I start with the noise machine, which simply melts in the flames. I move to the wallpaper and wood, which burn easily. I hold up the sweatshirt in front of the fire, and I can see Nate’s face clearly.
“When I asked you about why you bought this and why you wore it, you told me, ‘It’s comfortable.’ I stared at you, waiting for you to laugh, to tell me the truth. But you didn’t. And that’s when I realized I was married not only to a shallow man who sought attention but also a liar. You will never know who you are because you do not know your true authentic self. You will never know true love because you only see the surface and don’t love yourself.
“I release you,” I say, “I am done.” I toss in the sweatshirt, and the fire happily consumes it.
Finally, I hold the Dragoon Lady’s letter near the fire. “You do not control my destiny or the destiny of my summer cottage,” I say. “I acknowledge the importance you see in your work and actions, and I hope you will acknowledge the importance you see in my work and actions. Like the Phoenix, this cottage will be regenerated and born again. Like the Phoenix, this cottage will obtain new life by rising from the ashes of its predecessor.
“I release you,” I say, tossing the letter into the fire. “I am done.”
The fire leaps higher.
For a moment, Trish and I sit in silence, the fire crackling, warming our bodies on this frigid night.
“Dang, girl,” Trish suddenly yells. “That was some powerful stuff!”
Trish stands, grabs my hands, and we begin to dance around the bonfire, howling at the moon.
We stop when we see a young pizza deliveryman standing on the patio, the box trembling in his hands, his face etched in fright and confusion.
“No one answered the door,” he says. The fire illuminates the peach-fuzz on his baby face, the too-big hat on his head, the bangs in his eyes.
He takes a big step back, a horrified look on his face, and Trish runs inside to grab her purse. As she signs the receipt, she says, “There’s a big tip in there for keeping your mouth shut. Can you do that?”
The young man nods his head furiously and then takes off running. We can hear his tires squeal on Lakeshore Drive.
“I’m starving,” Trish says. “And I need another glass of wine. Smudging and purging is exhausting.”
SEVENTEEN
“My head,” Trish groans, wandering into a bedroom I am painting.
I shoot her a sad look and shake my head, a trick I learned from my father when I’d oversleep.
“Thank you, Dr. Guilt,” Trish says. “I need some water, coffee, aspirin and a greasy breakfast. Stat.”
I put my paintbrush in an oversize baggy and zip it shut to keep it from drying out—leaving Sonny asleep on the tarp—before grabbing Trish’s hand and leading her down the stairs, where I gather water, coffee and aspirin for her. “I only play a doctor on TV,” I say, pulling a carton of eggs and a pack of bacon from the refrigerator.
Trish laughs and rubs her head. “That’ll do,” she says, downing her aspirin and a glass of water, before taking a big gulp of coffee. A huge smile lights up her face. “What a night. We had fun, didn’t we?”
I match her smile. “We did. I did.” I walk over and hug her from behind. “Thank you.”
“Why aren’t you hungover?” she asks with a slight groan.
I pull a mug from a cabinet and fill it with coffee. “I am, albeit not as much as you. You pretty much had that last bottle of wine yourself.”
“Oops,” she laughs.
“You know, despite my hangover, I actually feel...better,” I say. “More centered. More focused. More in tune.”
“Smudging, cleansing, two bottles of wine and a few shots of whiskey will do that,” Trish says. She pulls up a stool and watches me fry the bacon and eggs. I put some bread in the toaster, and grab some butter and jam from the refrigerator.
“You’ve always taken such good care of people,” Trish says, her voice suddenly emotional. “It’s nice to see you take care of yourself for once.”
“Thank you,” I say, preparing her plate. “You mean, like now?”
Trish laughs. “I’m serious,” she says. “Few would have the courage to do what you’re doing.”
Trish grabs a piece of toast and a fork and then completely devours her breakfast before I have even taken three bites. As she grabs another cup of coffee, she notices my renderings for the cottage. “Finally,” she says. “I can see what you have planned from top to bottom.”
I walk over and stand beside her, pointing this way and that, explaining what Frank and I have changed since I did these. Trish listens intently while inhaling a second piece of toast, this time smothered in homemade blueberry jam from a local orchard.
“I have some ideas,” Trish says. “Promise you won’t get mad, okay?”
I narrow my eyes.
“Hear me out,” she says. “I’ve been in more luxury homes and mini-mansions than you can shake a stick at. I’ve held meetings at the finest hotels, restaurants and country clubs. I’ve seen a lot, Adie Lou, especially how people that spend money expect to be treated.” Trish stops. “First impressions are critical. Word of mouth can make or break a new business. If people love a place, they’ll not only return but they’ll talk it up to everyone they know. I’m just worried that you can’t see the forest for the trees right now. You’re in survival mode.”
Trish grabs her coffee. “So, you’re planning to make breakfast in here, right?”
I nod and show her my kitchen plan that not only includes commercial-grade appliances but also expands the current island into a huge L-shape that extends into and replaces the little breakfast table my parents used.
“I like this,” she says. “And food will be served in the dining room?”
I nod again.
“What about when the weather’s nice?”
“I haven’t thought about that.”
