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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 was born and raised in the Missouri Ozarks, and grew up spending summers at my grandparents’ log cabin. The cabin was actually in the middle of nowhere. It sat on a high bluff overlooking a beautiful creek—crick as we called it—named Sugar Creek. I would get dropped off by my parents on Memorial Day and stay with my grandparents—my parents visiting on weekend—until school started again. We had nothing at the cabin—no indoor shower, no phone, no TV, no microwave—nothing but an outhouse, fishing poles, inner tubes, books and each other. This is where I got to know my grandparents as real people, and my grandmas as real women, not just my grandmas. There was something magical about that old cabin: its creaks and quirks; the smell of the logs, the creek and the fireplace; the sleeping loft jammed with cots; jumping into the ice-cold water; cooking and baking with my grandmas; fishing with my grampa; floating on inner tubes with my mom and brother as we stared into the hydrangea-blue sky; making homemade ice cream with my dad, our shoulders aching as we took turns cranking the machine; ringing the bell on the back door to call everyone to dinner; reading books on a barn-red glider that sat on the edge of a bluff. The only rule my grandparents had at the cabin was to be happy.

My family sold the cabin when my grandparents died and I went off to college. I was devastated. My summers were never quite the same. And the rules of adult life never seemed to fit with my own set of rules.

And then I discovered Michigan. My aunt bought a cottage in a quaint little town in northern Michigan called Leland (Fishtown, they call it) and years later I ended up on vacation in a magical resort town on the west coast of Michigan called Saugatuck-Douglas. I fell in love. The little artists’ town was like something out of a Currier & Ives print, and it was nestled in the midst of towering dunes and golden beaches alongside Lake Michigan. I returned a few weeks later and, without thinking, went looking for homes with a real estate agent. I spent two full days of vacation daydreaming. And then the Realtor said, “There’s a cottage that just came on the market. I think it may be what you’ve been dreaming of.”