9

SHANK BUTTONS

Shank buttons have a hollow protrusion on the back
through which thread is sewn to attach the button.

“Are you sure?”

Bonnie is standing atop the round alteration fitting platform in the middle of her walk-in closet. Light filters through the window and splays around her lithe body as if she were a spiritual figure in a religious painting.

She stares down at me in her inimitable way. Our last visit still buzzes in my head, and I remember her admonition to ooze confidence.

“One hundred percent,” I mumble, my mouth filled with needles.

I am pinning fabric, and we have been sparring the last half hour about the length of her summer dress. Bonnie keeps pushing for floor length. I keep pushing for just above the knee.

“It’s inappropriate for a woman my age,” Bonnie repeats.

“Says who? Who’s telling you how to dress? Society? A man? Or yourself?”

Bonnie has been taken back by my seemingly newfound confidence, but the last few days have emboldened me to find the voice I once had in my career: Tug’s kiss, my design, my quest for closure.

“You have great legs. Wonderful knees. Show them off. And it’s summer.”

Finally, after this last push, she relented.

I finish pinning, stand and place my pins on my magnetic sewing cushion, an invention I cannot live without. The magnet grabs and holds the pins in place. My mother used a little pin tin for many years before moving to small plastic pin boxes with lids. But she knocked those off her sewing table constantly and would spend her days searching for pins, ultimately finding an errant runaway with her bare foot.

Finally, she discovered pin cushions at yard sales and became obsessed. Over the years, her pincushions became more stylish, and she switched them out every season just as she did our holiday décor: tomato and strawberry pin cushions in the summer, pumpkins in the fall, felt snowballs in the winter and birds and flowers in the spring.

I retrieve the beautiful pink embroidered buttons I’ve selected for the sleeves and back of the dress. I hold Bonnie’s arm out and pin one just to see how it hangs.

“Ah, shank buttons,” Bonnie says, her voice as wistful as the last warm autumn breeze. She holds her arm out and smiles. “They drape so beautifully from a garment. Just the right amount of space between the fabric. Today, those cheap plastic buttons are literally bolted into place. It’s such a joke, isn’t it? People worry that if a button comes loose, or falls off, the garment is poorly made. Well, it’s already been poorly made. Our clothing should be beautiful, not indestructible. It should be tailored not mass-produced for women who are six foot four and five foot two.”

Bonnie holds her sleeve to her eye and then moves her arm as if it’s caught in a wind current—that last warm autumn breeze. She looks like a little girl you might pass on the highway who has stuck her arm out the window and is mesmerized watching it fly.

“Buttons with shanks are more expensive to produce,” she says in a whisper, as if in a trance. “We should have kept producing quality. The world changed. I never did.”

She blinks and seems to see me again.

“Well,” she says. “What next?”

“I need to take this home and work on it...” I start.

“Home,” Bonnie says. “Are you?”

“I... I...” I halt, searching for the right words. “I meant that literally. It is. For right now.”

A Cheshire cat grin crosses her face. “I’m thrilled you’re learning to love Douglas, Sutton Douglas. I’m thrilled you’re beginning to think of this as home and yourself as a local.”

The word home trails in the air.

“One day at a time. So, I’ll hopefully have something ready a week before your gala, so we have time to alter and refine.”

“And what about sketches for my August Glow?”

“I’m noodling some ideas,” I say.

“Noodling?” Bonnie asks. “Is that an Ozarks term?”

The platform on which Bonnie is standing seems to rotate like a disco ball.

How much does she know about me? How much do I know about her?

My mother—like many Ozarks fishermen—used to noodle. Noodling was “hand” fishing for catfish that lived in the muddy banks of Ozarks creeks. My mom would go out at night, as she did when she went frog gigging, and slink into the creek and feel along its banks for holes where the catfish dwelled. And then she would yank them out as easily as if she were plucking a turnip from the ground. She always tried to teach me, but I could never get over my fear of the unknown, what I couldn’t see, what I felt and, worse, what I might find.

“Can’t let your mind play tricks on you,” my mom would say.

I look at Bonnie watching me, waiting for me to answer.

Noodling. Why would she ask that in her strange way?

Or is my imagination continuing to play tricks on me?

“Exactly how much do you know about me?” I ask, looking directly at her.

The Cheshire grin re-emerges.

“I’ve told you before,” Bonnie says, “I’ve done my research. Have you?”

My heart flip-flops. The way she asks this makes me think, Not as much as I should have on you perhaps.

