PATTERN
A template on paper or cardboard from which all
of the pieces of the garment are traced onto fabric.
All the parts are then cut out and assembled to
create the final piece.
I smile at the pattern I’ve created for the fabric I purchased.
It will not simply become a short summer dress, one that I can dream of wearing to a dinner or a party. No, this dress is a statement.
Of joy. Of hope. Of summer. Of a new beginning.
I am standing at the edge of a new life. I want to fill my summer with fun and possibility, and I want to fill my new life with happiness and answered questions.
I polish off my coffee and snap a photo of the pattern and fabric with my phone.
I had no idea why I was lugging Ol’ Betsy here—it called to me to do so—but now it makes sense.
I need to create again. I need to be me again. And that all begins with a good plan.
For a dress. And a life.
I study the pretty pink buttons I purchased. A lake breeze drifts through the windows, carrying the scent of water, pine, grass, and I inhale. I shut my eyes against a flood of memories and see myself at the cabin with my mother, the windows wide-open. She is sewing. I am playing with her buttons. The curtains are undulating. I open my eyes.
If there’s anything I’ve learned through all of this, it is that there are many patterns to life.
One is cut and created by our parents, who seek not only to make us in their own image but also to design a better life for us.
Another pattern is cut and created by each of us in an attempt to become our own person, unique, different from those before us.
And yet another, as I’ve learned, was cut and created by people we never knew, and we try to live inside of it, even though it no longer fits us.
Each pattern fits our bodies at different times in our lives.
But it’s our hearts, minds and souls that are constantly growing, changing, evolving, shifting, and we rarely consider what pattern works best for them.
I inhale the scent of summer again and walk over to the windows. I lift, but the old window sticks. I steel myself, squat and push up the painted window frame—swollen from the humidity—with a big grunt. It flies northward. I lean toward the screen. Above the sounds of the lake, bees and birds, I hear car doors slamming, people talking and cell phones ringing.
I head onto the front porch and cock my head like a curious blue jay, listening.
I see people wander alongside the Dandelion Cottage, and it’s then I finally notice tables lined with items.
A yard sale?
I scoot to the bathroom and run a brush through my hair, once highlighted with gold, now a dirty dishwater blond. I’m still cutting my own hair—you quickly realize once you step back into life again that “Zoom-ready” is not necessarily “world-ready”—and I flip it this way and that to try and cover my many mistakes.
When in doubt, add some mascara and lipstick.
I look at myself.
And then a little bit more.
I pull on some shorts and a pink T-shirt Abby got me to lift my spirits a while ago that reads, CUTE AS A BUTTON!
I slip into my sneakers and head out the front door, following the narrow path through the dune grass to the “cottage.”
A few tables line the side of the house, and folks are perusing an assortment of typical yard sale items: old gardening tools, sets of dishes and flatware. A hand-propelled lawn mower that has seen better days, if not years, sits like an unearthed relic from an archaeological dig.
I head to the front of the house, and a throng of people are crammed into the front yard. Big signs read ESTATE SALE.
I chuckle.
Here, yard sales are estate sales, and mansions are cottages.
I look around warily, but take a deep breath and move toward the crowd. On the side of the yard I see standing clothing racks filled with beautiful dresses and gowns. Stunning scarves are draped over hangers.
“This is the best estate sale,” a kindly woman with salt-and-pepper hair says to me when I approach. “I look forward to it every year.”
Another woman approaches, and the seemingly sweet woman next to me bumps her out of the way with her hip.
“None of these are your size,” she says.
The other woman walks away, her face red.
“Aren’t these gorgeous?” the woman says.
“Whose place is this?” I ask. “I’m renting the little cottage behind it for the summer.”
“The Widow Lyons,” the woman says. Her voice is hushed, her tone reverential, as though Queen Elizabeth will appear any moment, and she is here to pay her respects. “You should be honored to stay on these grounds.”
“The Widow Lyons?” I ask, before remembering what Mick and Sarah had told me. “Sounds mysterious.”
“She is,” the woman says. “She’s the matriarch of Saugatuck-Douglas! She’s funded everything in town: the arts center, Ox-Bow, the Historical Society, the new stairs leading to Mt. Baldhead. She helped many of the local businesses survive the pandemic. She’s as close to a saint as there is around here.”
The woman looks at me and nods. “St. Lyons.”
“She sounds like a wonderful woman,” I say.
“Oh, she is,” the woman says.
Then she eyes an embroidered ivory dress, orange poppies along the neckline and hem, coupled with a long orange scarf and crows, “Mine! All mine!”
I look at her.
“I’m not a saint,” she says with a laugh.
“Me either,” I respond with a wink.
She heads to another rack. The dresses are quite beautiful, but a bit too elegant, a tad too formal, a touch too much for my tastes.
I turn, and that’s when I see it: an entire table filled with boxes and jars of buttons.
Bingo!
I rush over, but no one is looking at them.
I am in the land of buttons.
The buttons shimmer in the sunlight, hundreds and hundreds of them, covering a small table.
My eyes land on an old metal tin. It is a beautiful, burnished golden brown.
The color of Tug’s eyes, I can’t help but think.
The lid is still on, and I look around the crowd warily before trying to pry loose the lid, which seems as if it does not want to come free.
I use my fingernails to slowly pry it up, a millimeter at a time. Suddenly, the lid springs loose and goes flying. I release a surprised yelp. I turn to retrieve the lid, but it is now hiding underneath a table covered with vintage lamps and surrounded by a dozen people jockeying for position.
I turn quickly, acting as if nothing happened, and then whistle softly to myself as if I’m as innocent as Jiminy Cricket.
The old tin is filled to the brim with pearl buttons of all shapes, sizes and colors.
No wonder the lid was stuck, I think. The mama was trying to protect its precious babies.
I run my fingers through the mound of buttons and close my eyes, and my heart races and my mind pings with memories.
The feel of the buttons—smooth, cool to the touch—calms me.
“I think you dropped this.”
I release another surprised yelp and open my eyes.
An elegant woman is standing before me holding the lid to the tin. She is wearing cropped pants, a crisp white blouse—collar flipped up like a bird’s wings in flight—the most beautiful jacket, pale pink and fitted to her very taut body, lined with a row of the most exquisite ceramic buttons I’ve seen in ages, navy blue with what looks like a family crest in gold on each one. Her hair is silver—not gray—that resplendent silver that all women hope their hair will turn one day. It is cut in a long bob, one side pulled back with a vintage, filigree hair clip. She is in full makeup, as if she’s about to head off to an event.
