“My father continued that tradition,” I say. “He smoked food right outside the cottage just like his father. He kept this cottage just the way his father had.” I hesitate. “Sometimes I feel guilty about changing it all.”

“My dear,” Grace says, gesturing around the cottage, “the point is you honored their tradition. You kept the cottage in the family. Change is inevitable. Forgetting is inexcusable.”

Images of my parents and grandparents fill my mind. Her words hit me so deeply that my knees turn to Jell-O, and I find myself gripping a wall for support.

“Your grandfather’s grocery store in Chicago is now a Gap,” Bob says, more than a hint of disgust in his tone. “An IKEA stands where my family’s company used to be. We are becoming a homogenized society. We shop at the same stores, we eat at the same places, we dress the same. We are losing everything that made us unique, everything that made us who we are.” He stops, brushes some invisible lint from his pant leg and continues. “So many young people today don’t know their family stories of how they came to be who they are.”

“How can they know where they’re going if they don’t know where they come from?” Grace interrupts.

Bob’s eyes sparkle. “Well stated, cupcake!”

Grace bows her head and doffs an invisible cap.

“She’s right,” Bob continues. “Miss Kruger...”

“Adie Lou, please,” I say.

“Adie Lou,” Bob says. “You respect the history of those who came before you, and you respect their heirlooms. Your love for them shines in every detail.” He stops. “The Summer Cottage Inn is an heirloom. There will never be another place like it not just because of how it was built, but because of the memories that have been collected.”

As if on cue, a gust of wind sweeps over the inn and guest cottage, and the walls shudder.

“Do you hear that?” Bob asks, cocking his head to listen. “Those aren’t just sounds. They’re the voices of your family—and of all those who came before them—talking to us.” Bob looks at me and then Evan. “All we have to do is listen, and they will tell us what to do. The problem is too few of us do.”

My knees weaken even more. “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for saying that. Do you mind if I show you something?”

As if reading my mind, Evan heads for the door, saying, “I’ll be right back.” Moments later, he returns with the copy of Sadie’s letter. Bob reads it aloud for Grace, the cottage creaking in concert with his voice.

When he finishes, Grace says, “You listened. You listened.”

Bob and Grace appear in the entry dressed to the nines, and guests ooh and aah over their appearance.

“Very Ocean’s Eleven,” says a man. “You look like Sinatra.”

“You’re the cutest!” his wife exclaims.