“I’m just teasing you, Sutton,” Bonnie says. “My goodness. The look on your face. It’s as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

Ghosts.

“You look as if you might need a cup of tea and a bite to eat before you go home and finish your work,” Bonnie continues. “Would you join me in the garden in the front yard? There’s something I’d like to speak to you about.”

“Um.” I hesitate. Bonnie tilts her head just so but continues to stare at me. “Sure.”

“Wonderful! Lauralei!”

I follow Bonnie downstairs and out to a small patio table with two chairs tucked into one of her cottage gardens just off to the side of her cottage. The patio furniture looks vintage. It is as deeply green as the needles on her pines, wrought iron and adorned with ornate curlicues and sturdy feet that have wound themselves into the Michigan earth like tree roots.

“Have a seat.”

I sit in a chair—cool to my legs, which are in shorts—just a foot or so away from Bonnie. We are tucked away from the world here, inconspicuous from the passersby on Lakeshore Drive, hidden behind her towering white phlox, red bee balm, maroon hollyhocks, lavender rose of Sharon. A natural border of boxwoods showcases rows of exquisite hydrangeas tucked just behind them, electric-blue blooms and perfectly pink panicles. An arbor with happy red roses provides even more secrecy.

“Your garden is stunning,” I say.

“Thank you. It’s a lot of work, to be honest. And I don’t trust anyone to touch it but me. But I love gardening. There is such a perfect structure to its growth and evolution. You nurture it correctly, and it shows its undying appreciation. Ah, tea!”

Lauralei arrives with a tray and sets it on the table before us. She pours the steaming tea into two rose-covered teacups and scurries away. Bonnie picks up her tea. I follow suit. Lauralei returns almost immediately with an assortment of sandwiches and scones, much like we had the first time Bonnie and I “officially” met.

“Would you care for a sandwich, Sutton?”

Lauralei. Actually speaking to me.

I hear a tinkle of a teacup and then a crash. “Ow!”

I look up, and Bonnie has not only spilled hot tea on her leg but dropped her teacup onto the ground. She stands in a rush and begins to blot her skirt with her cloth napkin.

“Lauralei!” she yells. “We do not use such informality with guests! Even amongst family. What has gotten into you?”

Family?

Lauralei hurries over and begins to pick up the pieces of the teacup. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I think the heat got to me today.”

I stand and begin to help her pick up broken bits.

“Sit down, Sutton!” Bonnie orders. “Guests do not help the help.”

Lauralei is stooped, but her head shoots up, and—for a second—I see a flash of fury cross her face.

“Bonnie.” I look her right in the eyes. “It’s no problem. And, Lauralei, you can call me Sutton.”

Bonnie begins to respond, but I add, “Anytime!”

Lauralei rushes away, a rapid series of mini-squeaks, returning with a new teacup and endless apologies to Bonnie, who refuses to acknowledge her.

When she leaves, we sit in silence for a bit.

“I’m sorry, Bonnie,” I say, “but I must say something: I don’t like the way you talk to Lauralei. My mother was treated that way by many women of privilege, and it’s not okay. Not one of us is any more important than someone else, doesn’t matter if we’re drinking the tea or serving it.”

Bonnie’s eyes widen to the size of saucers. I’m unsure if she’s ever been spoken to like this.

“Lauralei and I have a very long history together. Sometimes, words are exchanged.”

“That’s still no excuse. I just can’t abide it.”

Bonnie looks at me for the longest time. “I apologize. You’re right. Sometimes, I’m like a cat: I react and scratch without thinking. Maybe it’s the only way I know how to survive. But it’s not right.”

“I appreciate you saying that,” I say. “And listen, while we’re ‘exchanging words,’ I just have to know about the artwork in your bathroom. Those moonglow buttons. I thought I was the only one who knew about them and collected them. My mother loved them. It just seems like yet another coincidence.”

“Our button company specialized in moonglow buttons,” Bonnie explains. “We were known for them. We had so many that I used to give them to the school for art projects. One of the children made this, and I’ve treasured it forever.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling partly relieved and partly deflated.

“And...it seems as though Lauralei seems to know me for some reason,” I push on.

“She lost a child, a long time ago,” Bonnie says. “Poor dear. She’s never recovered from that. Work is the only thing she’s had to occupy her time. I think it’s a blessing we’ve been together so long. I might have just saved her life.” Bonnie looks at me again. “So we may have words, Sutton, but believe me we have a longer history than you can ever imagine. We know each other better than you can ever know. And we have a relationship forged in...” Bonnie hesitates, seeking the right word. “...blood.”

