car.
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.
âI forgot how cute it is! Itâs so Walden Pond!â Lauren exclaimed, with more enthusiasm for the setting and little log cabin than Arden could muster. âI used to think Grandmaâs house was made of Lincoln Logs, remember?â
Arden smiled, yanking their suitcases from the trunk.
âLauren, I need some help,â Arden said. âCan you grab the groceries and wine?â
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.
âThanks! Appreciate it!â 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 didnât want to make.
âArden?â her ex said. âWhatâs going on? Iâm about to go into a meeting.â
Nice to talk to you, too, she thought.
âIâm sorry to bother you, butâ¦â Arden hesitated, instantly feeling like a failure as a wife, mother, and daughter.
âYes? What is it?â
âI took a couple of weeks off to visit my mom in Scoops. Lauren and I havenât seen her in years, and I was worried about her. Sheâs missing work. Sheâs just aged so much, Tom.â
âGet to the point, Arden. Iâm in a hurry.â
You havenât changed a bit, she smirked to herself.
âWell, since Iâm missing work, weâre spending a little extra on vacation, and Laurenâs tuition payment is coming up, I just thoughtâ¦â
âAre you telling me youâre not managing your finances? You received this monthâs deposit, didnât you?â
âYes, itâs just thatâ¦â
âIâm sure youâll be just fine. Youâve always been a hard worker. Why donât you ask your mom to help out?â
Arden could feel her anger rising.
âTom, thatâs not nice! I canât believe you would suggest that.â
âTell Lauren hello for me. Hope she can visit this holiday season. Iâm taking the family to Aspen. Sheâd love it.â
âAlways a pleasure, Tom. Have a nice Memorial Day.â
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, Iâm glad Lauren doesnât know about any of this .
After nearly every thunderstorm, polished lake rocksâin a myriad of muted huesâwould 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 wouldnât be a particular smellâblooming wildflowers or boat exhaust from the lakeâit would be a color: Green.
Everythingâafter a long winterâs