“Have a seat,” Steve insists from his chair under Darryl in the living room.

I pull up a chair at the dining room table, and guests bombard me with questions, about Saugatuck, the cottage and its history, what it was like to renovate it. But most of the questions center around buying a second home in Saugatuck.

“Where should we look?”

“What do you think of the market?”

“How expensive is the lakeshore?”

“What’s it like to live here?”

“It’s...” I stop, searching for just the right word, and my voice wavers with emotion when I finally find it. “Magical.”

I tell them the story of my grandparents and of coming here every summer as a girl, and they stare at me—eyes wide—captivated by my every word.

I head back into the kitchen with an armload of dirty dishes, and I fill the sink with soap and turn on the faucet. My legs feel shaky, and I take a seat by the patio door and pet Sonny, who has laid his big head in my lap.

“They want the dream,” I say to Sonny, my voice still shaky. “They want a little peace and happiness.” I stop. “They want to be a kid again. They want to regain the joy we lose as adults.” I smile. “They want to leave their troubles at the door. They want the rules of this cottage, Sonny.”

He stands and licks the tears from my face, when I hear a soft knock on the kitchen door.

“Would it be possible to get some more of the casserole and coffee cake?” Bev asks when I open the door. “My husband loves everything, but he’s too embarrassed to ask.”

“Of course,” I say. “The casserole is warming in the oven. I’ll bring both out right now.”

I bring out the coffee cake and then place the casseroles in the chafing dishes, shutting the door behind me each time to hide the growing mess in the kitchen.

“Can I ask you how to get to this winery?” Mildred asks.

“Can you tell me where this cottage is located?” another man asks. “My navigation app keeps locating it in the middle of Lake Michigan.”

I laugh. “Let me get you both some old-school maps,” I say, returning from the entry and taking a seat at the dining room table. I chart out how to get to each place, when Steve walks in to fill up his mug with coffee.

“Um, Adie Lou,” he says. “There’s water coming from underneath your kitchen door.”

I turn, and a lake has formed in the dining room. As I try to run into the kitchen to shut off the faucet, I slip and go down—hard—splashing water everywhere.

Steve sprints into the kitchen, while guests throw their napkins into the water.

Mildred walks up and extends her hand.

“Is it too soon to say, ‘Go Jump in the Lake, Adie Lou?’”