I suddenly think of Elsa in Frozen and feel slightly more emboldened. I push myself up, and the sparkly world looks different now.
I turn and baby-step my way to the shore again, past the mini-glaciers of ice that have formed on the shoreline. My head clicks from Frozen to Ice Castles, and I say out loud, “What did Lexie do in the movie? What’s the part I always forget? She got back up on her feet after she fell. She didn’t quit. She rose above her obstacles.”
A seagull stops directly in front of me and squawks. I decide it is in total agreement with me, and I shuffle back to the stairs, take a seat and pluck my cell from my coat pocket. I excitedly pull up Notes on my phone and begin to type, but with my mittens still on, I write X&@2ghPB4. I yank off my right mitten and start again.
What if I didn’t just open a B and B? What if Cozy Cottage were more than an inn...a retreat center???...based on all the rules in my life and of the cottage that people have always downplayed or made fun of... What if women not only came here to relax but also to renew, restore, reinvent, rediscover themselves... I could host Women’s Empowerment Weekends: yoga on the beach, entrepreneurship, believing in yourself postdivorce, starting over, the power of essential oils...even living by the rules of Cozy Cottage.
I stop, smile and yell back to the cottage, “I won’t let anyone ruin us again with their negativity. Not Nate, not the Dragoon Lady, nobody. Even myself!”
I hear what I think is a howling squawk—a lonely cry—and turn to see if the seagull has followed me.
The shoreline is empty.
I look at my cell and smile. “Nothing can stop me,” I say into the wind.
I begin my ascent up the stairs, when I hear the howl again, followed by the sound of car tires screeching away. I rush up the stairs—as best I can, slowed by my boots and dulled by a good dose of cheap wine, my heart thumping as loudly as a speaker at a concert—and when I reach the top, a filthy-looking dog is sitting on my landing, as though she’s waiting patiently for me to return.
“Hi, baby,” I say. “Are you okay?”
The dog does not acknowledge me. It simply lifts its head and howls a cry so sad and forlorn that I can feel my heart break. Beneath the dirt I think it’s a yellow Lab, somewhere between a puppy and a grown dog, but it’s hard to tell since it’s so excruciatingly thin.
I take a seat on the top step and say softly, “C’mere, baby. Come see me.” She doesn’t budge. I pat the snow on the ground. “Come here. C’mon.” The dog gives me an untrusting side-eye but—beyond that—doesn’t acknowledge my presence, much like I used to do to Nate when he’d come home from “meetings” three hours after they had ended.
I inch my way over through the snow until I’m about a foot away. The Lab is filthy, covered in mud, and its nails are very long. Its rib cage heaves under its dirty coat. I inch a little bit closer, and I can see that the dog’s dewclaw is so long it’s growing into the paw.
“Who did this to you?” I ask, tears springing to my eyes.
I grab my cell to take a photo to send to a friend in Chicago, who heads a rescue organization. “Hi, baby,” I say in a singsong voice. “Over here. Who’s a good girl?”
The dog finally thumps its tail, sadly—once, twice—and then as if that effort has sapped all of its energy, it lays its head down and whimpers quietly.
“You’re so pretty,” I sing again. “Look! Look! Over here! I need a pretty picture of you.” The Lab slowly lifts its head, and when the dog finally turns its full face toward me, I drop my cell. It is blind in its right eye.
I crawl over, no longer afraid, and pet the dog’s back. It sighs the saddest sigh ever.
I then scratch her head and underneath her chin. I lift her pretty face up and stare into her eyes. The left is round, brown and perfect, stereotypically Lab-ish: gentle, innocent but inquisitive, the kind that melts people’s hearts. The right, however, is just a blob, an orb, a gray mass that resembles a marble.
“You poor thing,” I say, my tears plunking on top of the dog’s head. “What happened to you?”
I pick up my cell, hold up the dog’s head, snap a photo and send it to my friend, Julie, at the rescue shelter. The Lab begins to fall asleep as I hold her head. I now notice a deep indentation around the dog’s neck, as if it’s been kept on a tight leash outside for a very long time.