Then Bonnie tilts her head back and stares up at the sky. I sip my tea as quietly as I can, trying to be invisible, feeling guilty, as if I were responsible for initiating a fight between my parents.

“Look,” Bonnie finally says.

I follow her gaze up. A canopy of sugar maples fills the sky.

“Do you see the beautiful patterns that are formed in the branches?” she asks in a quiet voice. “The sky and light you see through the tracks of empty space running through the canopy?”

It takes me a moment to visualize what she is seeing but it finally comes to me. Although the trees’ upper branches have grown together, they do not touch. As a result, an intricately beautiful pattern appears in the light akin to when I used to color Easter eggs and the shell would sometimes crack over time.

“I do,” I say.

“It’s a phenomenon known as crown shyness, in which the crowns of fully grown trees do not touch each other, forming a canopy with small gaps. My husband and I gave a large swath of lakeshore property south of here to a nature conservancy, and a biologist explained this to us. He believed that trees in windy areas suffered physical damage as they collided with each other during winds. As a result, there is reciprocal pruning and an induced crown shyness response.”

Bonnie looks at me and says in a hush, “The trees refuse to touch.”

She tilts her head up again and whispers to herself, “They need personal space, too. They must maintain their distance from others.”

My entire body explodes in goose bumps, and I shiver despite the temperature outside. I take a sip of tea to warm myself.

I cannot tell if Bonnie is giving me a science lesson, an insight into her own behavior, or a personal warning.

“In a surreal way, crown shyness is the arboreal version of social distancing,” Bonnie continues. “Nature knew how to protect itself from harm, trees understood that even those closest to them could hurt them the most, so they learned how to survive. Maybe that’s the lesson we all needed to learn these past few years.”

She skews her eyes at me and continues.

“That’s the beauty of isolation. The tree is really safeguarding its own health.”

My heart is racing. I look up at the gaps in the trees. A breeze kicks up off the lake, and the branches sway but never touch. I stare at two trees, and their forms change. They morph into versions of me and my mother, so near and yet so distant, one so protective of herself she refuses to let the other she loves more than anything else get too close.

“I’ve never heard of that before,” I say, trying to act interested yet unaffected. “Fascinating.”

“Isn’t it?” she asks in her Bonnie way.

I feel unsteady and unnerved.

“Well,” I say, “I best get back to work.”

“Before you do,” Bonnie says, “I have something for you.”

She retrieves an envelope from her pocket and hands it to me. I open it.

“A check?” I ask.

And then I see the amount. It is a healthy five figures.

“What is this for, Bonnie? I can’t accept this.”

“I wanted to put you on a retainer,” she says.

“For what?”

“To be my designer. I think it’s more than fair, don’t you?”

I stare at the check, the numbers waving before me just like the branches on the trees.

“I hope it’s not insulting,” she continues.

“Insulting? No. Bonnie, this is a few months’ salary.”

“Then that’s perfect right? And I hope it’s just the start of our relationship.” Bonnie stops. “I could even take over your rent for a few months, just to make things equitable.”

“Equitable?”

I realize I’m repeating everything she’s saying as a question.

“Bonnie, I’m flattered, but I can’t accept this. I don’t know where I’ll be next month, much less what I’ll be doing.”

I hold out the check to her, but Bonnie fills her hands with her teacup.

“Just think about it,” Bonnie says. “I promise I’ll try not to be as coarse in the future. Maybe I need to learn a thing or two from you about life.”

I look up at the trees and then at Bonnie.

How close should I get to her?

Am I doing this for the money? To rebuild my career? Or to have a semblance of belonging in a new place?

“Just take the check and think about it, Sutton,” she says again, following my gaze up to the trees. “Opportunities like this don’t come around very often.”

Dan D. Lyons

Bonnie Lyons

The Lyons Trust

I pick up the check to ensure that it’s real, running my fingers over the ink, touching every number.

The realist in me knows this is enough money to tide me over quite a while. It would remove the pressure of having to return to “normal” life and searching for a job I don’t even want in a very competitive industry.

With Bonnie’s retainer, I could stay here for the near future, spend more time with Tug, work on launching my own line just as I’d always dreamed.

This is a dream. Right?

But there is also another realist dwelling in me, and she is asking a lot of questions. In fact, her voice sounds an awful lot like my mother’s.