Like the Oscars, I think.
“Hello? Is anyone there?” the woman asks.
“Oh, my gosh,” I finally say. “Oh, I’m so sorry. For, you know, not responding and for not picking up the lid.”
She looks at me. Her eyes are as golden as the old tin. She doesn’t respond.
“Thank you,” I say, taking the lid from her hand.
I turn and continue studying the buttons, but the woman does not depart. She stands behind me, watching me.
I grow nervous and begin to sort the buttons by color.
“I used to do that when I was little,” the woman says.
I turn toward her again.
“I’ve always done this,” I say. “My mom loved buttons. Calms me.” I stop. “I love them, too.”
“Well, you are an either an old soul or a designer,” the woman says. “No one loves buttons anymore.”
“I do.” I look at her and then at the old tin. “And I guess I’m both.”
“‘And thou shalt make fifty buttons of gold, and couple the curtains together with the buttons: and it shall be one tabernacle.’”
“Excuse me?”
“Passage from the Bible,” the woman says. “It just means buttons have a special history. They are not only beautiful, but they are important. Buttons are our wearable history.”
Her tone is polished, her voice featuring just the slightest hint of a Michigan accent. She sounds like a classic movie starlet, dramatic but hushed. She looks like one, too. Her face is strong, high-cheek boned, mysterious, like Ava Gardner, one of my mother’s favorite actresses.
I cannot tell her age. She could be very old, or not. It’s like when I see Dolly Parton, and I wonder: Has she aged at all these past forty years?
I think of my mother again. She called such women “well-preserved.” And then I think of the optical illusion game I played with my mom. I cannot tell this stranger’s age. She looks young when I glance at her, the opposite of how I saw my mom and how my mom viewed the world.
“That’s lovely,” I say. “That’s how I think of buttons as well.”
The woman moves around to the other side of the table. She is now facing me. She picks up a few buttons and lets them trail between her fingers and fall into the tin. They resemble raindrops in the morning light.
She watches me without an ounce of embarrassment. Nervously, I glance at the lid she returned to me. Then I lean and look at the side of the tin. I pick up a jar nearby. And then another. She continues to watch.
“This isn’t a very well-organized yard sale,” I say in a conspiratorial tone to the woman, tilting my body across the table toward her, trying to mask my nervousness. “There’s not a price on anything.” I laugh and then lean even closer. “I mean, wouldn’t you think they would know how to slap a piece of masking tape on all this stuff? It’s the first rule of yard sales.”
I look at the woman, expecting her to agree, nod, laugh with me. But those gold eyes survey me, up and down, very slowly, before piercing my soul.
“Stuff?” she asks. “Yard sale?”
My heart sinks, and I immediately feel sick to my stomach. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you, or imply anything. It’s just that...”
“It’s just that, what?” she asks.
“Never mind,” I say. “I’ll be going.”
I turn from the table.
“Stop,” the woman says.
I stop.
“How much are you willing to pay for these buttons?” she asks.
I look at her, my face perplexed.
“How much are you willing to pay for these buttons?” she repeats. “All of them.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I can venture a guess at their value, but I’m sure I can’t afford all of these.” I look at the buttons on the table. Some, I know, are rare. Some very valuable. Some I’ve never seen before. I pick one up and study it.
“Venture away,” she says.
I name a price, and she smiles.
“Very accurate. That’s how we do it here, by the way,” the woman says. “I’ve always adored the marketplaces in Italy and Spain and Morocco, where you can barter for goods. Here, in America, everything is set. We don’t allow ourselves to barter for our necessities. I know how much things are worth. I expect others to learn via this process as well. That’s why I don’t slap masking tape on my items. That’s why I don’t give away my stuff for a quarter. That’s why I personally sell each and every item here. And this is an estate sale, not a yard sale.”
“Your stuff?” I ask, before realizing my error. “I mean, this is your estate sale?”
She nods. A wry smile overtakes her face. It’s very Grinch-like.
“You’re the Widow Lyons?” I gasp.
Her laugh booms across the lakeshore, and everyone—literally, everyone—turns to stare. “Is that what they’re calling me now?” she asks. “The Widow Lyons. Very sad. Very mysterious.”
I shrug. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean...” I fumble.
“I’ve been called worse, don’t worry,” she says. “Were you expecting some sort of Mary Engelbreit character? I’m anything but.”
“No, I mean...” I fumble again.
“So you know of Mary Engelbreit?” she asks.
“I do. Born and raised in Missouri, like me. My mother and I adored her.”
“Well, you both certainly have unique taste.”
She makes unique sound like a curse word.
“If that’s a dig,” I start.
“No, no,” she says, raising a perfectly manicured nail. “Just that you really are an old soul.”
I eye her as warily as she is eyeing me. She extends her hand.
“I’m Bonnie. Bonnie Lyons.” She leans over the table and says in a chilling whisper like Vincent Price might have done in an old horror movie, “The Widow Lyons.”
I smile ever so slightly. “Sutton,” I say, taking her hand. “Sutton Douglas.”
I lean over and try to match her whisper. “The Single Sutton.”
She laughs.
“How mysterious in your own right,” she says. “Your name matches the town.”
“I know,” I say. “That’s what brought me here.” I stop, trying not to sound crazy. “Long story. Very long story. Actually I’m renting the cottage behind yours.”
“I know,” she says matter-of-factly.
“You do?”
“Yes, of course. I know everything.”
She states this not as a joke but as fact.
I feel prickly all over, chilled, and in need of some water.
“The owners bought the cottage from my late husband and I. They own the cottage, but we still own the land.” She looks at me. “Long story. Very long story. They left me a voice mail telling me you were renting. It’s nice to officially meet you.”
“Well, it’s certainly nice to meet you, too,” I say.
“You can have all of these buttons for a penny, Sutton,” she says.
“What?”
“You understand the value of something valuable,” she says. “That’s all I expect of those who wish to possess my possessions.”
“I can’t,” I say quickly.
“Why?” she asks. “I have thousands of buttons. Attics full. Basements full. I have more buttons than money.”
I can’t help but stare at her. My body is all tingly.
