Page 5 of Summer on Lilac Island

Though it was mostly desperation that had brought Gigi back, it wasn’t all desperation.

A few ounces of nostalgia were sprinkled in there too. On some deep, dusty level, Gigi had missed the island. The slower pace

of life, the lack of responsibility, the powdery lakeside beaches. She hadn’t had a full Mackinac Island summer since high

school. Three months here during the prime high season wouldn’t be so bad. She could press pause on real life, catch her breath,

and then figure out where to go from here.

It might be tolerable enough if she didn’t have to share a roof with her mother. She had no idea how she was going to survive

cohabitating after so many years of independence.

Still, she was glad to be off the ferry and found herself imbibing the island with fresh eyes, sipping it like a summer shandy.

Nudging up against the fishing-boat-filled docks, Main Street was in top form.

A flurry of horses and cyclists and shoppers who rifled through artsy tote bags, pine-scented candles, and pastel crewnecks at quirky boutiques.

The fudge shops had lines out the door, as did Sadie’s Ice Cream Parlor and Great Turtle Brewery.

Gigi felt a prick of respect for how the island spruced itself up to rake in enough money to keep the economy running, or at least shuffling, in the long off-season.

And the crowds made it easy to blend in.

The last thing she wanted was to be ambushed by Deirdre or one of her old teachers.

Hopefully her new hairstyle—bleached, in a shag—would serve as an adequate disguise.

Lugging her oversized suitcase behind her on the paved but heavily potholed roads, she ascended the steep hill toward Fort

Holmes, a former military outpost dating back to the Revolutionary War. Panting before she reached the top, Gigi continued

inland, oak and sassafras trees thickening. She welcomed the peace and quiet after a full day of travel, though the clop, clop, clop of hooves disturbed her tranquility. Horse-drawn carriage tours squeezed Gigi off the narrow path until she was forced to

haul her suitcase through scraggly weeds and wildflowers.

Gigi felt like a bad cliché from one of those cheesy rom-com movies she couldn’t stand. The wayward daughter returning home

with no money, no partner, no prospects. This would be the opening scene where the ruggedly handsome carriage driver lost

control of his horses and hit her, then professed his undying love within the week—perhaps even the day, depending on how

quickly he was overcome by her urban allure.

But, thankfully, no flannel-shirted lumberjack appeared. She was alone, and things became even more secluded as she approached

Harrisonville, the tiny village where the island’s year-round residents lived. Life up here was less performance, more practicality.

A uniform row of two-story homes with pitched roofs and economical siding. Their plain appearance insulated them from tourists.

The sight triggered that old, awful sensation of being ordinary. It was Gigi’s greatest fear, really. Everyone assumed her

greatest fear was probably being abandoned, given her dad left when she was young. But Gigi understood why he had to go. He

was terrified of the same thing she was: to live a mediocre, predictable, forgettable life.

And so her dad had gotten off the island before it caged him forever.

He hadn’t abandoned them, not really. He’d wanted Eloise and the girls to come with him, but Eloise had refused in her typical risk-averse, self-sabotaging way.

So Gigi had grown up with both a mother and a hometown she could hardly look at without seeing the reasons she didn’t have a dad to ride bikes with or take to the father-daughter dance down in the school gym.

Gigi had ultimately made her own escape and tried very hard to live a big life, an interesting life. She’d avoided getting

stuck on the island and avoided going to college, where she would be told what to think. She’d also avoided working a corporate

job that would force her to conform.

She’d lived in many different places and held many different jobs and gotten in with many types of friends. She’d successfully

carved an uncommon path for herself. Yet that life, too, proved unfulfilling. Like she was just another face trying too hard

to be seen in the city crowd.

Gigi had a nagging fear that the problem might not be where she lived or what she did for work. It might not have to do so

much with her boyfriends or her bosses or her friends. The problem might be herself, that she was an inherently unimportant

person, the kind of person who makes a splash wherever they are but never leaves a lasting impact.

Gigi pushed the thought aside, already hating how Mackinac brought up so much from her past. How the quiet of the island magnified

the voices in her head.

Eloise’s half acre came into view. Aloud, Gigi referred to her as “Mother.” There was a certain defiance in the formality.

It was a reminder that they were both adults and that Eloise did not have the power to micromanage her anymore.

