BooksBarbecue
Back The Summer Cottage
Chapters (75)
  1. Cover
  2. Back Cover Text
  3. Praise
  4. Booklist
  5. About the Author
  6. Dedication
  7. Quote
  8. Prologue
  9. Part One
  10. ONE
  11. TWO
  12. THREE
  13. Part Two
  14. FOUR
  15. FIVE
  16. SIX
  17. Part Three
  18. SEVEN
  19. EIGHT
  20. NINE
  21. TEN
  22. Part Four
  23. ELEVEN
  24. TWELVE
  25. THIRTEEN
  26. Part Five
  27. FOURTEEN
  28. FIFTEEN
  29. SIXTEEN
  30. SEVENTEEN
  31. Part Six
  32. EIGHTEEN
  33. NINETEEN
  34. TWENTY
  35. TWENTY-ONE
  36. Part Seven
  37. TWENTY-TWO
  38. TWENTY-THREE
  39. TWENTY-FOUR
  40. TWENTY-FIVE
  41. Part Eight
  42. TWENTY-SIX
  43. TWENTY-SEVEN
  44. TWENTY-EIGHT
  45. TWENTY-NINE
  46. Part Nine
  47. THIRTY
  48. THIRTY-ONE
  49. THIRTY-TWO
  50. THIRTY-THREE
  51. THIRTY-FOUR
  52. Part Ten
  53. THIRTY-FIVE
  54. THIRTY-SIX
  55. THIRTY-SEVEN
  56. THIRTY-EIGHT
  57. Part Eleven
  58. THIRTY-NINE
  59. FORTY
  60. FORTY-ONE
  61. Part Twelve
  62. FORTY-TWO
  63. FORTY-THREE
  64. FORTY-FOUR
  65. Part Thirteen
  66. FORTY-FIVE
  67. FORTY-SIX
  68. FORTY-SEVEN
  69. EPILOGUE
  70. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  71. AUTHOR NOTE
  72. Reader’s Guide
  73. Questions for Discussion
  74. The Heirloom Garden
  75. Abby

I look at him, eyes wide, a big smile crossing my face. That’s the old phrase my dad quoted to me and Evan growing up: we all doubt ourselves, which ultimately paralyzes us from becoming who we want to be.

I inhale, hug Evan and take a step toward the door, my legs stronger. I stop on the rug by the front door and turn. “Bring everyone to the beach at noon,” I say. “I want to get everything set up first.”

Evan nods, and as I turn to leave, my eyes catch on the Cottage Rules sign by the front door, almost as if my father is standing by it, waving his arms and pointing.

I see it, Dad, I think. I hear you.

I turn, feeling emboldened, my gait suddenly filled with confidence, and walk out the front door.

It is a magical June day on the lakeshore, the kind of day that guests cross their fingers to get while on vacation. The sun immediately warms my skin.

A gift, my father used to call days like these. A gift from God, Adie Lou.

The wind is light and carries the scent of sunscreen, newly mowed grass and gas from boats on the water. But above those is the unmistakable, perfumed scent of peonies.

My mom’s roses are clambering up the trellis and about ready to pop, while the hydrangeas that circle the cottage are already as big as VW Beetles, their electric blue and stunning pink blossoms—which will fill my McCoy vases all summer long—just a few weeks away from bursting.

On the way down to the beach, I stop and admire the tiny cottage gardens I planted, tiered surprises of color to greet guests upon their arrival: a stand of iris—tall and proud—in every color from dark chocolate to deep purple; cheery white daisies with centers as round and golden as the sun; and my favorite flower in the entire world, peonies.

My grandma used to say that heaven must smell like peonies, and I pray this is true. I stop and bend down to pull a flower to my nose. I inhale the sweet scent, and then do it again, before admiring the peony’s perfection: a powder puff of fragile pink-white petals as soft as a baby’s skin, a blossom of breathtaking beauty so heavy it exhausts the stem that holds it.

An army of ants marches around a burgeoning blossom, and they resemble ballerinas performing The Nutcracker on a beautiful stage.

I can’t help myself, and I pluck the peony I was just admiring and hold it to my nose as I walk to the beach.