “Let’s swim, lay out…” She stopped and poked her skin, which had quickly turned from pink to brown. “… get a little more tan … be young.”
Gordon stood and ran to the water. “OK!” he said, before running with abandon into the lake and then diving into the water headfirst. He emerged with a resounding whoop that echoed along the beach.
Willo laughed and followed suit, screaming as her body dove into the chilly waters. She stood, water cascading off her body in shimmering droplets, and ran her hands through her hair. She saw Gordon staring at her.
“You look like you’re wrapped in diamonds,” he said.
Her heart stopped. That may have been the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me, she thought.
“I wish I had met you before…” Gordon hesitated, and Willo saw that he was staring at her ring, wet and glistening in the water and sun. “… that diamond.”
The only constant in life is change, Willo thought, before she again heard the old man’s voice from the sandwich shop. Lay your story to rest here.
Willo retreated to her beach blanket and lay back, the sun drying her skin. In the haze from the beach, Gordon looked like a beautiful ghost who had appeared out of the towering dunes that surrounded them. He walked toward her and took a seat too close to her on the sand. She felt paralyzed.
“I like the key around your neck,” he said. “What’s it for?”
“This silly thing?” Willo asked, lifting her necklace and grabbing the key that had swung backward around her neck.
“It’s not silly if you’re wearing it,” he said.
“It’s a key to my recipe box,” she said.
“You cook?”
“I bake,” she said. “But I don’t know if I want to.”
“Maybe that key holds the answer,” Gordon said. “Where are you staying?”
“Why?”
He laughed. “Don’t mean to intrude,” he said. “Just didn’t know if you were planning to spend the night out here. You seem … lost.”
“I am,” Willo said, shocked the words had come out of her mouth. “I’m staying at my friend’s cottage. It’s right next to the lighthouse.”
Gordon tilted his head back and laughed.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“It all makes sense now,” he said. “The lighthouse has a history, too. Want to hear it?”
“You’re full of stories,” she said.
“Better than being full of you-know-what,” he laughed. “One dark and stormy night less than a century ago…”
“A ghost story?” Willo asked, her voice rising.
“You decide,” he said. “A woman named Elizabeth was married to a man named Clement, who was the lighthouse keeper. When he became ill, she looked after the oil light, which was not easy in the winter. One night, the couple heard a loud flapping of sails in the distance and could barely make out the flashing lights of a ship in distress, which they soon realized was sinking.”
Gordon continued. “Clement and a first mate rowed out into the darkness in a rescue boat. Neither of them was ever found again. Elizabeth was heartbroken but dedicated her life to the lighthouse, once saying that there would always be others in treacherous waters who would need the rays from the shining light of her tower to guide them to shore. Her motto was…”
Willo sat up. “I just read the plaque. Something about her keeping the lamps burning brightly.”
“That’s right,” he said. “Some people say they can still see the oil lamp burning even though the lighthouse has been closed for a long time.”
“That gives me goose bumps,” she said, rubbing her arms and legs.
“Meet me for dinner?” Gordon suddenly asked. “I’m frying some fish my dad and I caught … maybe you can offer us some college business advice about our family business.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It doesn’t seem right.”
The two sat in silence for a long while, and then Willo said, “OK.” Gordon smiled, and there was a moment of awkwardness, before Willo added, “I’m hungry anyway.”
She leaned back and grabbed her sandwich, damp and warm from the water and sun. She eyed it closely, pulling the bread apart to study it.
“Pimiento cheese? I wouldn’t eat that if I were you,” Gordon warned, before leaning back and grabbing a paper bag. “I’ve got some fresh cherries from home if you want some. They taste like summer. They might tide you over until dinner. Watch out for the pits.”
“Thanks,” Willo said, grabbing a cherry and popping the fruit off its stem, spitting the leftover pit into the sand.
“Very ladylike,” he said.
“I’m from Michigan,” she said. “Gotta know how to spit a pit.”
Gordon laughed. “You seem like a woman filled with unexpected surprises,” he said.
Unexpected surprises, Willo thought. How refreshing to hear.
“Cherries remind me of one of my grandmother’s favorite desserts,” she said. “Cherry chip cake.”
“Sounds delicious,” Gordon said. “Is that in your recipe box?”
Willo smiled and nodded. “Actually, it is.”
“I love cherries, and I love cake.”
“It has this wonderfully rich frosting, and the cake is filled with cherries,” she said. “It was actually the wedding cake for my grandparents and parents.”
“Life on an orchard,” Gordon said, his voice wistful. “Hope I get to try that cake someday.”
Willo blushed, and she was glad her cheeks were already red from the sun.
Gordon walked Willo home and then picked her up for dinner on a bike for two. She liked his father, who talked with love and passion about his family, boats, his business, fishing, and his wife.
When Gordon dropped her off, it was twilight, and they stood in the shadow cast from the lighthouse. Willo felt draw
n to him, a familiar and deep connection like they had met before and were destined to meet again.
Why now? Willo wondered.
“It was nice to meet you,” Gordon said, extending his hand.
A gentleman, Willo thought.
“If you ever get over to Traverse City,” Gordon added shyly, “make sure to stop and say hi. I’d like to meet your husband.”
He turned and got onto his bike. “Better go before it’s too dark to get home.”
Gordon began to pedal away, waving at Willo. She waved good-bye. His bike slowed, and he suddenly did a U-turn on the dirt road.
“The only constant in life is change, Willo,” he said. “Remember that.”
Willo could feel her heart pound in her chest. And, with that, Gordon took off, dust billowing from the back wheel of the bike.
Willo turned, in shock, and walked toward the shore. She stopped at the stone wall and again read the plaque, thinking again of those who had left never to return.
Will Gordon ever return? Willo thought. And why does my heart ache for someone I just met and barely know?
She turned toward the lighthouse and looked up at it. “Help me, Elizabeth,” she whispered. “What should I do? How did you bear losing the one great love of your life? How did you go on?”
Willo faced the water, inhaling the fresh, unsalted scent of Lake Michigan. She then lifted her head to look at the lighthouse one last time before going inside to bed.
As she did, light began to illuminate the top of the lighthouse, the ceiling red, a bright beacon suddenly shining forth toward the water.
Willo stopped cold, but she wasn’t afraid. Instead, she took the ghostly light as a sign, a beacon of hope.
The only constant in life is change.
“Thank you,” she said to the lighthouse. “Thank you, Elizabeth.”
Nine
Sam lifted the bottle of wine to her lips. Willo saw it was now half empty.
“I forgot it was that good of a story,” Willo quipped.
“I’m a little bit in shock here, Grandma! You mean, you weren’t supposed to marry Grandpa?” Sam gasped, her voice husky and a bit slurred, shaking her grandmother’s leg with her free arm. “You cheated with Grandpa?”
The Recipe Box Page 9