One October afternoon, as they lay in the grove of sassafras, angling their faces just so between the red-leafed branches to catch the last of the Michigan sunlight before winter returned, Clem said, “Marry me?”
Arden’s first thought—as she lay on her back, still too stunned to move—was that Clem’s words sounded more like a plea than a question.
When she sat up, Clem was on his knees in front of her, holding a little box.
“No,” Arden said. “No, Clem.”
“It’s not a ring,” he said. “Just a promise that I’ll be with you forever.”
Arden opened the box: A charm of a loon sat nestled on top.
“Have you been talking with my mother?” Arden said.
“Maybe,” Clem said. “Can I add it to your bracelet?”
Arden held out her wrist, and Clem added the charm to her bracelet and then kissed her hand, as if she were a princess.
Arden stared at the charm. It was just like the one her mother had on her bracelet.
Arden looked into Clem’s green eyes, the breathtaking fall background of the woods, filled with sugar maples exploding in gold, red, yellow, and orange behind him.
And that’s when Clem leaned in and kissed Arden. She hadn’t expected the proposal. She hadn’t expected her heart to leap from her chest. She hadn’t expected her head to began to twirl, like the Tilt-A-Whirl that came to town with the traveling carnival every year. She hadn’t expected, at the young age of eighteen, to want to say yes.
But when her lips left Clem’s and she began to speak, a pack of Chicago women visiting for the fall color tour suddenly ran by, talking about “that crazy charm bracelet widow” in the old log cabin who had lost her husband. “Probably faked his own death to get away from her,” one cackled.
“That daughter has just as many charms,” another one laughed. “She’s going to be just like her.”
“Ignore them,” Clem replied.
But Arden couldn’t. These women were everywhere: They descended on auctions of foreclosed homes and farms like vultures, picking and plucking possessions, while tired families watched from behind curtains.
“Could you ever see yourself in a city?” Arden asked Clem one day. “What does our future look like?”
“God, no,” Clem scoffed. “A city? I can’t live like that. I’m a farm boy. I love this town. I want a simple life with a big family. Don’t you?”
Farm boy. Simple life. Big family.
For weeks, Arden was panicked, haunted by Clem’s dreams. She avoided him at school, hid out on weekends, made up excuses.
But when Arden was without him, she was haunted even more.
At a school assembly, Clem was honored by his chapter of the Future Farmers of America for service, and in his acceptance speech, Arden could hear his joy when he talked about farming. When he showed her his medal after the assembly, his face beamed.
Arden shut her eyes, but no longer saw Clem: She saw the tired faces of broken families. She saw her mother.
“Meet me after school,” she told him. “In our spot.”
“I can’t marry you,” Arden said when they met, bursting into tears. “I love you, but I just can’t live here. I will die here, just like you’d die in the city.”
And so, like the city women, Arden ran—from Clem, from Scoops, from her mother, from her past—toward the city.
The next summer, Arden left for college. She thought of Clem every day for years as she finished school, started as a journalist, worked on her book, and became a part of Chicago.
Arden was working at the Chicago Reader when her mother sent a letter that included a clip from the local paper, The Scoop, that read, “Local Boy Killed in Farming Accident.”
Even after so many years, Arden’s heart shattered.
She sat in her cube and wept, thinking of the boy she had left, of the most vulnerable time in her life, when Clem had made her feel so safe.
Clem had married a local girl and had three children, two boys and a girl. The paper ran a picture of the family: The kids looked like Clem. The family looked happy.
In the bottom of the envelope was the charm of the loon, dangling on the bracelet Arden had left at home, her past hidden in an old shoebox in the closet.
“My heart breaks for you, my angel,” Lolly had written in her looping script. “He loved you so much, didn’t he?”
Arden took the next day off work. She held her bracelet for hours, before removing the loon charm. Then she wrapped her bracelet in a Pennysaver ad that was shoved into her mailbox and hid it away in a shoebox in the back of her closet.
