Chapters (75)
- Cover
- Back Cover Text
- Praise
- Booklist
- About the Author
- Dedication
- Quote
- Prologue
- Part One
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- Part Two
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- Part Three
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- Part Four
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- Part Five
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- Part Six
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- Part Seven
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- Part Eight
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- Part Nine
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- Part Ten
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- Part Eleven
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- Part Twelve
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- Part Thirteen
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- EPILOGUE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- AUTHOR NOTE
- Reader’s Guide
- Questions for Discussion
- The Heirloom Garden
- Abby
“It doesn’t matter if it’s cloudy,” Bob says as he looks over the horizon, his voice drifting on the wind. “There’s still a sunset happening. You just have to look a little harder.”
He reaches over and grabs his wife’s hands.
“Isn’t that right, cupcake?”
Grace turns to him and nods. He leans over, and the two kiss.
She raises her glass of champagne.
“Cheers, my love,” Grace says. “To sixty more.”
Bob clinks her glass. “I love you, cupcake.”
I shut my eyes and pray for a miracle, for the clouds to disappear and for the lake to sparkle. I open my eyes, but it is still cloudy.
I watch as Bob turns to Grace. He looks deeply in his wife’s eyes and says, “There it is, there it is. There’s my sunset.”
FORTY-SEVEN
The call of a lone whippoorwill fills the air, and I open my mouth and return its call, whistling just like my father taught me years ago from this very same glider on the front porch.
Whip-poor-will.
I wait and smile when the bird replies.
Whip-poor-will.
It is Sunday evening, and the inn is still. The sound of suitcase wheels on wood, footsteps on stairs, heartfelt goodbyes and car tires on gravel has ended. Nearly all of my weekend guests have returned to their lives in the city, save for a few couples who understand the secrets of a quiet Sunday by the lake.
Whip-poor-will.
My parents did. On bucolic Sunday afternoons, they often retreated to the beach with towels, a bottle of wine and their favorite paperback. It was all really a formality: they went there for sunset.
It was the most important rule of Cozy Cottage: everyone must be present for sunset.
“It’s the reason we’re here,” my mom used to say. “There is a miracle in every single one...because we’re here...together... They are mini-celebrations. When you look back on your life, you should remember endless sunsets.”
I stand, the rocker bucking as I do, and head inside.
“Evan!” I call.
Silence.
Evan had a friend, Cole, from college visit, and they must have gone into town before Cole heads back to Chicago.
Sonny suddenly comes racing down the stairs, running so fast that he skids as he hits the final landing of the staircase and slides into the wall, bouncing off it like a pinball and taking the final stairs in one jump before leaping into my arms.
“He got locked in one of the rooms,” Esme calls, her voice echoing down the stairs.
“Are you okay?” I ask, kneeling to stroke his fur.
He looks at me, smiling, and I can feel such love that I plop onto the floor and let him lick me until I start to giggle.
“Want to go to the beach?” I ask, ruffling his fur.
Sonny barks his agreement.