What you are actually seeing is the very tops of the trees, he explained. The trunk and roots are buried deep below, and yet the tree has managed somehow to grow through the sand. It’s just like us, Adie Lou. We can’t see everyone’s past—the hardships and sadness people have gone through is often buried deep—but we all have the ability to continue growing until the world is able to witness our growth and beauty.

“Ready?” Scooter asks.

I nod, and we turn in the opposite direction. Through the trees, Lake Michigan sparkles. There is no staircase heading back down the dune, just a mountain of sand, a narrow trail dotted with footprints. When I was young and we would come during the winter, my parents would bring me here to sled downhill. It was a breathtaking ride.

“I haven’t gone down this dune in ages,” I say.

“There’s only one way to do it,” Scooter says. Without warning, he grabs my hand, and we start running down the dune, our feet churning sand.

I scream as we pick up momentum, going faster and faster, until the sand, the trees, the water before me is just a blur. When we reach the bottom, I am out of breath, as much from my screams and laughter as the exertion. We trudge over yet another smaller dune, which leads to the parking lot of Oval Beach, and head directly toward the beach. We stop at the edge of the boardwalk and remove our shoes and socks, dumping what seems like pounds of sand.

The beach is jammed this beautiful afternoon with vacationers as well as with resorters who have delayed their journeys back to the city in order to soak up as much of their Sunday as possible. We head right at the end of the boardwalk, where the large beach grows a bit quieter. Scooter grabs my hand, and we walk along the shoreline. I yelp as the still-cool water laps my legs, zigzagging in and out of the lake to escape the waves. Scooter slows and leads me onto the beach.

I look up, and a thatched tiki umbrella—its skirt shaking in the breeze like that of a hula dancer—is anchored over a giant blanket set with two beach towels, a cooler and a picnic basket.

“At your service,” Scooter says, motioning toward the setup.

“Scooter, I don’t know what to say. This is amazing.”

He smiles and pulls me toward the blanket. We take a seat.

“Evan helped me,” Scooter says, opening the picnic basket and the cooler. “We packed some of your favorite things—a little rosé, some artisan bread and goat cheese, some gossip magazines...” He stops, reaches into the basket and turns around. “Even a swimsuit.”