The Summer Cottage Read online

  From the bestselling author of The Charm Bracelet and The Recipe Box comes the perfect summer escape about the restorative power of family tradition, small-town community and the feel of sand between your toes

  Adie Lou Kruger’s ex never understood her affection for what her parents called their Cozy Cottage, the charming, ramshackle summer home—complete with its own set of rules for relaxing—that she’s inherited on Lake Michigan. But despite the fact she’s facing a broken marriage and empty nest, and middle age is looming in the distance, memories of happy childhoods on the beach give her reason for hope. She’s determined not to let her husband’s affair with a grad student reduce her to a cliché, or to waste one more minute in a career she doesn’t love, so it becomes clear what Adie Lou must do: rebuild her life and restore her cottage shingle by shingle, on her terms.

  But converting the beloved, weather-beaten structure into a bed-and-breakfast isn’t quite the efficient home-reno experience she’s seen on TV. Pushback from Saugatuck’s contentious preservation society, costly surprises and demanding guests were not part of the plan. But as the cottage comes back to life, Adie Lou does, too, finding support in unexpected places and a new love story on the horizon. One cottage rule at a time, Adie Lou reclaims her own strength, history and joy by rediscovering the magic in every sunset and sandcastle.

  Select Praise for Viola Shipman

  THE SUMMER COTTAGE

  “Every now and then a new voice in fiction arrives to completely charm, entertain and remind us what matters. Viola Shipman is that voice and The Summer Cottage is that absolutely irresistible and necessary novel... [It] brings us the astounding importance of home and underscores the importance of a loving family and of having a generous heart. Grab a glass of sweet tea and enjoy!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Dorothea Benton Frank

  THE CHARM BRACELET

  “The Charm Bracelet is a keeper, a novel like a rare jewel that will be passed down one generation to the next and from one book club member to the next until everyone has read this heartfelt, intergenerational story of love and forgiveness.”

  —Adriana Trigiani, New York Times bestselling author

  “Shipman’s charming story...will be welcomed by fans of Cecelia Ahern and Debbie Macomber.”

  —Library Journal

  “Rich in character and story, The Charm Bracelet is utterly charming!”

  —Debbie Macomber, New York Times bestselling author

  THE HOPE CHEST

  “Viola Shipman has written a graceful, touching novel that explores the temporal nature of life... A moving, emotionally impactful read.”

  —Garth Stein, New York Times bestselling author of The Art of Racing in the Rain

  “Saugatuck, MI, springs to life in this nostalgic, gentle story of lifelong love along with the emotional support and care that families and friends can provide.”

  —Library Journal

  THE RECIPE BOX

  “Filled with cherished memories and treasured recipes, The Recipe Box is a touching tribute to the women and food that unite us and connect our past to the present.”

  —Richard Paul Evans, #1 New York Times bestselling author

  “Shipman’s charming stories remind us how family recipe collections link generations and spark our fondest memories. Treasure them!”

  —Julee Rosso, author of The Silver Palate Cookbook

  Books by Viola Shipman

  The Recipe Box

  The Hope Chest

  The Charm Bracelet

  VIOLA

  SHIPMAN

  the

  summer

  cottage

  Viola Shipman is a pen name for Wade Rouse, a popular award-winning memoirist. Rouse chose his grandmother’s name, Viola Shipman, to honor the woman whose heirlooms and family stories inspire his writing. Rouse is the author of The Charm Bracelet, The Hope Chest and The Recipe Box, which have been translated into over a dozen languages and become international bestsellers. He divides his time between Saugatuck, Michigan, and Palm Springs, California, and writes regularly for People, Coastal Living and Good Housekeeping, among others, and is a contributor to All Things Considered.

  ViolaShipman.com

  To my grandparents, who taught me that the tiniest of cottages could feel like mansions if they were filled with love.

  And to Gary, who taught me to break all the rules.

  Contents

  Quote

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Part Two

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Part Three

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Part Four

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Part Five

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Part Six

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Part Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Part Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Part Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Part Ten

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Part Eleven

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Part Twelve

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Part Thirteen

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Author Note

  Reader’s Guide

  Questions for Discussion

  Excerpt from The Heirloom Garden by Viola Shipman

  “What makes our summer cottage so special? The fact that we don’t need anything else in this world but inner tubes, fishing poles, books and each other.”

  —My grandma, on the log cabin

  —Creaky Cabin on Sugar Creek—

  where I spent every childhood summer,

  from Memorial Day to Labor Day

  Prologue

  The Rules of Cozy Cottage

  July 2006

  “There it is!” I said, rolling down the car window and sticking my head out.