“I just can’t,” I say. “I feel like I’d owe you in the future, and my mom taught me to never put myself in that position.”
“Your mother was a wise woman,” Bonnie says. “Or a fool.”
My eyes blaze. “I don’t know whether you’re being serious or whether you’re joking, but I can’t tolerate someone speaking ill of my mother. Not right now. Not after...well, not ever.”
I turn on a dime, my walk turning into a full sprint.
When I return to the cottage, my heart is racing. I head to the kitchen for some water, and it’s then I finally realize I still have one of Bonnie’s buttons in my hands.
“No way!” Tug laughs. “You talked like that to Bonnie Lyons? The Button Queen?”
“The who? I thought she was the Widow Lyons. Everyone’s got a nickname is this town.”
“Didn’t you do a Google search on her when you got home? Weren’t you curious?”
“I’ve kept Google in business the last year,” I say. “I was actually more irked than curious, to be honest. She was a bit dismissive of me and my mom. Or at least I think she was. It was hard to tell. She’s got a way about her.”
“That’s the understatement of the century,” Tug says. “She’s a force of nature around here.”
“Well, I just can’t tolerate anyone saying anything about my mom. Not right now.”
“I get it,” Tug says. “Maybe she was kidding with you.”
I shoot him a look.
“Or not.”
Tug shakes his head and tugs at his ball cap. Standing on the front porch of the cottage, the light angled across his face, he suddenly looks like a little boy who just realized there is no Easter bunny.
“Sorry,” I say.
“I guess I’ve just always sort of considered her a mythical character, like a unicorn. I respect what she’s done for the community, but she’s always been this mix of public and private. Very social in community affairs, very private about her own life. And she’s actually spoken to me like that before—fundraising for her events—and I can’t tell if she’s being funny or dismissive.”
“Why did you call her the Button Queen?” I continue. “I thought she was the Widow Lyons?”
“The Dandy Button Company? That was her and her husband’s business.”
“What?” I yelp.
“That’s how they made their fortune. Took it over from his father. It’s the one I was telling you about,” Tug says. “They had the largest, and I believe the very first, button-finishing factory in the United States. It was located right here in Douglas on the shores of the Kalamazoo River.”
I freeze. I feel as if my body has been cast in concrete.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m sort of freaking out,” I say. “I knew about the company. I just never put two and two together.” I take a breath. “I don’t mean to dump so much on you so soon, but I feel as if I’m about to explode, or go insane, or something. Can I share something with you?”
Tug nods.
“I came to Douglas because before my mom died she left me a letter that told me that the story of my entire family history was a lie. I grew up believing my whole family died in a fire, and my mom survived with just me. But her letter explained that she had fallen in love with a man that her family didn’t approve of, and she had run away and never looked back. I grew up with no family history. She never talked about her family and rarely talked about my father. And then, out of the blue, this.”
I take another deep breath and continue.
“After that, I found a button card that said Dandy Button Company on it and Douglas. My last name is Douglas. I found a postcard of the Douglas beach. I found a picture of a man named Ted who might be my father. And I have so many pearl buttons that all look the same and now live behind the Button Queen. Not to mention I’m a designer whose collection for Lindy’s was called Sutton’s Buttons.”
“I think that’s meaningful coincidence,” Tug says. “And a lot to process.”
“You think?”
“Look you’ve got a lot on your plate and a lot on your mind. Why don’t you just start asking some questions around here about your dad? People in these resort towns always know something about somebody.” He looks at me for the longest time. “Or maybe you just leave it all in the past, knowing maybe your mom was trying to protect you for some reason.”
I shrug.
“And, now that I think about it, I’ve heard of your line. I read about it in Crain’s Chicago Business.”
“Thank you,” I say, pleased. “But I should have said, was, instead of is.” I stop. “I quit my job.”
“Why?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, now shaking my head. “I think I sort of freaked out.” I look at Tug. “Long story. I keep saying that, don’t I? But isn’t it ironic that I make a living off of what she did?”
“No, you make a living off of what your mother did, right?”
I smile and nod.
“And I don’t know if it’s that ironic. I mean, is it ironic there’s a baseball game on every day during the summer, and I played ball?”
“Well, isn’t it ironic then that I ended up renting a place right behind her?”
“You’re starting to sound a lot like Alanis Morissette,” Tug says, before singing, “Isn’t it ironic?”
I laugh. “You’re a multitalented man.”
“Maybe you two were just destined to meet,” Tug says.
“Or murder each other,” I add.
“What about us?” Tug asks. “I’m a button guy, too. Were we destined to meet? Or murder each other?”
“Depends on how tonight goes,” I say quickly, not considering the potential innuendo in my words. “You know what I meant, right?”
He laughs. “Not at all,” he says before peeking into my cottage from the front porch. “I didn’t realize this was where you were staying.”
“That sounds ominous,” I say. “Here. Behind her.”
“No, it’s just that cottage has so much history,” he says.
“Everything in my life and around here has a history, I’m learning.”
“I think...”
Tug is so consumed in thought that he begins to walk around the side of my cottage.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Look! Back here!”
I follow Tug’s voice around to the far side of the cottage to find him pointing at a plaque on the stone foundation.
“I knew it,” he says. “This cottage is on the registry of historical sites.”
“I heard it was a one-room schoolhouse.”
“It has a lot of history.”
“Thank you, Cliff Clavin,” I say.
He laughs and says, “We’re just filled with pop culture references, aren’t we? Alanis, Cheers, what’s next?”
“Nancy Drew,” I say.
Tug nods. “Of course.” He looks at the cottage again. “Mrs. Lyons held a large fundraiser for the arts center here a few years back when her husband was still alive and before she sold this cottage. She invited the entire town. For a donation, of course. I remember that tours were being given in this cottage, but I never made it back here. I was too busy being coerced by Mrs. Lyons to donate loads of free gifts to the arts center’s big Summer Solstice silent auction.”
“Figures,” I say. “I have a thing with...”
I stop.
Tug runs his hand over the plaque and looks at me.
“With?”
“Money,” I finish. “I grew up very poor. Worked my way through college. I just saw the way so many wealthy women in the town where I grew up looked at my mom. I refuse to be treated like that.”
“I get it, and good for you,” Tug says. “I own a small business in a town filled with wealthy resorters. Sometimes they treat me like a member of their staff. Sometimes they don’t even acknowledge I’m alive.” Tug rubs his hand over the plaque one more time and stands. “But sometimes, the past is the past. We either have to learn from it, or let it go.”
