We are sitting at a small table at Bobber’s, a dive bar that sits at the end of the dock overlooking the harbor. In the summer, the scene is majestic: the sun on the water, the town in the near distance, boats zipping by. Bands play on the dock, boats tie up and order drinks, people dance and jump into the lake and, at sunset, howl at the moon.

In the winter, people sit in the dark and drink. The lake resembles a frozen pond, and the wind rattles the tiny bar as if it were made of papier-mâché.

It is early afternoon, clouds are rolling in over the lake, and it is nearly pitch-black.

A waitress I know only as Doris, who has been working at Bobber’s since I was a teenager, brings us two more glasses of white wine. Along with her not-so-customery customer service, Doris is known for her eyebrows, which resemble caterpillars, and the shocking color of her hair.

“Her hair is dyed steakhouse hostess black,” my dad used to say.

“Want me to add a little ketchup to your white wine so you can call it rosé?” Doris asks with a twinkle in her eye, refusing to give up her incredulity after we’d initially ordered our afternoon pink drink of choice. She’d laughed so hard at us at first that she lapsed into a coughing jag that could only be fixed by heading outside into the cold to smoke a cigarette. When she returned, Doris was none too happy when we opted for white wine rather than vodka or whiskey.

“We’re good,” Trish says.

“Don’t get too carried away,” Doris says, rolling her eyes.

“She’s a treat,” Trish says as Doris walks away. “Real warm and fuzzy.”

Saugatuck memorabilia fills Bobber’s, every square inch of wall space covered. Pennants and fishing gear dangle from the old wooden rafters, and vintage bar signs fill the space. A sign over Trish’s head reads, “There’s One in Every Bar,” and features a jackass ordering a drink. A plaque over my head states, “If You Sprinkle When You Tinkle, Be a Sweetie and Wipe the Seatie.”

“Cheers,” I say, lifting my glass. “Thank you for coming.”

“Back atcha,” Trish says. She takes a sip of her wine and makes a face—it’s not the expensive bottles she’s used to drinking. In fact, it’s not even as good as the green beer we drank in college. She looks at me closely. “I feel the same way you did when you refused to sign the papers at RL.”

I cock my head at her and take a sip of wine. “What do you mean?”