She had forgotten how stunning Lost Land Lake was: The sandy-bottomed lake, loons floating, swallows swooping, birch trees bending in the soft wind, like a Midwestern version of On Golden Pond.
Arden eased the car over the many potholes that pocked the old dirt road, around an ancient pine trunk, past an old birch stump, and across a swinging bridge that sat over a creek winding its way to the lake. And, finally, they drove alongside seven old log cabins with lake stone fireplaces, stoops filled with fishing poles, wet swimming suits and inner tubes, and screened porches that faced Lost Land Lake.
Home.
Lucky #7.
The last log cabin on the lake.
Arden parked in a little area outlined by a fence of stacked logs. Before she could even stop the car, Lauren bounded out.
“I forgot how cute it is! It’s so Walden Pond!” Lauren exclaimed, with more enthusiasm for the setting and little log cabin than Arden could muster. “I used to think Grandma’s house was made of Lincoln Logs, remember?”
Arden smiled, yanking their suitcases from the trunk.
“Lauren, I need some help,” Arden said. “Can you grab the groceries and wine?”
Too late. Her daughter had already kicked off her shoes and raced down the warped wood dock that jutted over the sandy shore, reeds, and blue-green water of Lost Land Lake.
“Thanks! Appreciate it!” Arden laughed.
Arden watched her daughter take a seat on the dock, whooping in delight as she stuck her feet into the water.
Arden relaxed for a second before she clamped her eyes shut, took a deep breath, and then willed herself to find her cell and make the call she didn’t want to make.
“Arden?” her ex said. “What’s going on? I’m about to go into a meeting.”
Nice to talk to you, too, she thought.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but…” Arden hesitated, instantly feeling like a failure as a wife, mother, and daughter.
“Yes? What is it?”
“I took a couple of weeks off to visit my mom in Scoops. Lauren and I haven’t seen her in years, and I was worried about her. She’s missing work. She’s just aged so much, Tom.”
“Get to the point, Arden. I’m in a hurry.”
You haven’t changed a bit, she smirked to herself.
“Well, since I’m missing work, we’re spending a little extra on vacation, and Lauren’s tuition payment is coming up, I just thought…”
“Are you telling me you’re not managing your finances? You received this month’s deposit, didn’t you?”
“Yes, it’s just that…”
“I’m sure you’ll be just fine. You’ve always been a hard worker. Why don’t you ask your mom to help out?”
Arden could feel her anger rising.
“Tom, that’s not nice! I can’t believe you would suggest that.”
“Tell Lauren hello for me. Hope she can visit this holiday season. I’m taking the family to Aspen. She’d love it.”
“Always a pleasure, Tom. Have a nice Memorial Day.”
Arden hung up and sighed, watching her daughter splash her feet in the lake.
Arden yanked the suitcases along the mossy steppingstones that hopscotched to the front screened porch and thought, I’m glad Lauren doesn’t know about any of this.
After nearly every thunderstorm, polished lake rocks—in a myriad of muted hues—would wash ashore, and Arden had helped her mom gather the flat stones to finish a walkway. The stones were always mossy in May, before the summer sun had a chance to dry and warm the rocks.
Arden stopped and inhaled deeply. It was a habit every time she came home.
Green.
If Arden could describe the scent of Michigan in spring and summer, it wouldn’t be a particular smell—blooming wildflowers or boat exhaust from the lake—it would be a color: Green.
Everything—after a long winter’s hibernation—came alive, and it was that essence of life that permeated the state, like Mother Nature’s perfume.
I’m alive, it screamed, in every petal, leaf, reed! I’m green!
As Arden came to the porch, she suddenly realized she had no key, but then remembered: Her mother never locked a door in her life. She gave the screen door a tug. It was unlocked.
She swung the creaking door open and dropped the luggage. The smell of wood and smoke—from decades of fires in the old stone fireplace—greeted her. Nothing had changed: Same old barn red glider, rocking softly in the breeze, same quilt over the white wicker couch, an odd array of jigsaw puzzles—shellacked, yellowed, and poorly framed—lined the walls, patchwork rugs and painted floor coverings—of pines, ferns, trillium—scattered across the slatted wood floor of the porch.
It’s nice to be home again, Arden thought, even with so much on my mind.
Some of the screens were in need of repair. A couple had come loose from the frame, a couple had tiny holes.
The makeshift coffee tables on the screened porch—old milk crates, blueberry boxes, and shelves from neighbors’ bee houses—were stacked with magazines.