I cock my head, considering what he’s just said, and my face lifts. “Touché.”
“I’ve had to live that lesson. Otherwise, my life would still be filled with bitterness at all the other guys I played ball with who got a big break while mine never came. I was good. I just wasn’t good enough.”
“Did you learn from that or let it go?” I ask.
“Both,” he says. Then he looks back at the plaque and says, as if to himself, “Actually, I’m still learning from both.” He turns. “We better get going, or we’ll never find parking.”
We walk down the little path toward the graveled parking area just on the other side of Bonnie Lyons’s fence. When I look up, I stop.
“Is this your car?”
“It is,” he says. “Do you like it?”
“I do,” I say.
The car is a vintage Ford Thunderbird, cherry red, top down.
“My mom used to call this color ‘pull-me-over-red’,” I say, “because the only cars we ever saw the police pull over for speeding were this color.”
Tug laughs.
I peek inside the car. It has a red leather interior, a red leather steering wheel and red leather trim. I walk around to the front. The front lights—raised like eyes—and the wide chrome grill make the car look menacingly sexy.
Like if James Dean were a car, I think.
It is in pristine shape, down to the whitewall tires, which look brand spanking new.
He bends over, using the front of his untucked short-sleeved shirt to wipe off an invisible piece of dust. I have so many questions in my life, but right now I think the biggest mystery is right before me: What’s under his ball cap?
I try to get a closer look at his head, but his ball cap is pulled low.
You already know, Sutton. Why do men of a certain age wear a ball cap? Because they’re bald as an eagle. They’re trying to look young, hold on to something that’s long past, like their hair.
I look at him again.
But bald can be very sexy. As long as he doesn’t have a ring of hair. Or a comb-over.
Please, God. Not a comb-over.
“What’s wrong?” Tug asks. “Why are you staring at me?”
I am subconsciously touching my own hair, and his question makes me jump out of my skin.
“Was this your midlife crisis car?” I ask, trying to cover. I instantly want to kick myself.
“Do I look like I’m middle-aged?” Tug asks.
“No, no, no,” I stammer. “No.”
“Good.”
“Just trying to make a joke. A bad one obviously.”
“I’m forty, by the way,” he says.
I hesitate, wondering if I should reply in kind.
“I’m...” I pause but don’t lie. “...forty-one.”
“An older woman!” Tug grins.
“Hey.”
“Just kidding,” he says. “I was about to say how amazing you look.”
“For my age?”
“No!” he says. “I would have guessed you to be a decade younger.”
“Why, thank you.”
Tug turns and places his hand over the hood of the convertible but doesn’t touch it.
“This was my father’s car, and he got it when he was definitely going through a midlife crisis.” Tug smiles. “He gave it to me after my baseball career ended. Said it was a gift to celebrate all I’d accomplished and all I still had to accomplish.” Tug turns toward me and continues. “When he handed me the keys, he said, ‘Your summers playing ball were sacred. To you and to me. It defined our lives. I want this car to remind you that your summers should always be sacred, whether you’re playing ball or not. They’re special because you’re a special man and a special son.’ And then we popped two beers and just stood and stared at this car forever.”
A tear surprises me, and I turn my head to wipe it away. Tug notices.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice soft.
I nod. “Just reminded me of my mom,” I say. “And this car reminds me a little of her vintage Singer sewing machine she called ‘Ol’ Betsy.’ I brought it with me here. It reminds me of her. It reminds me of summer.”
“Ol’ Betsy,” Tug says. “I love that. How’d that name come about?”
I shake my head. “I have no idea. My mother was always a bit secretive about...well, everything.”
“Well, I haven’t named my car yet. What do you think? Big Red seems too obvious.”
“I’ll give it some thought,” I say.
Tug smiles and opens my car door. I slide inside, with a little bit of effort, my knees cracking as I slink nearly to the ground, and Tug backs onto Lakeshore Drive.
“You know what I love about this car?” Tug asks. “I don’t get asked to drive everyone around, which happens a lot here during the summer. People have a few drinks and expect you to serve as their Uber. ‘Sorry, man,’ I say. ‘Only room for one.’”
It is a stunner of a June evening, warm but not humid, the landscape as green as the faux grass my mom used to put in my Easter basket. With the top down, the wind tosses my hair around, and I do feel like a girl again, seeing the world in vibrant color rather than black-and-white. Lake Michigan is calm, and the water sparkles—a blue gown bedecked in sequins—and I feel as if I could just reach right out and touch the lake. Tug turns on the radio, and I clap when “September” by Earth Wind and Fire begins to play. I lean my head back and sing, and for just a second, life is normal.
“It stays light forever in June,” Tug says. He looks at the water and then at me and continues, as if reading my mind. “Michigan makes you feel like a kid again in the summer. There’s just something magical about the lake, the beach, the dunes, the light...you remember who you were.”
Tug points out the sights I’ve yet to see as we drive.
“There’s the Saugatuck Chain Ferry that takes you from town across the river. It’s the last existing chain ferry in America. Isn’t it quaint?”
I nod.
“Only costs two bucks,” he continues, pointing left and right. “Best deal in town. You can take it over and tour the history museum, walk to Oval Beach, climb the 302 steps to Mt. Baldhead, which has gorgeous views of the towns and water, or...”
The car slows to a stop.
“...walk to Ox-Bow on a Friday night.”
There is a line of vehicles snaking down the winding, narrow, barely-big-enough-for-two-cars old road that sits across from downtown Saugatuck and parallels the bendy river. Boats of every type—sailboats and speedboats, pontoons and yachts—putter along the river, some returning home from a day on the lake, some just setting out for sunset.
“It’s so idyllic,” I say. “This truly is a summer haven.”
“It’s a summer heaven,” Tug says. “This isn’t just any resort area. Once this place gets ahold of you, it sinks into your soul. It takes hold of your heart. It captures your creative spirit. There are other summer havens. There aren’t any other summer heavens.”
I look over at him and smile.
“You look great, by the way,” Tug continues. “I meant to say so earlier.”
I duck my head, unused to a compliment from a man, from anyone really. Compliments were rare from my mother—hard-earned—and ones from men have been few and far between, both personally and professionally. Jamieson was reserved and rarely gave gratuitous praise. And I’ve never stuck around long enough to garner many compliments from men.