My phone trills, and I read the text from Julie:
Oh, Adie Lou! That poor dog! It’s obv. been abused...probably a puppy mill...was blind at birth, or got injured...they couldn’t sell it so dumped it to die in the winter...happens all the time, I’m sorry to say...does it have tags?
I stop reading and look. No tags.
If no tags, probably not chipped. But you can check by calling local shelters. Get it to the vet ASAP to check for worms, shots, etc. Malnourished. Needs water and food. But don’t overfeed or it will bloat. Needs bath. Are you keeping it?
No! I think. Of course not.
If not, take it to a local no-kill.
No-kill, I think. I look at the dog. Somebody already tried to kill it.
Good luck! It came to the right person. Let me know if you decide to keep it. You can bring it here for free shots, etc.
No. I’m not keeping it. I have an inn. I have a new start. I can’t take on more stress and financial burden. I can’t have a blind dog running around my inn with guests.
The dog looks up at me and then—with all its remaining energy—scooches even closer to me, puts a paw on my leg and sighs.
I pick the dog up, carry it back to the cottage, set it in the yard. It looks around, sniffs, wobbles a bit in the snow and, finally, hikes its leg.
She is a he.
“Of course,” I say to the dog. “Makes total sense.”
I pick up the dog with a grunt, carry him directly to the bathtub—which, mind you, I’ve yet to use today—and partially fill it with warm water and lots of bubble bath. I grab a cup off the sink and a couple of towels out of a basket, and then pick up the dog. He begins to dog-paddle as I hold him over the water, and the scene makes me smile. I set the dog in the tub and slowly pour warm water over his body. I gasp. He’s even thinner wet than I had imagined.
“You poor thing,” I coo. “It’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna be okay now.”
Dirt immediately fills the tub, and the water turns dark. As I wash the dog’s ears and face, he sighs, and a look of utter contentment covers his face. Slowly, the Lab’s true color emerges: he is golden, and his ears are the color of a daffodil.
I pull the dog from the bath and wrap him in a blanket, softly drying his face and the rest of his fur. I pick him up again with a grunt, carry him downstairs and into the kitchen, and begin to scrounge through the kitchen for any food I might have.
“Thank God,” I say into the fridge, seeing the rotisserie chicken I’d picked up at Trader Joe’s. I pull it from the fridge with my free hand and then walk to the cupboard where I find some white rice to microwave. I set the dog down on the floor, tear up some of the chicken and mix it with some rice in a big plastic bowl. The dog devours the food within seconds. I pour a big bowl of water and also place it on the floor, and the Lab begins to drink as if he’s never had a drink in his life before. I think of what my friend had texted and pick up the bowl after a bit, afraid he might bloat.
He slowly begins to investigate the kitchen, walking around and sniffing every corner. And then I watch him pick up steam and scamper into the living room.
“Come here, you,” I call. “Where are you going?”
As if pulled by a magnet, the dog beelines toward the old, hook rug by the door. He starts to paw at the rug, making a bed. He scratches and turns, butt in the air, tail suddenly wagging, and scratches and turns, until he suddenly drops like a rock. I walk over to him and smile. He looks up at me, thumps his tail weakly and again sighs. Within seconds, he is sound asleep on the rug.
I take a seat on the floor and watch the lost creature sleep.
I can’t keep you, I think, my heart breaking. I just can’t.
I assess my first day as an innkeeper: a cottage reno that will break my bank; nosy neighbors who want to kill my business; a hole in my roof; and, now, an abandoned, abused dog.
A misfit, just like me.
I pull my phone from the pocket of Evan’s sweats I’m still wearing and pull up my Notes. So many good ideas. I stop.
So many good ideas that run smack-dab into the reality of life, I correct.
I stare at the dog.
“How ironic,” I say out loud. “Just when I told myself I didn’t need a man in my life.”
The dog hears my voice, opens its eyes, sees me there and thumps its tail before closing its eyes once again.