  Even though I was a grown woman—a married mom now in her thirties—there was nothing like seeing my family’s summer cottage again. I smiled as Cozy Cottage came into view. It looked as though it had been lifted from a storybook: an old, shingled cottage sitting on a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan, an American flag flapping in the breeze. The cool wind coming off the lake whistled, the g
rass on the dunes swayed, the leaves rustled in the aspen trees and the needles of the tall pines surrounding the cottage quivered.

  My heart raced, and all the years fell away. I instantly felt as excited as the little girl who knew she’d be spending her entire summer here. I waved at my parents.

  “We’re here!” I called. “We’re here!”

  I could hear them whooping and hollering from the screened porch. Their happy voices echoed back, enveloping the car.

  “Welcome, campers, to Cozy Cottage!”

  Our SUV pulled to a stop at the end of the long, gravel drive leading to the summer cottage. My seven-year-old son, Evan, bounded out of the SUV before it had even come to a complete stop.

  “Grandma! Grampa!” he squealed, leaving his car door open and sprinting up the labyrinth of warped, wooden steps to the porch. My mom and dad were rocking on a barn-red glider, but they leaped off it, faces beaming, waving little American flags, “Yankee Doodle” blaring from a vintage stereo. They pulled Evan into their arms and rained his head with kisses.

  I laughed and turned to my husband, Nate, who was rolling his eyes.

  “Please,” I said softly. “Don’t.”

  “We’re not campers,” he admonished in the professorial tone he used to intimidate college freshmen. “It’s so juvenile, Adeleine.”

  “You know they’ve done it forever,” I said, reaching over to pat his arm. “Let’s just have fun. It’s summer. It’s July Fourth vacation. It’s our only time away from all the stress of life.”

  Nate didn’t agree or nod, but instead walked around to the trunk to retrieve suitcases.

  I hated when he didn’t respond to my comments—which had been more frequent of late—but now wasn’t the time to tell him this. We hadn’t seen my folks since Christmas, and I just wanted our visit to be pleasant.

  “Adie Lou,” my mom and dad cooed at the same time as I headed toward them. They pulled me into their arms and hugged me tightly. “Our Yankee Doodle Dandy is home!”

  “I love you, too,” I said. And I meant it. My parents were more than a little corny, but I loved them more than anything.

  Nate caught up, lugging a big suitcase and an oversize cooler up the steps.

  “Jonathan,” Nate said formally to my father, extending his hand, before turning to my mother. “Josephine.”

  Everything Nate did was formal. It was one of the first things that attracted me to him in college. He opened doors, and wore sweaters with leather patches on the elbows. He took me to the theater and read books to me. He told me I could be and do anything, and treated me as an equal. He was unlike any beer-guzzling fraternity boy my sorority sisters typically dated. And his seriousness and manners gave him an air of authority that made me feel safe, things that now just felt distant and cold.

  “Nathaniel,” my dad said just as seriously, before busting into a laugh. “Smile, Nate! This is Cozy Cottage. Not Cranky Cottage.”

  “Yeah, Dad!” Evan added, before turning to his grandparents and jumping excitedly. “Are we ready?”

  Nate smiled, but it came across as more of a smirk.

  “Ready for what?” my dad teased, deciding to ignore Nate’s response and focus on Evan instead.

  “Ready to recite the rules!” Evan said, his eyes as blue and wide as the expanse of Lake Michigan behind him.

  “It’s the only time I’ve seen you pay attention to rules,” I teased him.

  My dad tucked his flag into his shirt pocket, reached into the woven Nantucket basket hanging from the front door and then turned as if he were a magician, his hands behind his back.

  Evan giggled.

  “Ta-da!” my dad said, producing five sparklers. He handed one to each of us, forcing the last one into Nate’s hand. He then pulled a long fireplace lighter from the basket and lit them. Evan giggled even harder at the shimmering sparks.

  “Remember, we have to recite all the rules before our sparklers go out,” my dad said, his voice warbling with excitement. “Go!”

  “First rule of the summer cottage?” my mom asked quickly as she held her sparkler high, looking a bit like the Statue of Liberty.

  “Leave your troubles at the door!” Evan and I yelled together.

  “The second rule of the summer cottage?” my dad asked.

  “Soak up the sun!” we said, big smiles on our faces.

  “Rule number three?” my mom chimed in.

  “Nap often!”

  “Four?”

  “Wake up smiling!”

  “Five?”

  “Build a bonfire!”

  We recited every rule as quickly as we could—go rock hunting, dinner is a family activity, ice cream is required, be grateful for each day, go jump in the lake, build a sandcastle, boat rides are a shore thing, everyone must be present for sunset—until we got to the last one.

  “And what’s the final rule, Nate?” my dad said pointedly, turning to my rigid husband, who’d yet to say a word.