Or actually believe any of the ones that were given.
Thanks, Mom.
I did try to make an effort tonight. And it felt good to try again. To do my hair, put on makeup, wear something without elastic, something other than the set of pajamas and sweats I’ve alternated the last two years. To look forward to something instead of sadly looking into the past. To be excited to see someone instead of scared to come in contact with anyone. To be in conversation with a real person, not just my own thoughts.
It felt good to be reminded that I can’t give up on myself. I won’t give up on myself.
“Thanks,” I finally say.
“I was wondering if you heard me.”
Tug is looking at me, and I suddenly feel claustrophobic. We aren’t moving, and there is nowhere to run, no way to disguise my nervousness.
“Is it always this busy?” I ask.
Tug nods. “Summer traditions in Saugatuck are sacred.”
The cars begin to move, and we go up, up, up the narrow road, snaking along a winding hill atop a dune, tottering mere feet from an overhang overlooking the river.
I grab my seat belt to make sure it’s fastened, and Tug laughs.
“Is there still parking available?” Tug asks a young woman wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt that says, FNO, BABY!
“Sure is,” she says. “Got here early! Have fun! And buy a lot to support aspiring artists!”
“FNO?” I ask as he pulls away.
“Friday Night Open,” Tug says. “Baby.”
Suddenly, the road curves, and we head straight downhill, into the middle of a forest. Trees canopy the road. Day turns to night. An attendant flags us into a tiny lot already crammed with cars, people spilling out of them, most dressed in either cute summer outfits or hip artsy garb.
Tug parks, gets out of the convertible and opens my door, helping me to my feet.
A gentleman.
“Thank you,” I say.
He is wearing a linen shirt, brightly colored shorts and an electric-blue pair of Converse. We follow the throng, many of whom yell greetings when they see Tug.
“Hey, Tug!”
“Oh, my gosh! It’s so good to see you again!”
“Missed you, man!”
“You’re a popular guy,” I say as we walk.
“Just a familiar face,” he says.
A humble guy.
The crowd begins to split off into many directions from the main road, some following paths that lead back into the woods.
“Where is everyone going?” I ask.
“There are different art studios situated around the Tallmadge Woods,” he says. “A painting and drawing studio, a ceramics studio, an open-air glassblowing facility, a paper and book studio, works on paper studio, and an open-air metal sculpture studio. In fact, I think there is a blacksmithing demonstration tonight if you want to check it out.”
“Sure,” I say. “Game for anything. It’s my first night out since...” I stop. “I can’t remember anymore, but I think Home Alone was in theatres.”
Tug laughs, and we turn right and head up a dirt path.
A variety of structures are tucked into the woods, some historic, some with classic Michigan cottage architecture, some with a Prairie influence. Some look like old cabins, some newer-styled cottages and studios.
“You know,” Tug says. “You can rent these studios, too. Like if you needed a work space to design or sew again...an inspired office in the woods.”
“That would be amazing,” I say.
The metals studio is a spacious open-air facility, housing equipment for welding, jewelry-making, and metal fabrication. I hear a banging as we approach. A man and woman are taking turns hammering on a piece of fiery metal, sparks flying.
I am immediately taken back in time. I am standing with my mother at Silver Dollar City, an 1880s-style theme park in Branson, Missouri, not far from where I grew up. We used to go there nearly every summer when I was a kid. I loved the rides, especially Fire in the Hole, but my mother most enjoyed watching the resident craftsmen demonstrate heritage crafts. There were candle-and candy makers, potters, glassblowers, lye soap craftsmen—all in old-timey costumes—and blacksmiths just like these, demonstrating lost American crafts.
“This is art, Sutton,” my mother used to say. “Our American tradition and heritage. It is taught, learned and then passed along to a new generation so that we may never forget the beauty of who we were and who we are.”
And so I became my mother’s apprentice. I learned to sew. I learned the beauty—and value—of a button. I learned an American craft.
The blacksmiths stop to catch their breaths, faces blaring as red as the metal.
“You look like you’re enjoying this,” Tug says.
“I am.”
“I’m glad. Ready for the auction? And more importantly, a glass of wine?”
I nod, and Tug takes me on a mini-tour of the grounds as we walk, telling me about the history of Ox-Bow.
“Living in Chicago, you know the Art Institute of Chicago?”
“Of course,” I say.
Tug continues. “Well, Ox-Bow was founded at the turn of the century by two artists from there who became enamored by the natural, isolated beauty of Saugatuck-Douglas. It started as a respite for artists who needed to get out of the industrialized havoc of the city. It was akin to early prep schools: fresh air and unspoiled country land would do wonders for inspiration and education, body and mind. And it did. Students from all over the world come here, mostly in the summer, and take intensive classes from renowned artists. Some students are seeking degrees, others are professional artists looking to refine their talents or explore new areas, and some are new to the arts.”
Tug stops and points around. The grounds are dotted with funky shacks and adorable cabins where students and artists live. “There’s over a hundred acres of unspoiled land here. It is and has remained a sacred spot for artists to commune.”
“It’s sort of like Dirty Dancing meets Woodstock,” I say, looking around. “Hippy chic. Plein air Montmarte.”
Tug laughs. “Yes! You understand perfectly. But you haven’t seen the most beautiful part yet.”
We emerge from the woods, and I stop cold in my tracks.
“Whoa!” is all I can manage to say.
An expansive lawn—with a large painting studio on one end and huge tent filled with chairs on the other—sits in front of a lagoon. The summer sun is sparkling on the water, and ghostly birch stand guard. People in bright shorts and summer dresses walk a path along the water, admiring the lagoon. Some couples are perched in tree swings, gently swaying as they hold hands, some people wander along the dock that extends into the lagoon, and some study the art for sale nestled inside the tent.
“What is that?” I ask, pointing, squinting in the sun, reaching for my sunglasses from my purse.
“Mermaids,” Tug says matter-of-factly. “And mermen.”
I look again.
Young men and woman wearing sequined mermaid outfits—complete with bright blue wigs—are seated on the small sandy beach in front of the lagoon flipping their tails into the water, happily splashing passersby.
“Artists,” Tug says. “Youth. It’s why they love this area, and why we love them. They bring a sense of wonder and joy to our towns, and we need that more than ever these days.”