Maybe, I think instead, smiling at the dog, it’s not me who needs saving.
I look at my cell, at all of my scribbled ideas.
Maybe you’re the one who needs saving. Maybe a lot of people need help if someone will just do it. I stop. “Maybe,” I say to the cottage, “I’m the superhero, the Elsa, the Wonder Woman after all.”
The dog again opens his eyes and barks gently.
“You agree, don’t you?” I say, and his tail wags. I sit down on the rug next to him and pet his little head. “You’ve played by everyone else’s rules, too, and they weren’t very nice, were they? Maybe it’s time we make our own rules.”
I stop and stare at the handsome Lab.
“I can’t call you ‘dog’ or ‘he’ or ‘you’ forever, can I?” I say to the sleeping dog. Then I catch myself and think, Don’t, Adie Lou. Don’t name it. Don’t get attached.
The last of the afternoon’s light is filtering through the windows and onto the dog’s clean coat. It is as yellow and sunny as the day. The spot in which he has picked to lie is warm and bright. I look up, and the sun is illuminating the Cottage Rules sign hanging over where the dog is sleeping.
Rule #2 is spotlighted.
Soak Up the Sun!
I shake my head and laugh.
“Of course,” I say, as if this whole thing has been predestined and the choice of names—just like Kruger—has been obvious the whole time. “Your name is Sonny.”
Part Three
Rule #3:
Nap Often
SEVEN
I awake with the uncomfortable feeling someone is staring at me. There is: Sonny. He is standing over me, looking down on me with the most intense gaze.
“No man has looked at me like that in a long time,” I say to Sonny. “And you only have one eye.”
He licks my face, his tail wagging so hard it makes the curtains on the nearby window flutter.
“All you went through,” I say to him, “and somehow you’re still able to forgive and embrace the day.”
I give Sonny a kiss on the head and get out of bed, a shiver overtaking my body. I glance out the window and see light snow falling. The world is clean, covered in a new coat of white paint, and I listen to the house creak in the wind. Sonny barks, hops off the bed in a courageous leap and runs up to me, jumping on my legs.
“Hold on,” I say, understanding already that’s his signal to go potty. “Me first.”
When I walk back into the bedroom, Sonny is hiding in the corner.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Are you okay?”
He hides his face under his paws and shivers, and that’s when I see a little wet mark on the rug. “It’s okay,” I say, immediately heading back into the bathroom for a washcloth and a towel. “Come here.”
Sonny nervously walks toward me and flinches, and I can now see his past horrors reemerging. “No, sweetie,” I sing. “It’s okay. My fault. I should have taken you out first. We’ll learn together, okay?”
Sonny thumps his tail hopefully, lifts his head and then barks. I clean up the mess and take him out, then come in, make coffee, his breakfast and call the vet.
I study my to-do list as I make my oatmeal: it’s a mile long.
Workers
Pick paint
Website
Prep for meeting with the area Chamber of local business owners
Repair the Adie Lou
I stop on that item, as the irony is just too rich this morning.
“Sonny?” I call suddenly, wondering where he went. I set down the list and jog into the living room when I see him already curled up on the rug under the Cottage Rules sign taking a nap.
“Priorities,” I say, again noticing the Cottage Rules sign hanging over Sonny.
Rule #3: Nap Often
“I wish,” I say to Sonny. “Too much to do.”
I head upstairs, Sonny on my heels, to shower and get ready—wanting to look presentable for my second day in my new world—dabbing on some essential oils to center me. I grab Sonny off the bed and head to the car. Our first stop is the vet’s office.
Everyone—including my parents, who used to bring my childhood pets here—calls Dr. Peterson “Dr. Dolittle” because she is a doctor to all animals, large and small. She can give a shot to a cat, clean a dog’s teeth and then deliver a foal or save a baby goat that’s coming out breech.