  “I don’t remember,” he said. “I want to get this stuff in the fridge before it spoils.”

  He opened the door, dragging the cooler and suitcase inside with a loud grunt and then shut the door. Evan’s face drooped as his sparkler sputtered.

  “We didn’t do it in time,” he said, his voice sagging.

  “We did,” my mom said, emphasizing the first word for effect. “Great job, Evan. Want to go for a swim?”

  “Yeah!” he yelled, his mood changing. He grabbed his grandma’s hand and pulled her through the front door.

  Sorry, I mouthed to my dad.

  He winked. “Some people don’t get the beauty of a summer cottage,” he said softly, putting his arm around my shoulder. “But the magical campers do, don’t they, Adie Lou?” He gave me a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll go grab some stuff from your car,” he said, heading down the steps.

  For a moment I was alone on the front porch. Lake Michigan was as flat as glass, and the blue water was indistinguishable from the horizon. It all just ran together, and the beauty of it made me catch my breath.

  Sailboats dotted the water, boats and Jet Skis zipped by in the distance, and the golden shoreline arced gently as if it were yawning and stretching its sandy back.

  Such a contrast from the traffic of Chicago, I thought. Saugatuck, Michigan, is magical.

  I’d been coming here my whole life, just as my parents and my dad’s parents had. There wasn’t a moment in my life where Saugatuck and Cozy Cottage hadn’t been a part of it.

  How old are you? I wondered, looking at the cottage.

  Its shingles were weathered and gray, and those on the roof were a tad mossy in spots. The windowpanes were wavy, and the paint on the trim was peeling. My dad always talked about how much “sweat equity” he put into the cottage, but Nate always said at some point it would cost a small fortune to fix it.

  I looked up. A turret topped the house with a window I always believed kept a lookout on the lake like a magical eye. A narrow staircase—so tight you had to crawl up at the top—led to the turret, where there was a 360-degree view of the lake. I spent summers at our cottage reading, dreaming, believing that I could be anything I wanted.

  I called the cottage “quaint” and “charming,” but Nate referred to it as “old” and “decrepit.”

  The cottage creaked, and I smiled.

  I loved the sounds our summer cottage made. It creaked in the winds that roared off the lake at night. The attic groaned in the heat, the wood floors moaned as we walked, the screens on the porch exhaled in the breeze. Hummingbirds whirred near the feeders my mom placed in the trees, moths thumped in the outdoor lights at night, bees buzzed in the towering gardens and overflowing window boxes, wild turkeys called to the thunder that boomed over the lake. The cottage actually seemed to sigh when it was filled with people.

  I walked inside, and i
ts distinctive smell—woody, watery, a bit moldy—greeted me. I took a step into the foyer.

  Creak!

  The cottage was a mix of shiplap, angled, beamed ceilings featuring endless coats of white paint, wide windows, paintings of the lake and gardens, vintage finds that were part shabby chic and part old cabin. Framed photos of my family going back generations lined coffee tables, walls and bookshelves. High-back chairs, a worn leather sofa draped with old camp blankets and a mammoth moose head hanging from a soaring lake-stone fireplace greeted visitors. My grampa—a Chicago grocer who used nearly all of his savings to buy the cottage so my grandma could get away from the store they never left—always called the moose that jutted from the fireplace Darryl, because he said its eyes looked as glassy as his best friend’s after a few manhattans. When I was little, my grampa would tell me that the cottage was built around Darryl, and that his tail still popped out the back of the house. I spent hours searching for Darryl’s tail end.

  But the biggest focal point of the cottage was a hole in the wall with a frame around it. Visitors always wondered at first if my family was simply lazy housekeepers or terrible renovators who took pride in our mistakes until they got close enough to read the little plaque under the frame:

  BULLET HOLE FROM AL CAPONE

  AFTER DRUNKEN SHOOTOUT

  Rumor had it Cozy Cottage had once been Al Capone’s hideaway, a place where he ran liquor during Prohibition in collaboration with Detroit’s Purple Gang. The noisy cottage—far away from Chicago and Detroit and difficult for police or other mobsters to sneak up on—was supposedly beloved by Capone.

  I never knew if this was true or just another of my grampa’s tall tales.

  Creak!

  Evan ran down the stairs dressed in his swimsuit, a towel draped around his neck like Superman’s cape, screaming, “Wheeee!”

  My mom followed, yelling, “Wait for me, camper!”

  “Rule number ten!” I could hear Evan yell as he raced toward the lake, his voice echoing into the cottage. “Go jump in the lake!”

  My mother slowed for just a second when she saw my face. “What’s the first rule, Adie Lou?”