What does Bonnie really want?

Why me?

You can’t be reliant on anyone but yourself, my mom whispers.

“But I wouldn’t be, Mom,” I respond out loud to an empty room. “It would be my work, my life, my career.”

Would it? the walls echo.

I shiver and pull a blanket around me.

It is raining outside, a cold rain that has turned July to October. The temperature is in the fifties, the rain slides down the wavy window panes in sheets. I had wanted to start a fire, but the logs outside were already wet and who knew you needed Duraflame logs in July in Michigan. Instead, I’ve put on my favorite hoodie and grabbed my teddy bear for comfort.

I’m a grown woman who still needs my childhood treasures to make me feel safe.

The wind blows the branches around outside, casting long shadows along the walls, making it look as if people are dancing in the cottage.

Crown shyness.

Bonnie’s story sticks with me, haunting me for some reason. I know why.

I have crown shyness.

My family tree may have been tiny—a forest of two—but we grew up alongside one another, sheltering, ever-present. But we rarely touched. My mother knew how to keep a distance, even from her own daughter. She may have never bent or broken, but she could also never embrace me in her limbs.

“Were you protecting me, Mom, and helping me reach my potential, or were you thwarting me from ever being able to connect with another living creature?”

I am talking to ghosts.

Why—even when we’re cognizant of our own limitations, triggers and weaknesses—do we fall back on them, play into them?

Am I doing it again with Tug, Bonnie, my career? Not trusting my future because of my past?

Do I follow my instincts, knowing I might get hurt?

My cell blinks, illuminating the darkness. It is a text from Abby. I’ve told her about Bonnie’s offer.

“Thank you,” I say to my cell and my friend.

And then I open my laptop and do what I did when I was living in the Ozarks without a college counseling program or anyone to assist me with my college application process. I do what I did when I was job hunting. I became a student of the game. I became not just the girl with the interesting history, the poor girl from the Ozarks, the “button girl,” but I became the most knowledgeable applicant and candidate. I learned everything about everyone.

I do what I should have done weeks ago, what I did when my mother first revealed my past was a lie: go online.

I sit and begin to research Bonnie Lyons’ past as much as she’s seemed to have researched mine.

I begin to Google every name and angle.

Pages of photos appear of Bonnie at fundraising galas and events. There are stories about her and her husband’s charitable activities. The two owned hundreds and hundreds of acres of land around the area, in town, on the lakeshore and river, out in the country. Much of the land is now protected, but some of it was sold for development. Huge homes were built on Lake Michigan and the Kalamazoo River. Much of downtown Douglas once belonged to the Lyons. And orchards, wineries, pie pantries, and bed-and-breakfasts now dot the countryside they once owned.

How much money do they have?

Dan & Bonnie Lyons Douglas Michigan estimated net worth?

I wait as Google searches.

Fifty million dollars.

I’ve known people with that kind of money, but I’ve never known someone with that kind of money, and there’s a big difference.

I think of my mother picking up every penny she found on the sidewalk. I think of her sewing different buttons on an old shirt to make it seem new again. I think of her fishing and gigging to put food on our table. I remember my mother once received an anonymous envelope at church one Christmas. It was stuck underneath the windshield wiper of our car when we walked into the parking lot. Someone had printed MERRY CHRISTMAS on the front, alternating the letters in bright red and green ink. When my mom opened it, a check for fifty dollars was enclosed along with a holiday card that read, May you have a very Merry Christmas! We looked around the parking lot, but no one looked like they had done a thing.

“Fifty dollars!” my mom screamed in the car, jumping up and down. “Fifty whole dollars! We’re rich, Sutton!”

We bought a turkey and all the fixings, and my mom bought me a pair of new winter boots and lots of buttons for herself, and for one day we truly felt rich.

Without warning, tears roll down my face, and my stomach churns with sadness and anger.

Fifty whole dollars. We’re rich, Sutton.

Fifty million dollars.

What does someone even do with that much money? You could never spend it all, could you? Maybe she’s giving it all to her family? Or charity? Or both?

I search again: Dan and Bonnie Lyons family children Douglas Michigan

The first item to appear is a FIND A GRAVE memorial site. I click on it. There is a picture of a beautiful gravestone surrounded by fresh flowers.

AMBEL LYONS

BELOVED, “LOVABLE” DAUGHTER

FOREVER CUTE AS A BUTTON

BORN: 3-30-1965

DIED: Too Young

What a strange gravestone.