I nod, feeling very calm and at peace. “I think I need that glass of wine now.”
We head to a long, makeshift table. Galvanized buckets filled with ice and bottles of white wine, rosé and craft beer are stacked along it. A young man in an Ox-Bow T-shirt is pouring wine.
“Red or white?” he asks.
“White, please,” I say.
“Same,” Tug says.
We sip our wine and head to the lagoon. I watch the mermaids and mermen pose for photos, and then Tug and I watch turtles and frogs surface near the dock, waiting to be fed. A bell rings, and it echoes across the water, and I am again transported back in time.
“The auction is starting,” Tug says. “We only have a few minutes to look at the work.”
We hurry back up the hill to the tent, where the chairs are already filled with people buzzing about the auction. Tug and I do a quick walk inside the tent, surveying artwork that is hung from one side like a gallery wall as well as tables filled with ceramics and glassware.
There is a range of talent, from raw to emerging—artists still finding their voice—as well as stunning works by established artists.
“How much do these sell for?” I whisper to Tug.
“Depends,” Tug says. “On how much someone loves a piece. And how much everyone has had to drink.”
I laugh.
“I’ve purchased artwork here for under fifty dollars from artists who have gone on to have their works curated in some of the world’s best galleries.”
I take a cursory glance at the work one more time and then stop. There’s a small painting hung from a hook on the side of the tent that I hadn’t noticed before where a throng of people were gathered and chatting. It’s an oil of a river; a man is standing in it, the water waist-high. The man is painted in black-and-white, as if it is a vintage photo. But the landscape around him is nearly three-dimensional, thick with oils and jarringly colorful. The current of the river is a purply-black, the waves seeming to leap off the canvas along with the pink-white clouds rolling overhead. The background of trees is green, but they loom over the man and the river as if they are keeping watch.
I step closer and study it carefully.
“You like this, don’t you?” Tug asks.
I nod. The painting feels so familiar and so deeply resonant that I get goose bumps. Tug leans over to read about the work.
“Oh, of course,” he says. “This is from one of our local artists who teaches here. His work is revered and beloved in Michigan. He likes to capture the natural beauty of our state while telling a story from the past.”
“What story do you think he is telling with this painting?” I ask.
“The history of Ox-Bow,” Tug says immediately. He turns and points back toward an historic, two-story building tucked amongst the trees I hadn’t noticed previously.
“What is that?” I ask, turning. “It looks like a quaint, old inn you might find on Cape Cod.”
“Good eye, Sutton,” he says.
“Thank you.”
“That’s what the locals affectionately call Ox-Bow’s ‘Old Inn’ today,” Tug continues. “It started out over a century ago as the Riverside Hotel.”
“Wow,” I say. “Amazing.”
“The original owners built a small house in the mid-1800s on what was then an ox-bow shaped bend in the Kalamazoo River that led to Lake Michigan.”
“I get it. Ox-Bow,” I say slowly. “See how quick I am?”
“Impressive,” Tug says with a chuckle. “They began to realize the potential for shipping trade traffic that could run through here, so they added onto their home and converted it into a twenty-room hotel. It became a hub for those who worked on the ships. At the turn of the century, the towns’ major industries began to decline, and the Kalamazoo River channel was straightened to flow into Lake Michigan, cutting off the hotel from its patrons and turning this channel into a lagoon.”
People begin to move toward folding chairs under the tent. We make our way toward two near the back, and Tug continues his story.
“To make money, the owners leased the hotel to a group of artists for the entire summer just as the art and leisure industry was taking over the area. The towns reinvented themselves as a Midwestern resort community, and the hotel remained as lodging for artists,” Tug says. He gestures at the young artists gathered near the podium, eager to show their works. “It still does today, housing students, although it went through a major renovation a while back to add a new kitchen and dining room. But the inn and its rooms are still as rustic and charming as they always were. Usually, when these auctions end, people gather inside to talk, drink and share stories. I’ve always believed I can still hear the inn’s ghosts—the sea captains and fishermen—whisper.”
The bell rings, and the auction starts. A young woman—festooned in a crown—takes the microphone and begins to call out the items. When a piece of art sells for a hundred dollars, music blares and the entire Ox-Bow staff dances down the aisles. They do it again at every hundred-dollar level.
When the oil painting comes up for auction, I can’t help but raise my hand.
“Fifty dollars to the young woman next to Tug!” she announces.
“Young woman? Flattery will get her everywhere,” I whisper to Tug.
The bidding is fierce, and I feel compelled to raise my hand—even though I don’t have a job or extra cash to spend—until it reaches two hundred dollars, and the staff dances yet again.
When the bidding restarts, the auctioneer looks over at me, but I shake my head, and the piece eventually sells for two hundred and seventy-five dollars.
“You okay?” Tug asks. “I told you sometimes the bidding gets fierce.”
“I am,” I say, hiding my disappointment. “It just spoke to me. I don’t know why.” I polish off my wine and whisper, “Is there a ladies’ room nearby?”
Tug nods. “In the Old Inn. I’ll walk you up there.”
The inn is as charming as Tug said. A screened porch lines the front, and the house is filled with tiny rooms and staircases, a dollhouse come to life. There is a bathroom, barely big enough to turn around in, hidden away in the back of the inn. When I walk out, Tug shows me around the inn. The walls are filled with eclectic artwork resident artists have done over the years. It’s akin to an old gallery you might wander into in another country, every inch of wall space covered, a mishmash of frames holding the pieces in place.
There is a wall of old photos in the dining room, from the early days of the inn. Black-and-white images of men on boats, men drinking whiskey in front of the fireplace, men standing in the river.
I hear Tug yell someone’s name, and I turn toward him.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, and heads back to the lobby.
I start toward another room when a photo catches my eye. I stop—so suddenly I have to grab the wall, nearly knocking a framed picture off of it—and stare.
A group of men—workers in overalls—are sitting atop a mountain of mussel shells.
I lean in more closely.
“I’m back,” Tug says.
I jump and turn toward him. “Sorry to startle you,” he continues. “It looks like you just saw a ghost. Hope this helps.”
From behind his back he produces the small oil painting.
“What?” I exclaim. “How?”
“I saw how much you liked it, so I bought it off the guy who bid on it,” he says. “I know him. He owes me. And now I owe him, but it’s worth it. This is your first memory of Ox-Bow, and it should be a special one. Whenever you look at this from now on, you’ll remember this night. You’ll remember summer in Saugatuck-Douglas.”