Arden went to the Lincoln Park Zoo to visit the animals in Clem’s memory. She walked the park and buried the posting of Clem’s death under a stand of sassafras, using her hands to dig a shallow grave. When she had finished, she walked to the bridge overlooking the zoo’s pond—the Chicago skyline framed in the distance—and sat, her legs swinging over the side.
Arden thought of Tom, the man she had just begun to date. He was the exact opposite of Clem: A businessman, urban and polished, driven by a desire for money and success.
The two are as different as, well, Chicago and Scoops, Arden thought, staring at the skyline.
That’s when Arden heard the familiar sound. At first, she thought she was hearing a siren. But, no, running across the pond, calling, crying, singing their soulful song, were two loons, right in the middle of Chicago.
It’s a sign! Arden thought. I made the wrong decision! I should have married him and had his children. No man could love me like he did.
Arden watched the loons take flight, wondering if they were already beginning to migrate south for the winter.
Clem will always be with me, but I have to let him go. I have to move on somehow, too, even if it will never be the same.
Suddenly, she stood and, without thinking, began to catapult the loon charm her mother had sent from her bracelet into the lake. But just as she was about to let go, the loons circled overhead and wailed. Arden stopped, retracted her arm, fell to the earth sobbing, and clutched the tiny charm to her chest.
* * *
Whooo-dooo-ooooh-ooooh!
Loons sounded their mournful wail as Arden realized she was still sitting on the embankment of the creek. She rubbed her knees, now shivering as she remembered falling, remembered all of this. Her tears made the sassafras trees appear to move, wiggle in front of her, like ghosts.
Yes, Mom, you were right: I loved him. And I never allowed myself to feel that again after that pain.
“Mom! Are you okay?”
Arden jumped and turned to find Lauren behind her.
“I fell,” she mumbled. “I don’t know if I’m okay … I don’t know.”
Lauren took a seat on the damp ground beside her mom, checked her mother’s knees and head, before laying an arm around her mother’s shoulder. The two listened to the burble of the creek.
“Wow,” Lauren finally said, “those sassafras are magical, aren’t they, Mom?”
Arden smiled, clenched her jaw, and turned away, trying to hide her tears, but it was too late.
“Mom? What’s going on?”
Arden thought of her mother’s words earlier, and suddenly the story of Clem tumbled out of her mouth, along with more tears.
When she was done, Lauren hugged her mother.
“Mom, I never knew. I’m so sorry.”
The two sat in the quiet of the woods, before Lauren spoke again. She started and then stopped before finally getting the words out. She started tentatively, “I want to change my major, Mom.”
Lauren took a deep breath and continued. “I want to be a painter. I mean, life is too short for us to turn our backs on our unhappiness. You and Grandma are finally teaching me that.”
Arden listened closely, before lifting her head and looking into her daughter’s eyes. “Business will allow you to be in control of your own life, though, Lauren. You will make more money than I did. And you won’t be reliant on anyo
ne, like I was. You can always just paint on the side, can’t you?”
Arden watched her daughter’s eyes fade into a distant place. She nodded and turned her head, but she wasn’t able to hide her tears from her mother.
“Life is filled with difficult decisions,” Arden said.
Arden wanted Lauren to be happy, but most of all she wanted to protect her. She didn’t want Lauren to worry about money or supporting herself.
“I know,” Lauren said, standing up. “I know.”
Twenty
Beep! Beep!
Lolly honked the horn of the Woodie to sound her arrival at the supper club, something she did every time she pulled into the small gravel lot.
“The Rendezvous?” Arden asked, suddenly remembering where they would be having dinner. Arden had eaten at the Rendezvous nearly every week growing up, considering her mother loved it and—in the winter—it was often the only place around that was still open. “Really? Everything here is fried.”
“Except the beer!” Lolly chirped. “Best brew and perch in Michigan!”
The three exited the Woodie, and Arden took in the exterior of the ancient supper club, a dark, dingy building in the middle of the woods that looked like it had seen better days.