Too young?

And Ambel. What an unusual name? I’ve never heard it before.

I Google search Ambel Lyons. Ambel means “lovable.”

Who is this? Why did it come up in my search?

I press on. The only real “news” article that appears is Dan Lyons’ obituary.

Mr. Lyons was predeceased by his beloved only daughter, Ambel.

I cover my mouth with my hand.

Bonnie told me she had no children. She told me I was like the daughter she dreamed of having. That portrait on the wall. It wasn’t the child she never had. It was the child she lost.

Why would she lie to me?

Is she hiding something, or are the memories and the pain too much to bear?

I certainly understand. My depression over my mother’s death ate me alive for a year.

“Oh, that poor woman,” I say out loud. Such loss. This explains so much about her behavior. Hurt people hurt people.

I watch it rain. Mother Nature heaving, sobbing, weeping.

I see Bonnie in a new light, as if the rain has washed away her aura, all of her confidence. How could this stranger have so much in common with my mother? Loss that has created a shell around them. The limbs wave.

Crown shyness.

I compose myself and press on with a new search: Dan Lyons Bonnie Lyons button company Douglas Michigan

A few articles appear about the history of buttons in Douglas, Michigan, ones I’ve already seen.

I scroll and scroll and scroll. Suddenly, my finger stops moving. I click.

The Douglas Observer

DECEMBER 14, 1972

One of the leading pearl button manufacturing companies in America—and once one of Michigan’s largest employers—is closing its doors. The Dandy Button Company opened in 1908 and for many subsequent decades manufactured beautiful high-quality pearl buttons from Kalamazoo River mussel shells. At its peak, the company employed 240 workers and produced up to 20,000 buttons a day. Dandy buttons were sold on cardboard cards branded with the name Grandma’s Button Box. For decades, Grandma’s Button Box button cards were commonly found in sewing baskets throughout America.

My heart stops. How did I miss this before?

There is a photo of a button card. It is exactly like the one I found with my mother’s dress.

I mean, at one time nearly every woman in America had button jars, tins and button cards, right?

I click on Images this time.

Pictures of “mussel men” and “clam fishers” populate my laptop. They are similar to the picture I found of the man hidden in the backing of my mother’s button art tree.

Just like Captain Lucky had said.

Lightning flashes. Outside the window, wind blows the rain angrily. Mother Nature heaves in sorrow, her offspring the lake matching her mother’s grief.

I stare at the rain crashing against the cottage. The entire world is soaking wet. I blink, and it’s then I realize it’s not the rain that is blurring my vision. I am crying.

I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my soft hoodie and reach out to grab my teddy bear. I hold it against my body, so tightly, as if it’s the only thing that will protect me from the storm.

“Oh, Dandy,” I say. “Am I going crazy?”

My mind begins to flicker, just like the electricity now flashing in the cottage.

I look at my teddy bear, then at my laptop, then at Bonnie’s check and finally out the front window.

Dandy.

Dan D.

Dan D. Lyons.

Dandelion Cottage.

“What is happening,” I say to the storm. “I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

My heart races, and I hold my bear to calm my rising panic.

I swear I can hear the wind howl, “Button, button, who’s got the button?”

I grab my cell and text at the speed of light.

“Pick your poison?”

I can’t help but laugh at Mary’s unintended double entendre as soon as she opens the door. It’s four in the afternoon on a Tuesday, and although the restaurant does not open for two more hours, there is a throng of people outside acting as if Reese Witherspoon is about to exit.

As I head in, people excitedly move toward the door. Mary locks it behind her. There is an audible groan.

“People go on vacation and forget how to read,” she says, pointing. “See that huge sandwich board?” It says very clearly in bold lettering, CLOSED FOR LUNCH! OPEN EVERY DAY AT 6 P.M. “Is that confusing in some way?”

Mary walks behind the long bar. She notices me eyeing the wood.

“Live edge maple,” she says, running her hand along the top of the bar. “Isn’t it gorgeous? A local woodworker made this for me when my son took over this place. I used to serve him pasties to take to work for lunch every day for decades.”

I look at Mary.

“Never heard of a pasty?”

I shake my head.

“Looks X-rated the way it’s written, but pasty rhymes with nasty, not tasty. Got it?”

“No.”

“Good,” Mary says.

I laugh again.