Dr. Dolittle, an older woman whose skin looks perpetually windburned, sets Sonny on a table and gives him the once-over and then a lot of shots. “He’s been through hell,” she finally says, her face filled with sadness, “but he’s going to be fine. With a lot of good care and love.” She stops. “No chip. No tags. Bad breeder probably dumped him, thinking he’d die in the cold or some lakeshore homeowner would find him.” She stops again. “Are you keeping him, or do you want us to call the shelter?”
I stare at her, and the emotion of the last day and of finding Sonny hits me full force. “I don’t know,” I say.
Dr. Dolittle lifts Sonny off the table as if he weighs nothing and then walks over, taking a seat beside me on the wooden bench in the exam room. “You have a lot on your plate,” she says, her voice soft. “No need to feel guilty whatsoever. You did a wonderful thing. You saved this dog’s life.” She stops. “You’re good stock, Adie Lou. Your parents would be proud.”
Without warning, tears run down my face. “Thank you.”
Again, without warning, Sonny jumps onto the bench and begins licking my face, clearing away my tears. And then, unaware of his burgeoning size, he plops down in my lap and, within seconds, he’s napping.
I stroke his head and then his back.
“I’ll give you two a minute,” Dr. Dolittle says. “I’m going to get you started with some good puppy food and some pills he’ll need to take for a while. I’ll check back in a sec.”
She walks out but Sonny doesn’t notice. He is snoozing, his chest rising and falling, before he begins to have a dream. His hind legs start twitching as if he’s running, his heinie shakes and he begins to yip.
What are you dreaming about, little guy? I think. And then I start to cry again, thinking of him being abandoned, all alone. I’ve been through the exact same thing as Sonny: tossed aside for being less than, unwanted for being not as pretty as someone else, trying to survive just because I want something better.
I walk out of the exam room with Sonny in my arms, feeling strong, as if he weighs no more than a Chihuahua.
“I’m keeping him,” I announce to everyone in the vet’s office. “He’s my soul mate.”
The office explodes into applause, and Dr. Dolittle doesn’t charge me for the visit.
EIGHT
Saugatuck Marina is nestled just off the bay. It’s a full-service marina that offers deep-water boat slips, a pool, fully stocked store, green space for picnics, showers and stunning views. In essence, it’s home to a lot of rich folks with big boats who take them to warmer climes during the winter.
My parents’ beloved boat, the Ad
ie Lou—the one I nearly sold—and I are not among them. My boat is in storage here. And it has been since my parents died.
“Keeping a boat in storage too long is like being in a coma,” my father used to say. “Nothing will work the way it used to do.”
My dad used to be the first one at Saugatuck Marina come spring. He’d watch the lake—when and how it thawed—and gauge its temperature by walking in up to his ankles. He’d observe the birds: when they began to build nests, when they began to peck the warming earth for worms. He seemed to know Lake Michigan—every nuance, the ways it would warm or grow cold—as if it were an old lover. And he knew the exact moment when it was safe to pull the Adie Lou from storage, put it into the slip here and take it for its first spin of the season. He’d pop champagne that first boat ride, even if it was still in the fifties, and exclaim, “What’s Rule #12 of the summer cottage? Boat rides are a shore thing!”
The storage building is cavernous and cold, and it feels like I’m entering a mausoleum. Nate and I once traveled to Pompeii and Herculaneum, and this has that same haunting feeling. Things that were alive and vibrant now entombed. Boats are lined up, one after the other. Some are fully covered and encased, some sit open and empty, all ghost ships waiting for life.
“Hello?” I call, my voice echoing back.
Sonny barks. And then barks again, thinking his echo is another dog barking.
I head toward the back, where I find a door with a name plaque on it that reads: CAPTAIN. I May Not Walk on Water, But I Can Land on It!
There are blinds—bent and falling—over the window on the door. I angle my head to look through one of the slats, and there is a man sleeping on a cot.
I knock, and he jumps.
I can hear him clear his throat as he walks to the door. “Hello?” he asks, more like an inquisition than a question. The man does, indeed, look like a sea captain—silver, windblown hair, unkempt gray beard and lined face set atop a cowl neck sweater—an actor someone has hired from Central Casting to portray Ernest Hemingway.
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