Trish walks to the patio door. “What if you extended this patio, really tricked it out? This could be your outdoor yoga patio!” she says, her voice escalating. She hurriedly pulls on her rubber boots sitting by the door and walks outside, excitedly kicking snow off the patio with her feet. “You could surround it with shrubs—make an area private from the kitchen and the fish house—maybe put a fountain on the wall and a large Buddha on one side. It would be perfect.”
I look at the space as it is now and has been recently —the concrete cracked from the constantly shifting ground and extreme temperature shifts, moss covering it in the spring and fall, the DIY outdoor kitchen my father tried to build.
“Didn’t you say that you have to take all this out anyway to run a gas line?” Trish asks. “Why not just make it fabulous?”
I once attended a celebratory party in East Hampton given by the CEO of one of my firm’s previous clients after we’d won a Clio award, and the inn where I stayed had the most stunning yoga space in its garden.
“You know, I always wanted to teach yoga. I dreamed of having my own studio,” I say, as much to myself as to her. “That’s why I crammed in 200 hours over busy weekends while everyone else was still sleeping to get certified. Nate thought it was silly, but it was important to me.”
“You can envision it,” Trish says, breaking my thoughts. “That’s good.” She hesitates. “Because I have more ideas.” She comes back inside, knocking the snow off of her boots on the rug, grabs my renderings along with my hand and drags me outside. We head toward the back of the cottage, away from the kitchen, trudging through ice-packed snow. “So, the downstairs is essentially broken into two primary areas. You have the entryway, living room and kitchen on one side separated by a long hallway dividing the dining room and laundry room from a first-floor bedroom and bath your parents planned to use when they got much older.” Trish stops and looks at me. “I’m so sorry about your parents, Adie Lou. I know you thought
they’d live forever.”
I nod, and I can still see them here. This was their sacred ground before cancer and heartbreak.
“They’re still here,” Trish says, and I believe her because I can feel them beside me, every day. She squeezes my hand, then squats and lays out a rendering on the ground. “This is going to serve as your owner’s suite, right?”
I continue to nod.
“That makes perfect sense,” she says. “You’re separated from guests so you can have your privacy. You’re on the first floor so you can start breakfast service early without disrupting anyone. But...” Trish stands. “You forgot about guests. Where will Evan stay when he visits in the summer? You don’t want to sacrifice a room rental, do you?”
My eyes widen. “Oh, my God,” I say. “I never even considered that.”
“My suggestion is to enlarge the space back here—blow out the back of the cottage—add another bedroom for Evan...and me!” Trish laughs and turns toward the woods—dense with pines and sugar maples—and says, “I’d add a sunroom back here that is purely your space, a retreat that allows you to regroup, maybe doubles as an office.”
“Cha-ching!” I say, acting as if I’m operating a cash register. “Do I look like a Kardashian?”
“Better,” Trish says. “Your face moves.”
I laugh. “Seriously, how much will all of this cost?”
“A lot,” she says. “But, Adie Lou, I’d rather see you spend the money and get it right than have to retrofit everything later on. How expensive would that be, if you had to shut down your inn for a few months to renovate yet again?”
Her words hit me hard. “I never considered that either,” I say. “I’ll ask Frank. I like your ideas.”
“Good!” she says, picking the rendering off the ground and again grabbing my hand. “I’ve got more!”
She nearly skips as she pulls me around to the front of the cottage, the wind off the lake growing stronger. “Cold air is sobering me up and clearing my head,” she says. “Bad news for you!”
She continues, “Okay, the dining room can remain as it is, but...” She stops and gestures to the wide, front porch. “Look at that porch! It’s perfect for summer and fall breakfasts. Add a few café tables, leave that swing...it couldn’t get any cuter.” She turns and scans the lawn and the lake. “I’d put up a few cute, little signs that say BEACH! with arrows to direct guests. Oh, and I’d add a couple of picnic tables on the front lawn. People can order a pizza and picnic right here.” She stops. “This is a ten-million-dollar view, Adie Lou. People want to come here and sigh. What was the first rule of the cottage?”
“Leave your troubles at the door,” I say, a smile overtaking my face.
“Your parents knew something very important,” she says. “They knew the secret to life. That’s rare.” Trish turns to me. “You do, too. It just took you a while.” She hugs me, and when she lets go, the wind nearly rips the renderings from her hands.
“Let’s go inside,” I suggest.
Sonny greets us at the door. Trish and I kick off our shoes and continue the tour, going from room to room on the second floor and attic, discussing design and how much to charge based on views and size of the rooms.
“You’re also going to have to invest in some pampering and marketing products,” Trish suggests. “Cushy robes and slippers in every room, nice bath products like L’Occitane, coffee mugs with the inn’s logo on them, guest books with restaurant names and numbers, things to do and places to go.”
My heart begins to race.
“And I’d add small laundries on each floor to ease turnover of the rooms as well as ease for housekeepers.”
My eyes widen, and my heartbeat quickens even further.
“You have considered that, right?”
I shake my head, and the unfinished attic space begins to spin. “I didn’t even budget for help, much less the other stuff,” I say. “What was I thinking?”