“Pasties are Michigan’s version of a portable meat pie, a sort of warm pastry sandwich, stew in a shell,” Mary says. “Simple filling. Served with gravy or ketchup. Used to serve them to miners, laborers, clammers. Perfect mix of proteins and carbs. Got working men through a long day.”

“Clammers?” I ask.

Mary stops. “I think that’s a good place to stop. And start. Now you never answered my original question: pick your poison.”

“Well, that’s a loaded question,” I say, “considering my life and mental state right now.”

“Well, it’s late afternoon, so we can go two ways: subtle or game-on.”

“What’s subtle?”

Mary bends down and pulls a bottle of rosé from a wine refrigerator. She holds it and then places it on the bar and gives it a high-pitched, squeaky voice, as if it’s a cartoon bottle. “Hi, I’m Rosé. I’m safe. It’s what all the girls have at the beach. It’s what we bring to women’s pamper weekend.” Mary makes the bottle dance and sings in a high voice, “Wheee! Rosé all day!”

She sounds a lot like Jot, the cartoon about a glowing Christian orb that was popular in the Ozarks.

“What’s game-on?” I laugh.

“Can I surprise you?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to do that no matter what I choose to drink.”

“Atta’girl!”

Mary begins to pull bottles from the shelves as if she’s Tom Cruise in Cocktail. She squeezes fruit and pours alcohol into ice-filled shakers, finally siphoning out what resembles golden sunshine into a vintage-looking cocktail glass.

“Lavender gimlet,” Mary says, pouring herself the same. “Nearly every ingredient, including the gin and the lavender, is locally sourced. We have one of the nation’s best gin distilleries a few miles north and one of the nation’s most beautiful lavender farms a few miles south. And about a hundred of the best wineries across the state. If you think we can’t make a good cocktail in the Mitten, then you need to go somewhere else. Cheers!”

She lifts her glass, and I clink it. I take a sip. It’s crisp and refreshing with botanical hints and subtle lavender, not at all what I expected but a perfect summer cocktail.

“What do you think?” Mary asks.

“It’s one of the best drinks I’ve ever had,” I say.

“Let’s take these out to the garden, okay? It’s a beautiful day. No one to stare at us through the window like we’re in a zoo.”

I follow Mary into the pretty back dining room. It is newer, with a beautiful fireplace and second, albeit smaller, bar. The kitchen is already packed with staff prepping for a busy summer night.

We take a seat at a small table for two perched under an umbrella. Rather than a hedge, decades-old rhododendrons and rose of Sharon form a privacy hedge. The Sharon is blooming and its flowers are multicolored, almost like little pieces of cotton candy tucked amongst the dense green. Beautiful pots of colorful flowers anchor the corners, and another, very tiny bar sits against the hedge.

“This place has changed over the years, hasn’t it?” I ask.

“It has.” Mary nods. “Sometimes, I don’t even recognize it. Or myself. But change is inevitable. Either we fight it, we adapt to it, or we make it.”

Mary takes a sip of her drink and looks at me. My mother would have called a woman like Mary “no nonsense.” My mom felt the world was filled with people with the wrong intentions, seeking the wrong things. She admired people who understood the meaning of hard work.

“Too many in the world seek riches to feel powerful, but they just don’t understand what it is that makes one wealthy.”

Mary’s readers are perched on the end of her nose. Her hair is short and tucked behind her ears. She is wearing capris and a cute dark blouse that makes her silver hair pop, as well as just a touch of lipstick so that her face doesn’t just fade away.

“Now, where we should we start?” Mary asks.

No nonsense, I can hear my mother say.

“With this?” I ask, taking another sip of my cocktail and then an even bigger breath.

I tell Mary about my life, my mom, her death, the letter, the last two years of isolation, leaving my job and coming here on a whim and a prayer. I tell her about what I’ve discovered so far, and what I haven’t as well as about Bonnie, our recent encounters and her offer. I tell her about the many coincidences in my life and ironies with Bonnie’s.

“Am I crazy?”

“Listen, I’m no Nancy Drew...”

I laugh. “I’m learning her job was way harder than I imagined.”

Mary smiles. “Well, as an adult, I think this all depends on if you actually want to solve the mystery or not. Sometimes, it’s better not to know.”

“Why?” I ask.

“That’s why people bury their pasts. They don’t want them to be uncovered.”

“But how could I live with myself if I didn’t find out?”

“Can you live with yourself if you do?”

Mary’s words shake me, and I take another sip to steel myself.

“I don’t know.”

