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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

The Dragoon Lady takes a step and then stops again. “By the way, I just love your pants,” she says with an evil laugh.

The women titter, and I slam the door, the house now empty but still filled with the smell of their perfume.

White Shoulders.

I immediately run over to the mirror in the front hall and turn around to look at my backside.

Evan, I think. No! Why did I have to pick these of all days?

I look again, undecided as to whether I should laugh or cry.

BEACH, PLEASE! is written across my rear end in bold lettering.

SIX

I lift a bottle of Two Buck Chuck to my lips and take a healthy pull.

“Cheers!” I yell into the cold wind as I make my way down the stairs to the beach.

After the hole in the roof, the hefty price tag to repair the cottage and the Dragoon Lady, I have opted to get drunk instead of taking a shower. I have opted to follow the lead that has been displayed on my rear end all day long.

I unconsciously count the steps down to the beach like I’ve done since I was a girl.

51, 52, 53, 54...

My parents built a gradual staircase to the beach—with many landings—to make it easier to navigate, unlike many lakeshore cottages that feature steep staircases of hundreds of steps that make it seem as if you are scaling a castle to return home.

I take a seat at the bottom of the stairs and park my boots in the snow. My embarrassing sweatpants are now covered in a long, puffy winter coat. I am wearing earmuffs, mittens and boots, but the sun—shockingly strong for a February afternoon—warms my face before the wind sweeps over the frozen lake.

You are single, unemployed, poor and, most importantly, an idiot, I think. Way to go, Adie Lou Kruger-Clark-Whatever-the-Hell-You’re-Calling-Yourself-Anymore.

The wind slaps my face again, and I don’t like the feeling of sobering up whatsoever, so I lift the bottle of red wine from Trader Joe’s to my lip and take another big gulp.

“I hate you, Nate!” I yell into the wind. “I hate you, Dragoon Lady! I hate you, Cozy Cottage!”

I stare out at the lake, its frozen appearance stunningly beautiful and incredibly menacing. The winter and summer versions of the lake are like twins who look nothing alike. Today, the shoreline is all jagged edges and hard lines, whites and grays, unlike its summery sister, she of soft shimmers and dreamy blurs, vibrant blues and greens. Chunks of ice—boulders really—dot the shoreline, and they are glazed and striated with sand, as if Mother Nature has been practicing her raku pottery techniques.

My back spasms, and I stand to stretch, slipping a bit on the icy shore causing me to throw out my arms for balance. Red wine from the bottle spews forth.