LVE MUSC TONGHT! a shoddy sign in the parking lot read.
“Did they run out of money to buy i’s?” Arden asked.
“It’s like Wheel of Fortune,” Lolly laughed. “You have to buy a vowel, or solve it, to enter.”
Lauren swung open the door of the Rendezvous, a waft of grease and liquor overtaking them.
“Are you okay?” Lolly whispered to her granddaughter. “You seem awfully quiet tonight.”
Lauren nodded.
The three entered, and Arden quickly was blinded: The Rendezvous was pitch black, save for a few weak overhead lights and some candles flickering on the tables.
The Rendezvous had originally been built as a bar for local hunters and fishermen. The only windows in the place were narrow and sat high, like eyebrows, at the top of the restaurant. It became known as “The Hunter’s Mistress” because the “widowed wives” of the outdoorsmen couldn’t tell whether or not their husbands were inside unless they entered. And few had the nerve to do so.
Over time, the Rendezvous morphed from hunting bar to supper club, with jazz musicians from Chicago and Detroit heading north for summer getaways to jam together and test out new songs. A lot of the greats had played here—though they may not have remembered they did—including members of The Rat Pack.
Arden braced herself.
“I had drinks with Sinatra,” Lolly said loud enough to get the attention of a few diners. “We were quite a pair!”
Lolly told the same story every time they came to the Rendezvous.
“There’s our picture!”
Lolly pointed to an old framed photo on a wall over by the narrow bar that fronted the small stage where musicians still jammed.
“What a place! What a dame! Can’t wait for my next rendezvous at the Rendezvous!” Sinatra had written.
The supper club’s walls were crammed with mounted deer heads and big fish, glassy-eyed wildlife meant to be showcased in all their outdoor glory, but dressed over time by drunken customers in Santa hats, leis, and sunglasses. Autographed photos of musicians sat alongside the wildlife, the singers and piano players looking even more glassy-eyed than their counterparts.
The bar was stuffed with stools, the restaurant with small tables and mismatched chairs.
“We have your usual table reserved, Lolly,” an elderly waitress with sky-high hair said while chomping on a piece of gum.
“Thanks, Trudy,” Lolly said.
The trio followed Trudy’s ample rear, which bumped the tight tables—drinks wobbling unsteadily—as she moved quickly to the back of the restaurant.
RESERVED FOR LOLLY LINDSEY
Trudy picked up the yellowed sign from the table.
“You still got that old sign?” Lolly asked.
“This old thing will never go away,” Trudy hacked, grabbing her big behind, “like this old thing. Now, what’ll I get for you ladies?”
“Three mugs of your summer pale ale,” Lolly said. “Make ’em icy.”
“Back in a flash,” she sang.
Lolly had barely been seated when she looked up and said, “Well, well, well! If it isn’t Nurse Ratched.”
Arden turned and gasped. “Mother!”
“What?” Lolly said, mocking confusion.
“Your memory is a little bit better than any of us thought, isn’t it? Tonight’s dinner isn’t a coincidence at all, is it?”
Lolly shrugged like an innocent child.
Sitting a few tables over—downing an icy mug of beer and laughing with a big group—was Jake. He smiled, waved, and then began ambling toward their table, like a good-natured version of the stuffed black bear that sat near the bar with a perpetual grin on its face, a mug of beer in its paw, sunglasses on its snout, and a Scoops hat on its big head.
Arden dropped her head into her hands as Jake approached.
“Back of your head isn’t an appealing look, my dear,” Lolly said.
“What are you ladies doing here?”
“Well, we thought we’d have a quick drink and bite…”
Arden cut her mother off. “Don’t dig yourself a deeper hole, Mom. I know this is all a setup.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Jake said sweetly, as Trudy reappeared with beers. “I’m just glad you’re here. It’s such a fun place. Would you two mind if I stole Arden for a few minutes? I’d love to introduce her to some of my friends.”
Arden shot a glance at her mother and daughter, hoping they might intercede to save her. Neither was biting.