“Tug,” I say. “This is too much. You shouldn’t have. I don’t like to owe anyone anything.”
“You don’t,” he says. “It’s my gift to you.”
“I don’t what to say.”
“How about ‘thank you’?” he says.
“Thank you,” I say.
He hands me the painting and I study it more closely.
“Oh!” I exclaim. “I didn’t notice this earlier. The man’s face. His eyes. They’re not eyes at all. They’re actually buttons. Blue buttons that reflect the world around him.”
“I thought that’s why you loved it so much,” Tug says. “You were speaking about irony earlier. Now, this...this is incredibly ironic, isn’t it?”
The room goes off-kilter for a moment, and my mind is filled with flashes of images: this man’s eyes; Ted’s eyes; my teddy bear’s eyes; the mountain of mussels; the clamshells; the photograph of the girl at the pavilion; the button card.
“Sutton?” Tug says, taking my arm. “Are you okay?”
I look at him and then around the Old Inn.
“I think the ghosts are whispering to me, too,” I say.
I stand on Lakeshore Drive gasping for air.
Five-mile run. New Sutton.
I bend over to stretch. My lungs burn.
Old Sutton.
Running has never come easily to me.
I should clarify: running as exercise has never come easily. Running from things has.
I let too few people close to me. Learned behavior.
Have I run again? From work? Friends? A future?
Am I truly seeking answers? Or am I really just running all over again? Can any of us outrun our pasts? Or am I destined to be just like my mother?
There is a stitch in my side, and that is not a bad sewing pun. I stand, stretching toward the sky and then bend slightly left and right.
In volleyball, I hated wind sprints. I didn’t like our run days. Perhaps I had no one to compete against except myself, and that was a game I had played my whole life.
Perhaps I just wanted the world to know I was just as good as they were. I could beat them at their own game.
I look over Lake Michigan. The sky is heavenly blue, not even a tendril of white to tarnish its beauty, but on the horizon, dark clouds are roiling. I think of all the times my mother let me prove to her I was all grown up, and I would make my own Cream of Wheat or Malt-O-Meal on the stove. I would get distracted by a cartoon on the TV and turn to find the water roiling, the pot overflowing, the stove a mess.
My mother would make me clean the stove until it was clean as a whistle.
“Not everything is as it appears to the eye,” she would say. “You always have to keep watch.”
I shake my head thinking of the last few days, of the last few years, and my walk turns into a jog until I’m safely back in the cottage. I shower, dress for a morning of sewing and reading, and start some coffee. I make some oatmeal and begin chopping fresh strawberries I picked up at the local farmer’s market.
I loaded up on fresh asparagus, rhubarb and strawberries and suddenly laugh, remembering Abby—a total city girl—who asked once on a fall girls’ weekend to Door County why there were no fresh, local strawberries available at the market.
“They’re not in season, ma’am,” the kindly woman had replied.
“But I can find them at the grocery store!” Abby argued.
My mouth waters thinking of all the wonderful fruit to come this summer: blueberries, raspberries, peaches, apples.
How long will I stay?
Where will I run next?
I stop and eye the reddish-pink rhubarb. It grew like crazy in the Ozarks before the summer heat and humidity set in, and my mother made the most incredible strawberry-rhubarb pies and coffee cakes from their bounty. I plan to make one as a surprise for Tug, who asked me to go to dinner with him this week.
I can’t decide if he’s moving too quickly, or if any type of forward momentum right now seems fast-paced.
What is too fast?
What is too slow?
How much time do any of us have?
And how do we want to spend it?
My whole life I just wanted to run from the small town where I grew up. In college, I ran to keep pace with people from different worlds than me, who seemed to have had every advantage. In my career, I wanted to prove that I could run the world. Pressure came with success. But so did great sacrifice and even greater compromise. Somehow, thanks to all that running, I found myself distanced from the person I believed I was destined to become.
But I think somewhere between college and the pandemic, I just got tired of being on the treadmill. Being alone and losing my mom made me recalibrate and re-center as well as reprioritize my life. Maybe my mother always understood the things that mattered most, things that a great career, or more success and money could never provide.
Perhaps I realized that I was alive but not living, and it took my mother’s life to remind me of that. Perhaps success can’t be defined by what people think of you, but what you think of yourself when you’re finally alone with your thoughts and staring at your own reflection.
In the living room, the sun reflects on a jar of buttons. A button may be worthless in our society today, but it was priceless to so many who had so little.
Maybe buttons were what made me see the light, I think. Maybe learning my entire past was a lie made me run toward a different light source. Because when I was totally and utterly alone, I was not only haunted by why my mother would so easily run and discard our family history, but also by why I could so easily trade in everything I believed in to create clothing that no longer had any semblance of history either.
So Douglas ended up in Douglas.
I hear a burbling and look up too late to see my oatmeal boiling over and onto the stove.
“Nooo!” I wail.
I turn off the stove and move the pot to another burner.
My mother’s words echo in my head.
“Is something burning?”
I yelp.
When I turn, Bonnie Lyons is standing in the kitchen doorway.
“Oh, my gosh,” I say. “You startled me. How did you get in here?”
She dangles a key in the air.
“Can I help you with something?” I ask.
“I still officially own this cottage,” she says, using the key to make quote marks around the word “officially.”
“I don’t understand. Mick and Sarah own this cottage now.”
“The young couple buying this place...”
“Mick and Sarah,” I repeat.
“Yes,” she says in her clipped tone. “I may have sold this cottage, but I’m their bank. They refinanced through me, and I gave them a wonderful deal, with a wonderful rate, after the death of Mick’s father. But there were conditions for my kindness. And one of them is I like to check on visitors staying on my property.”
I suddenly feel more winded than I did after my run.
“Did I do something wrong?” I ask. “I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot the other day. I’m going through a lot of changes. I was actually just settling in here.”
“Good,” she says. “I’m happy to hear that.”
She takes a small but rather confident step toward me.
“You know, our little towns are changing rapidly right now. So many people from the city are moving here in droves. They can live and work anywhere these days. The virus is driving them from the cities they once so loved. They’re discovering what I’ve always known: this is the most beautiful spot in the world. The secret is out.” Mrs. Lyons pauses. “I just want to ensure the wrong element hasn’t moved in.”