Gigi’s trust fund friends back in New York would refer to Eloise’s abode as a cottage, but when it was a year-round residence,

it was simply called a house. Thistle Dew was its name. Thistle Castle was what Gigi had called it growing up, trying to give

it some glitz in name, if not appearance.

Perched up on a rise with a view out over the lake, the house was buttermilk yellow with a peach-colored door.

It had a double gable roof, a deep front porch, and carefully pruned landscaping—hedges hearty enough to survive the thrashing winters, plus seasonal flowers.

The island’s iconic lilacs were nearing their early-summer bloom.

An American flag fluttered in the afternoon breeze. Gigi nearly expected to see it at half-mast, so in mourning was Eloise

about Rebecca’s move. But the flag was raised to its full height, as was Eloise as she watered hanging baskets of geraniums

that brought pops of pink to the porch.

Eloise had a tall, elegant frame that she tended to hide in shapeless empire-waisted dresses, always with a cardigan over.

A proud resister of youth-glorification trends, she was aging naturally. Her strawberry-blonde hair was streaked with silver,

and crow’s-feet continued to deepen around her upturned seafoam-green eyes.

Growing up, Gigi had often been told she was the spitting image of her mother. She’d hated the comparisons at the time but

found herself missing them over the years now that they rarely came. Eloise might be puritanical, but she was a great beauty

by any standard.

It was good to see how well Eloise looked. Gigi took it as validation that she had been right not to spend much time worrying

about her or replying to all those missed calls. She didn’t want to be one of those overly solicitous daughters who prioritized

her mother above herself. That was Rebecca’s place. Rebecca, the younger sister who had always assumed the role of the older

sister because she just couldn’t help herself. Not that Gigi minded—it let her off the hook. Though now that Rebecca had moved

off the island, Gigi felt the sensation of a tilted seesaw, as if the balance had shifted and Gigi was going to be holding

more than she wanted.

“Hello, Mother.” Gigi announced herself, trekking up the gravel driveway.

Eloise whipped her head around, tossing aside the watering can. “Georgiana!” she shrieked. “What have you done to your hair?”

“Lovely to see you too.” It was going to be a long summer, Gigi thought as she lugged her suitcase up the creaky porch stairs. She gave Eloise a quick hug.

Eloise was all out of sorts just as Gigi had anticipated. “You told me you weren’t arriving until tomorrow.”

“You know I’m no good at communication.” It was one of the narratives Eloise liked to reinforce about Gigi. Though the real

reason she hadn’t told Eloise the correct day was to ensure Eloise wouldn’t assemble a welcome committee. Gigi detested welcome

committees.

“I haven’t gotten anything ready for you yet,” Eloise said. Scurrying inside through the side door (the front door was reserved

strictly for guests), Eloise set to work.

But it seemed like everything was already prepared. Up in the second-story loft, which Gigi used to share with Rebecca, her

twin bed was freshly made up, daisy bedspread pulled taut. Tammy the Turtle, her oldest Beanie Baby, more gray than green

these days, sat atop the plumped pillows. Fresh towels and toiletries filled the bathroom. Downstairs in the kitchen, Eloise’s

renowned homemade peanut brittle cooled on the stove.

“It hasn’t set long enough,” Eloise chided as Gigi broke off a large chunk of the brittle.

“Tastes amazing.” Mouth full, Gigi handed a piece to Eloise, who nibbled cautiously.

Gigi felt a tender twinge as she pictured Eloise running around the house to make things special for her return. Perhaps they’d

get along better than expected.

“I suppose it’s not the worst thing that you’ve come today,” Eloise said with similar optimism. “You’ll have more time to

get ready for Thursday.”

“What’s Thursday?” Gigi broke off another piece of brittle and took a seat at the circular kitchen table.

It was adorned with a crochet tablecloth and matching doilies, handmade by Eloise, the expert crafter.

Arched bay windows gave a view down to the lake.

Eloise’s Ragdoll cat, named Pluto for how he always seemed worlds away, slinked into the kitchen and straight out again, maintaining his typical aloofness.

“I’ve secured you a date with the island’s new doctor,” Eloise said.

Gigi didn’t react right away. Perhaps it was the jet lag making her head fuzzy, but she’d thought Eloise had said the phrase

secured you a date. Surely she’d misheard.

“What’s that?” Gigi said, trying to keep her voice even, trying to give Eloise the benefit of the doubt that the situation

was not, in fact, what it appeared.