“Welcome to the world of entrepreneurship,” Trish says, not an ounce of sympathy in her voice. “Every single day is going to be a battle for survival until, one day, it’s not.”

“Gee, thanks for the pep talk,” I say.

Trish sets her cup down on a small table and holds out her arms. I slump into Trish’s body, nearly knocking her off her feet.

“It’s not all going to be roses. You dreamed of this,” Trish whispers into my ear. “Look how far you’ve come. You should be grateful.”

I pull out of her arms. “If you post a picture of a sunset on Instagram, or say ‘hashtag blessed’ right now, I will never speak to you again.”

Hashtag blessed, Trish mouths, before breaking into a laugh. “I didn’t say it out loud.” She stops and takes a seat in an Adirondack chair whose wooden back has been cut to resemble the iconic shape of the state of Michigan.

The sun is playing hide-and-go-seek with puffy white clouds that resemble cotton balls. The arms of sugar maples are waving in the warmish breeze, and the lapping of Lake Michigan in the distance fills the air.

“Look at what you’ve created here,” Trish says. “It’s magical. People dream of a getaway like this. You made that possible. And, you get to live here every day.”

“Remember the winter?” I ask. “The chimney fire? My bank account?”

“It’s exciting to be alive, isn’t it?” Trish asks. “It’s exciting to control your own destiny.”

“Do you have more coffee?”

I look up, and Herb—one of Scooter’s employees—is looking at me. He shrugs his shoulders in his Michigan State sweatshirt and holds out his empty cup.

“And can I get another muffin?” Herb’s wife, Linda, asks. “And some woman is still complaining about her pillowcase.”

“And her husband is still complaining about the music,” Herb says.

“Yes, of course,” I say with a smile. “Thank you. Sorry for the delay. I’ll be right there.”

I look at Trish. “My destiny is calling.”

THIRTY-FOUR

After completing breakfast service, cleaning the kitchen and starting the first of a dozen loads of laundry, I turn and scream, thinking a ghost is standing before me.

Tori, the college girl I hired to help clean rooms, yawns.

“You scared me,” I say. “How’s your car?”

“My car?” she asks. “Oh, yeah. Um, so, it’s fine.”

My antennae go up. My experience as a mother has already taught me that Tori is lying. Her eyes are bloodshot, her mascara smudged, the back of her hair is ratted, and she would likely make a ghost scream, too.

“What’s wrong with your car?” I ask.

“My car?” she asks again, as if I’m Alex Trebek and have stumped her on Jeopardy. “Like, the battery.”