“I’m here with my family,” Arden said. “I promised my mom I’d have dinner with her.”
Lolly tapped her daughter dramatically and then gave her granddaughter a wink. “I think we’ll be okay, won’t we, Lauren?”
Lauren laughed, winked back, and then lifted her mug of beer to salute her mother. “We will, Grandma. Have fun, Mom!”
“We can get beer and perch together any old time, can’t we?” Lolly said, winking again, her fake eyelash softly landing like a butterfly on her cheek.
“I’m buying,” Jake said as incentive.
Arden stood hesitantly. Jake pulled out her chair, put a hand around the middle of her back, and escorted her to his table, where he began introducing her to his friends.
Lolly polished off half her beer in one big gulp, then held up two fingers to Trudy before she dashed away. “We’re gonna need them to watch this train wreck.”
Lauren smiled, in spite of herself.
“So what’s going on?” Lolly asked Lauren. “You’re definitely not yourself.”
“Mom told me about Clem today,” she said, taking a sip of her beer. “And I told her I wanted to change my major. I want to paint, Grandma.”
“I know you do, my dear,” Lolly said. “I take it your mother didn’t like that idea.”
Lauren nodded. “I told her life is too short to be unhappy. We have to follow our passion, right?”
Lolly nodded. “You’re setting me up for a story, you know. Can I tell you about the loon charm? I think it will help you.”
Lauren nodded again, before taking a big gulp of beer.
Lolly smiled, her old face beaming. She felt again for the charm and to Lauren, her grandmother looked like a young girl again, decades washing away, a light surrounding her body and emanating from her soul as if a spotlight had been focused on her in this dark bar.
“Your grandfather gave me this charm, my beautiful girl,” Lolly said, shutting her eyes as the band took the stage and began to play. “Oh, my goodness! They’re playing ‘Summer Wind’ by Frank Sinatra. Do you know this song?”
Lauren shook her head no.
“Listen to the song’s story, and then I’ll tell you mine. It’s a story about summer love, a story about a love that forever call
s you home,” Lolly said, shutting her eyes and swaying her body as the honey-voiced crooner began to sing. “Your grandfather is with us tonight!”
Twenty-one
1962
Whooo-dooo-ooooh-ooooh!
The loons woke Lolly just seconds before the predawn rustling of her father. The nineteen-year-old rubbed her eyes, navigated the cool, narrow wood steps in the log cabin and padded into the kitchen, where her father stood illuminated in the darkness by the weak light from the refrigerator.
“Lemme help you, Dad,” Lolly said.
“I can get it,” he groused.
“You can? It’s okay to turn on a light,” she said, hitting the switch over the sink. “It’s not gonna wake me up.”
“I like to watch the sun rise over the lake,” her father said. “That’s my morning light. Along with you, of course.”
Lolly smiled and hugged her father, her blond head coming to rest on his flannel overshirt.
As the two pulled apart, they looked at each other closely in the burgeoning light from outside and smiled, hiding their deeper emotions: Vi’s too early death had aged both of them. There was a constant weight, like an invisible brick, pressing down on them. Vern’s hair was now more grey than black, and Lolly often woke with circles under her eyes.
Lolly started the coffee, grabbed a skillet, and pulled out three eggs and two slabs of bacon.
“Toast?” she asked.
“Yep,” Vern said.
She yanked the jam and butter from the refrigerator and bread from the bin on the counter, and plugged in the toaster. She plopped the bacon into the now-hot skillet, and when it began to bubble and grease began to fill the bottom of the pan, Lolly cracked three eggs into it.
The sun was just beginning to reflect off Lost Land when Lolly handed her father his breakfast. For a moment, the eggs’ yolks matched the early summer sunshine. Her father lifted his fork and cut into them, the yellow spilling forth and flowing haphazardly around the plate.
“You can’t take care of me forever,” he said, sopping up the yolks with his toast.
The Charm Bracelet Page 13