“Look, you don’t know me from Adam, and I don’t mean to sound so ominous, but I do know that life ain’t always easy,” Mary says, “and that family isn’t perfect. The truth is hard.”

I nod. “Believe me, I know. But what if I have to know?”

“At least you’re being honest,” Mary says. “And I don’t know all the answers either. I’m not a detective, and I’m not a mathematician. I can barely put two and two together, but I can provide you some dirt. You’re just gonna have to do all the shoveling.”

“I’m good with that.”

“Well, where should I begin?” Mary starts. “I was born and raised here. So was the Lyons family. Richer than God. Good Dutch folk. Knew the value of a dollar. Saved every one, too, and then built on that. Dan Sr.’s dad—so, Bonnie’s grandfather-in-law—owned lakeshore land from here to South Haven and made his money transporting fruit to Chicago. Then he bought all that land from farmers after the great freeze. Dan Sr. started the button company, and Dan Jr. tried to expand it.”

“Yes, I learned a lot of that online. The beauty of our world today.”

Mary laughs suddenly and looks into space.

“Today versus yesterday,” she says as if to herself. “What is it they say? Shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves in three generations? The first generation creates the wealth, the second stewards it and the third consumes it.”

Mary looks at me.

“In this case, the wife consumed the family.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Bonnie was born poor. I bet you didn’t you know that?” Mary asks.

My mouth drops.

“Bonnie? No.”

“Dirt-poor. Her family was from the Upper Peninsula. They moved here to work for the button company. Bonnie used to help pry open the mussels.”

“What? Are you sure? You’re kidding me, right? I can’t even imagine.”

“True story. Long forgotten.” Mary looks at a young woman putting out tablecloths in the nearby dining room. “They loved using little kids to do that type of work. They had small hands. And if they lost a finger, no one said a word. Sounds harsh, but that’s the way it was back then. People were starving. Everybody worked if they could. Eventually, Bonnie moved up at the company, if you can call it that, and—after the buttons were tumbled in a churn with water, pumiced, washed, dried and moved onto sorting tables—she began sorting buttons according to quality, color and luster. She then moved on to hand sewing them onto cards, where they were placed in boxes for shipping.”

“How do you know all this? Does anyone else know this?”

“Not anymore,” Mary says. “Some of my family were employed at the button factory. Stories were passed along, until there was no one left to tell them anymore. Gone, just like all the history. And you know how people are today. They see what they want to see. And with Bonnie, they only see a rich woman who’s seemingly dedicated herself to the betterment of this community. And she has. And this all happened so long ago. I love a success story as much as the next person, but I’ve never been convinced that Bonnie’s entire life wasn’t premeditated.” Mary stops. “Lauralei was Bonnie’s best friend growing up. Did you know that?”

“Her maid?” I throw my hands up in the air. “I’m out. I mean, I can’t even with what you’re telling me. It’s just insane.”

“Truth is always stranger than fiction, right?” Mary says. “Yep. They worked side by side at the button factory. Then, Bonnie ended up getting pregnant by Dan Jr., and they had to get married before it became public. Apparently Dan Sr. was furious. His son impregnating a button girl. Back then. Can you imagine? And Lauralei was the one who stood by Bonnie through everything.”

“Okay, my head has officially exploded,” I say. “Bonnie is so proper. Everything follows the rules of society. I mean, she looked at me as if I were raised in a barn because I didn’t know proper tea etiquette.” I look at Mary and then at the pretty flowers dotting the garden hedge. “I feel like I’m hallucinating.”

“Just wait,” Mary says, putting her elbows on the table and leaning closer. “Once she had the baby, Bonnie turned on her family. She was supporting them, but it’s as if the birth of her baby was her key to a new kingdom. She had been supporting her parents, but then, after her daughter was born, not a penny. Not a visit. Nothing. I don’t know if Dan Sr. was so embarrassed he cut them off so they would have nothing to do with the grandchild, or if it was Bonnie’s decision or both, but Dan Jr. kept them employed at the button company. And when the company finally went under, her parents moved back to the UP to die. Poof! It’s as if they never existed.”

My heart races. “That’s so sad,” I say. “I can’t imagine. But why is Lauralei her maid? Why would Bonnie take care of her but not her own family? It makes no sense.”

“No clue. Folks say either she has something on her, or she’s the one who kept Bonnie going after her daughter’s death. Fealty and friendship often walk side by side.”

