Some of the world’s most stunning vistas rested along this line, and they were considered by many to be not only spiritual spots but also places of incomparable beauty. At this latitude, the sun stayed in the summer sky in these parts of northern Michigan for nearly eighteen hours. Artists believed the angle of the sun and the magical light it produced made the world glow. Artists traveled from around the world to paint here for decades, and local galleries housed in former barns now dotted the lakeshore. Art collectors in smart spectacles, linen pants, and silk scarves came to Scoops from across the country every summer, snatching up works both by famed and yet-to-be-discovered talent.
Farmers and vintners had followed the artists in recent years. Vineyards and wineries sat along rolling hillsides overlooking the bay, producing exquisite chardonnays and Rieslings, while produce farms and farmers’ markets sold the freshest cherries, blueberries, asparagus, heirloom tomatoes, beans, and peaches. Farm-to-table restaurants had replaced dingy diners and smoky bars, and from Memorial Day through Labor Day, diners needed to—gasp!—make reservations.
Lauren studied the simple scene in front of her: The lake at dawn. The dock jutting forth over the quiet waters, reeds rustling on the banks, swans waking, smoke from stone fireplaces in log cabins mixing with the morning light.
And that sky! That sky! She exhaled.
“It’s the light,” Lolly said.
Lauren jumped.
“I know, Grandma. You taught me that.”
“Need a refill? We were up so late, but it was worth it, wasn’t it?”
Lolly was standing in a fluffy pink robe, already in wig and full makeup, holding the pot of coffee. Lauren nodded yes to both questions.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” she said.
“I was just so deep in thought,” Lauren said. “I lost track.”
“Passion!” Lolly winked, filling her granddaughter’s Scoops mug.
A pang of guilt filled Lauren, and she nervously stole a glance toward the window of the bedroom where her mother still slept.
“No need for guilt,” Lolly said, filling her own mug and setting the coffeepot on top of a sun-faded dock. She tilted her face toward the emerging sun, and it, too, was cast in an otherworldly light. “You’ve known what you were born to do since you were a little girl. You just fought it. We all do. You just needed faith. And a little push.”
Lauren grinned at her grandmother and winked. “And a little ‘Hope,’ right, Grandma? That’s how the ice cream charm led you to find your job at Dolly’s, isn’t it?”
Lolly smiled and nodded, shutting her eyes to remember her granddaughter as a little girl filled with hope, faith, and unbridled talent. Lolly had bought Lauren her first set of crayons, first set of sidewalk chalks, first paint-by-numbers project, first set of watercolors.
Lauren looked over at her grandmother, whose eyes were still shut, and she closed hers, too. She could still feel her grandmother’s hands on hers, as they had been when she was a child, guiding her, helping her.
“Don’t worry! It’s even better when you go outside the lines. That makes your vision unique!” Lolly used to tell her. “Make the sky purple instead of blue! That’s the way it looks to dreamers!”
“I can’t thank you enough for this, Grandma,” Lauren said, gesturing at the easel and paints. “I don’t know what to say.”
Lolly clucked her tongue. “Oh, my dear, I didn’t do this. Your mother did.”
“What?”
“She wanted to surprise you,” Lolly said. “Encourage you. I think my stories, and your and Jake’s influence are doing wonders on her,” she said. “But now it’s up to you. You have to believe in yourself.”
Lauren turned and watched a heron break the surface of the water, stretching for a fish, before taking its catch to the shore. “I love to paint, but what if I can’t cut it? I can’t imagine doing anything else, but what if I don’t make a living at it?”
“There’s no doubt, it’s scary to try to make it as an artist,” Lolly said. “But as I always say: If ifs and buts were candy and nuts, oh, what a merry Christmas it would be!”
Lauren cocked her head, confused.
“It’s an old, old phrase, my dear.” Lolly laughed. “Older than me, even. What it means is: You can’t worry about all of that. You can only control the now, your own happiness. Let me ask you, what if you didn’t try? How would you feel in ten years? Twenty years?”
“You sorta sound like Lexie,” Lauren said.
“Life is filled with risk and uncertainty,” Lolly continued. “I face it every day battling my memory. Your mom is learning to let her walls down with Jake and to listen to you. And you have all the talent in the world.”
Lolly walked to the easel and studied the canvas.
“What are you painting?” Lolly asked. “If you don’t mind me asking?”
“No, not at all!” Lauren said, taking a sip of her coffee. “I’m painting our dock. I’m painting the generations who have been joined by this place, this water, this light.”
There was silence. Too long of a silence, Lauren thought, for her grandmother. A whippoorwill sang, and Lolly pursed her lips and returned its call, a beautiful whistle that matched the bird’s: Whip … or … wiiiillllll!
“Are you okay, Grandma? Is anything wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong,” she said. “You just … understand this place. You get me. I’m a little sentimental. I guess I’m just happy to have my girls home with me for a little while.”
Lauren gave her grandmother a kiss on the cheek and noticed that she smelled wonderful, like flowers.
“What is that perfume you’re wearing?” Lauren asked. “It’s amazing!”