“Sweetie,” Trish says, her voice soft, like when I talk to Sonny. “You’re going to need some part-time help to clean rooms and bathrooms, do the laundry, help in the kitchen. You weren’t expecting to do it all yourself, were you?”
This time, I nod. That’s exactly what I’d thought.
“You were on an adrenaline rush,” Trish says, “and that’s okay...for a while. Now, it’s time to slow down and be very calculated.”
“Any pointers on hiring?” I ask, my mind racing. “I’ve been on lots of hiring committees, but this time I’m calling the shots on my own.”
“Go with your gut,” Trish says.
“Gee, thanks.”
“Seriously,” she says. “I’ve hired people who are perfect on paper, or who have told the most compelling stories, even though my gut has told me otherwise.” Trish stops. “You’re smart, Adie Lou. You’ve met lots of people and been through a lot in your life. You can tell who’s full of—well, let’s just say beans—and who’s not.”
She continues. “You’re in a different situation here. You’ll be hiring part-time workers, so many will be coming and going. And you can’t afford to offer health or retirement at this time to anyone.”
“You think?” I ask with more than a hint of sarcasm.
“But let that be a long-term goal perhaps,” Trish says. “You might find an older woman, who is divorced like you, and wants a new start. Or you might find someone who has never gotten a break his or her whole life, and this is the place that provides it. If you find that person, hold on to her. I’ve found workplace loyalty and longevity is key to corporate success and is just as beautiful as lifelong friendships like ours.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Do you mind if I take a look at your business plan?” Trish asks. “I know a lot about them.”
We head downstairs and into the kitchen, where I pull up Excel on my laptop. Trish pulls up a barstool and hunches over the computer.
“Uh-huh... Okay... I see,” Trish mutters to herself.
“What?” I ask. “What do you see?”
Trish looks at me, her face pained. “You’re not going to break even this year,” she says. “Too much money going out, uncertainty over filling rooms, total budget still in question.”
I groan, as she pulls up the calculator on my laptop. She taps furiously for nearly a minute, jotting notes on a pad of paper I have sitting on the counter.
“But,” Trish continues, “what if I went back to Nate and pushed him on the sale of the Lake Forest home.”
“No,” I say, my voice rising. “I can’t do that. We had an agreement. It’s not fair.”
“Nothing’s fair in love and war,” Trish says. “And divorce is both.”
“He probably did me a favor anyway,” I say. “He just made the inevitable happen a bit more quickly.”
“He cheated on you, Adie Lou,” Trish says, her voice fiery. “That’s not doing someone a favor. That’s being a selfish jerk. They haven’t gotten the final papers back to me anyway.” She looks at me closely, and I begin to interrupt. “Hear me out,” Trish says, wagging a finger. “Receiving half of the money from the sale of that home instead of a third will be much better for you overall than receiving monthly alimony until Evan graduates. You will get a lot more money, and you would be able to do all of the work you want on the cottage without taking out a loan. You’d also have some cash on hand to get through this first year. I think a judge would look very favorably on this arrangement. In essence, you’re walking away with what’s legally yours.”
My heart is beating a mile a minute. “But what if Nate and his attorney disagree? What if they fight us on this?”
“Oh, they will,” Trish says, “but they won’t have any legal standing.” She stands and puts her hand around my back. “How much will you see Nate after Evan graduates?”
“Rarely,” I say.
“E
xactly,” she says. “Don’t let pride get in the way. Let me do what needs to be done, okay?”
“Okay,” I say.
Trish hugs me. “And now, let me help you do what needs to be done. Where should I start painting?”
We head to the second floor, Trish grabs a brush, I turn on an ’80s station and we begin to paint, stopping on occasion to dance when a Wham! or Madonna song plays.
As the sunlight fades on a winter Saturday, Trish and I—exhausted but happy—order some Chinese food and plop down in front of the TV. I click on the television and scroll through the guide as I slurp a box of lo mein with cheap chopsticks.
“Oh, my God!” I yell, causing Trish to drop the egg roll she’s eating. “No! Look what’s on!”
Trish looks up and laughs. “It’s meant to be,” she says.
I turn up the volume, and we watch Ice Castles, reciting lines out loud as we slurp noodles, and I—for a brief moment—am just a college girl again watching movies with her best friend in our pajamas.
Part Six
Rule #6:
Go Rock Hunting
EIGHTEEN
The sun is coming up over the woods, illuminating the natural creek that is formed when the winter snow begins to melt and the spring rains come. I glance at the thermometer—upper thirties and abundant sunshine.
A gift from Mother Nature, I think. Thank you.
Winter is not over, I know, though the weather forecasters are predicting a warmer than average March. I suddenly picture the meteorologists on TV.
Why are female meteorologists forced to wear cocktail dresses on air, while men can wear suits? I suddenly think. Why are women often held to different standards than men although they do the same jobs?
I think of the time—at a holiday party years ago—when a drunken male coworker, ten years my junior, same job title, fewer accounts, bragged about the holiday bonus he was receiving.
“Yours must be huge,” he slurred, “considering you pulled in a Clio this year.”
The Summer Cottage Page 12
