“The Preservation Committee has discovered that the fish house behind this cottage is a historic structure,” she says, her voice deep and purring in that way cats sound before they pounce. “It was actually built before the cottage, sometime in the very late 1800s. It was an icehouse and storage unit for fish being shipped from Chicago, and for local produce that was being sent to the city. Ships used to come right up to your beach. And our area—as it still does today—produced fresh peaches, apples, asparagus and cherries, much of which were stored right here.” She hands me the papers. “Which means you can’t touch it.”

“I can’t what?” I say disbelievingly.

Sonny stands and begins to bark. Iris Dragoon shoots him a look and he whimpers, then backs into a corner of the bedroom.

“It means we—the Preservation Committee and the city—have final approval over what you can and can’t do with the structure.” She grins as broadly as I had been moments ago. “Have a nice day.”

I stare at the papers she handed to me.

“But this is mine,” I yell after her. “This is my property.”

I can hear the front door slam.

I turn, and my reflection is staring back at me as it was earlier. I am wide-eyed, in shock, covered in paint. I am, quite literally, blue. And needless to say, I am no longer smiling.

TWELVE

“I have good news and bad news,” Frank says.

He is beginning to sound like a broken record. I take a sip of my coffee to warm my body, but still shiver. It is a bitterly cold Michigan winter morning. The outdoor thermometer my parents bought long ago is stuck on the wrong side of zero, and it is encased in ice that looks eerily blue, the color that is still flecked in my hair, dotted on my skin and under my nails. The temperature is in the single digits, the windchill in the negative numbers and the world looks frozen in place, encased in a thin layer of ice, unable to move.

“I can relate,” I murmur.

“What?” Frank asks.

“Oh,” I say, trying to cover for the fact that all I’ve done since coming back to Saugatuck was talk to myself, drink too much, make bad decisions and go broke, “nothing. It’s just that my mom always used to say days like this were ‘too cold to snow.’”

“She was right,” Frank says. “Your mom was smart.” He stops. “So are you, Adie Lou.”

His words surprise me, and I look at him and nod appreciatively. “I needed to hear that,” I say.

“So, let’s start with the bad news first,” he says.

“Way to good cop–bad cop me, Frank,” I laugh. “Go ahead. Rip off the Band-Aid.”