I feel as if I should be offended, but I’ve already overheard so many locals talk about how their beloved towns are being overrun, as if we’re locusts. Same thing happened in Chicago, when rents skyrocketed and so many were forced to uproot.
“Lots of changes the last few years,” I say as sweetly as I can. “But I can assure you I’m not the ‘wrong element.’” I can’t help but laugh. “Believe me.”
“Well, I’m sorry to just pop in, but you can imagine the stories I’ve heard of renters tearing up a place, or having loud parties at all hours of the night.” She looks at me very intently. “I may be very social in the community, but, believe me, I’m a very private person.”
“I understand and respect that, Mrs. Lyons,” I say. “I’m the same way.”
“Well,” she says, her shoulders relaxing, her entire demeanor changing.
“This cottage used to be a one-room schoolhouse,” she says. “Did you know that?”
I nod.
“If you can believe it, this was still a schoolhouse when my husband and I bought this so many years ago.”
“I heard about his passing,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I lost my mother to Covid two years ago. It’s been a nightmare for me.”
Bonnie looks away. “Thank you,” she says, so quietly I can barely hear her even though she’s just feet away. “You know, I can still hear the sound of children’s laughter in here. There was nothing like it.” She turns and gestures at the space with her arm. “We let it remain the schoolhouse until the township built a big, new school. It felt like we had a large family next to us.”
“Did you have children?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer my question.
“This used to be all open. One big classroom. Desks lined up over there. Chalkboard on that wall. This kitchen was the lunchroom with little tables everywhere.”
Her face breaks into what the most optimistic of souls might call a smile, a slight upturn of the mouth, a barely perceptible softening of the eyes.
“Speaking of which...” She takes another step, this time into the kitchen, and looks around. “We have a mess, it seems.”
“My oatmeal boiled over while I was chopping fruit. I plan to clean it up.”
“You always have to keep watch,” she admonishes.
My heart skips a beat.
“I apologize for intruding,” she says. “And please, call me Bonnie.”
My heart softens.
She’s just a lonely old woman trying to protect her turf. I get it. I’d be the exact same way.
“I actually came here for a reason,” she says. “I came bearing gifts.”
“Gifts?” I repeat.
“Lauralei?” she calls.
I hear the screened door squeak. Bonnie moves back into the living, and I follow, staying a good distance behind her.
A woman about Bonnie’s age who is dressed as if she were born at the turn of the century—the last one—shuffles in carrying a box that seems to weigh as much as she does. She is wearing a maid’s outfit, like one you might see in an old-time movie. She sets the box on the living room table, turns and leaves without saying a word, her shoes squeaking in the silence. She returns a moment later with another box, and then another.
“Anything else, ma’am?” she asks Bonnie, her head bowed.
I am feeling a bit creeped out by this whole situation.
“No, thank you, Lauralei. You can start lunch now.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she says, exiting, her feet shuffling, squeak by squeak, across the wood floor.
Bonnie turns. “As you so aptly said, I think we got off on the wrong foot the other day. I meant no ill will toward your mother. I feel very badly about that. Consider this my apology.”
“Mrs. Lyons—” I start.
“Bonnie.”
“Bonnie,” I say. “I don’t know what to say. I felt as if I offended you, too, the other day, and that certainly wasn’t my intention. I’ve just been going through a lot.”
“None taken. Now, please.” She gestures at the boxes on the table.
“I’m sorry, but my mother taught me never to owe anyone anything.”
Bonnie eyes me up and down, before glancing around the room. She strides—in her heels, mind you—toward a small entryway table by the door. There is a small piece of blue pottery—shaped like a narrow dish—sitting atop it where I’ve placed my keys and spare change from my pocket. She reaches in and grabs a penny.
“Now we’re even,” she says.
I smile and nod. I take a seat on the couch and open a box. It is filled with jars, tins and boxes of buttons. I open another, and another, all filled with buttons.
“From my yard sale,” Bonnie says with a wink. “I wanted you to have them.” Her eyes shift toward the Singer in the corner of the room.
“But why?” I ask, genuinely perplexed.
“I know a lot about you already. The internet is a fascinating place. No secrets there.”
I stare at her. Her eyes laser on me again.
“Sutton’s Buttons,” she continues. “We have a lot in common, I think. United by buttons. Who would’ve thought the two of us would end up next to each other? It’s as if it were meant to be.”
Her eyes move to the Singer again.
“I can tell you appreciate the old ways,” Bonnie says. “So rare these days. Especially in young people.” The breeze sings through the screened door and, in the distance, there is a rumble of thunder.
“I’m having a few friends over for lunch,” she says. “I just love to watch the storms roll in off the lake. It’s so exciting to witness the power of nature. There are a few things over which I...” She emits a tiny chuckle. “...we have no control. And I find that remarkable. Well, I best be going. I need to get ready.”
You already look perfect, I think.
“Speaking of which...”
She pulls an envelope from the small purse over her shoulder and hands it to me.
“I will see you soon, Sutton,” she says. “Enjoy the buttons.” Bonnie walks toward the door and turns at the last moment. “And the storm.”
She walks out, the door banging behind her, and I stand for a few seconds, unable to move a muscle.
“What just happened?” I ask out loud.
I open the envelope. It’s an invitation on very expensive, very thick card stock. There is tissue paper atop it, tied with little silk bows at the top and bottom.
Tea for Two!
You Are Cordially Invited to Join Bonnie Lyons
at Dandelion Cottage for Tea & Goodies
on Wednesday, July 1, at Noon (Sharp!).
RSVP by Saturday, June 27
Lauralei Symons at 269-214-0101
Is she being kind? Intrusive? Sweet? Nosy? Or is she just lonely?
I head to the kitchen and begin to clean the stove.
Memories of my mother, stooped over the old stove in the cabin, fill my head, and I scrub harder and harder, trying to wipe away the dried oatmeal along with my memories.
Over my cleaning, thunder booms. The storm is drawing closer.
I set down my rag and walk out to the front porch.
There are a few things over which we have no control.
A raindrop hits my head and trickles down my face. The dune grass sweeps this way and that in the wind.
I head back inside. The table is filled with buttons.
I pour a cup of coffee and take a seat on the couch. I begin to sort Bonnie’s buttons until I feel like I can breathe again.