“That’s what I was going to ask you about, too,” I say. “What can you tell me about Bonnie’s daughter? Ambel? I just found out online that she’d died. It’s so strange because Bonnie told me she never had a family. I don’t understand why she would lie to me when it’s public knowledge.”

“I don’t know that, but I do know she was devastated and refused to talk about it again. Everyone sort of just let it be.”

“Do you know how Ambel died? I couldn’t find it anywhere online.”

“Well, it was a long, long time ago. When Ambel was a teenager, Bonnie and Dan sent her on a trip to Europe... I really didn’t know her...she was homeschooled by private tutors. Never really allowed to socialize. Some folks around here assumed they were just being snooty, and others said the family was worried about a kidnapping. Seems the grandfather was consumed by the Lindbergh kidnapping after his own son was born.”

Mary continues. “Ambel died in some sort of accident while traveling in Europe, and they had to have her body returned to the States. It was all so very tragic. They had a private funeral, and Bonnie sort of disappeared for a number of years, became a recluse in her own home. That’s when the town really took Bonnie under its wing—and vice versa—and her past was just sort of erased along with the memory of their little girl. People began to look at Bonnie as some sort of saint, no matter what she said or did, no matter how much of her husband’s fortune she spent on jewelry, travel or clothes. She loves her clothes.”

Don’t I know it. I think of my mother.

“Oh, my gosh,” Mary says. “I forgot the most interesting part.”

“Really?” I ask, my voice dripping in sarcasm.

“Bonnie wasn’t even her real name growing up.”

“What?” I ask. “What was it?”

“Mildred!” Mary says, unable to stifle a laugh.

“No!” I can’t help but scream at the thought of Bonnie being poor, button worker Mildred.

“I’d forgotten until her husband died, and the local newspaper, of course, ran the obituary. They used her real name: Dan D. Lyons Jr. is survived by his wife, Bonnie Lyons, nee Mildred Bonne. I think that’s how she invented her name. Bonne...get it? Bonnie? She literally became someone else right in front of everyone’s eyes.”

“I just Googled his obituary,” I say. “I missed that! I stopped reading when I saw their daughter’s name.” I look at Mary. “You are Nancy Drew.”

“No, I’m just an old local who knows way too much—and way too little—for her own good.”

“So, what do you think? All coincidence?” I ask.

“No clue,” Mary says, peering at me over her readers. “Your mom was part of another generation when most everyone sewed, collected buttons and saved pennies. My mom did that. I did, too, and still do. I mean, everyone had Dandy buttons back in the day. Maybe it’s just all part of the past. Maybe she got pregnant out of wedlock, and her family couldn’t deal with that. It was a different time. Who knows?”

Miss Mabel? The church widow? Unwed and pregnant?

Never.

Mary takes a sip of her drink and continues. “Tug is a great guy. I love him nearly as much as my own son. Maybe you’re simply trying to find a way—after all the tragedy you’ve experienced and all the chaos and loss we’ve been through as a world—to reach for the light again.”

I look up at the trees canopying part of the outdoor garden.

So close, but not touching, still reaching for the light.

“Can I share one last thing with you?” Mary asks. “I barely know you, but I feel compelled to share it with you. Maybe it will help.”

“Of course.”

Mary inhales. “My dad was a mean son-of-a-gun—I mean, bad to the bone—but my mother stayed with him for the sake of her kids and society at the time,” Mary says. “She should’ve left him because staying with him actually messed us all up worse than if she’d hightailed it outta there. I followed that cycle. My husband hurt me. I wasn’t going to let him hurt my kids, and I wasn’t going to stay like my mom did. I had nothing. I started as a waitress here. I socked money away. My son made all my dreams come true.” Mary looks at me. “You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you all this. I just feel like I have a lot in common with Miss Mabel. She worked hard. We protected our families like lionesses. Never quit. Never asked for a darn thing. Kids came first.”

My heart pulses in my head.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that family is never perfect. Sometimes, what you want from those you love isn’t enough. And sometimes it exceeds your wildest expectations. But maybe sometimes it’s enough to know your mother loved you as much as I love my son, and we fought and sacrificed our whole lives so you wouldn’t have to endure what we did. And maybe sometimes, that’s all you need to know.” She looks at me. “That you were loved. So, so deeply. And no one can ever take that away.”

A tear springs to my eye.

“Thank you.”

“You’re a very smart woman with oodles of talent,” Mary says. “You’re gonna figure it all out.”

“And if I don’t?” I ask.

“There’s always another lavender gimlet waiting for you.”