The Charm Bracelet(43)

When she was done, Lauren hugged her mother.

“Mom, I never knew. I’m so sorry.”

The two sat in the quiet of the woods, before Lauren spoke again. She started and then stopped before finally getting the words out. She started tentatively, “I want to change my major, Mom.”

Lauren took a deep breath and continued. “I want to be a painter. I mean, life is too short for us to turn our backs on our unhappiness. You and Grandma are finally teaching me that.”

Arden listened closely, before lifting her head and looking into her daughter’s eyes. “Business will allow you to be in control of your own life, though, Lauren. You will make more money than I did. And you won’t be reliant on anyone, like I was. You can always just paint on the side, can’t you?”

Arden watched her daughter’s eyes fade into a distant place. She nodded and turned her head, but she wasn’t able to hide her tears from her mother.

“Life is filled with difficult decisions,” Arden said.

Arden wanted Lauren to be happy, but most of all she wanted to protect her. She didn’t want Lauren to worry about money or supporting herself.

“I know,” Lauren said, standing up. “I know.”





Twenty




Beep! Beep!

Lolly honked the horn of the Woodie to sound her arrival at the supper club, something she did every time she pulled into the small gravel lot.

“The Rendezvous?” Arden asked, suddenly remembering where they would be having dinner. Arden had eaten at the Rendezvous nearly every week growing up, considering her mother loved it and—in the winter—it was often the only place around that was still open. “Really? Everything here is fried.”

“Except the beer!” Lolly chirped. “Best brew and perch in Michigan!”

The three exited the Woodie, and Arden took in the exterior of the ancient supper club, a dark, dingy building in the middle of the woods that looked like it had seen better days.

LVE MUSC TONGHT! a shoddy sign in the parking lot read.

“Did they run out of money to buy i’s?” Arden asked.

“It’s like Wheel of Fortune,” Lolly laughed. “You have to buy a vowel, or solve it, to enter.”

Lauren swung open the door of the Rendezvous, a waft of grease and liquor overtaking them.

“Are you okay?” Lolly whispered to her granddaughter. “You seem awfully quiet tonight.”

Lauren nodded.

The three entered, and Arden quickly was blinded: The Rendezvous was pitch black, save for a few weak overhead lights and some candles flickering on the tables.

The Rendezvous had originally been built as a bar for local hunters and fishermen. The only windows in the place were narrow and sat high, like eyebrows, at the top of the restaurant. It became known as “The Hunter’s Mistress” because the “widowed wives” of the outdoorsmen couldn’t tell whether or not their husbands were inside unless they entered. And few had the nerve to do so.

Over time, the Rendezvous morphed from hunting bar to supper club, with jazz musicians from Chicago and Detroit heading north for summer getaways to jam together and test out new songs. A lot of the greats had played here—though they may not have remembered they did—including members of The Rat Pack.

Arden braced herself.

“I had drinks with Sinatra,” Lolly said loud enough to get the attention of a few diners. “We were quite a pair!”

Lolly told the same story every time they came to the Rendezvous.

“There’s our picture!”

Lolly pointed to an old framed photo on a wall over by the narrow bar that fronted the small stage where musicians still jammed.

“What a place! What a dame! Can’t wait for my next rendezvous at the Rendezvous!” Sinatra had written.

The supper club’s walls were crammed with mounted deer heads and big fish, glassy-eyed wildlife meant to be showcased in all their outdoor glory, but dressed over time by drunken customers in Santa hats, leis, and sunglasses. Autographed photos of musicians sat alongside the wildlife, the singers and piano players looking even more glassy-eyed than their counterparts.

The bar was stuffed with stools, the restaurant with small tables and mismatched chairs.

“We have your usual table reserved, Lolly,” an elderly waitress with sky-high hair said while chomping on a piece of gum.

“Thanks, Trudy,” Lolly said.

The trio followed Trudy’s ample rear, which bumped the tight tables—drinks wobbling unsteadily—as she moved quickly to the back of the restaurant.





RESERVED FOR LOLLY LINDSEY


Trudy picked up the yellowed sign from the table.

“You still got that old sign?” Lolly asked.

“This old thing will never go away,” Trudy hacked, grabbing her big behind, “like this old thing. Now, what’ll I get for you ladies?”

“Three mugs of your summer pale ale,” Lolly said. “Make ’em icy.”

“Back in a flash,” she sang.

Lolly had barely been seated when she looked up and said, “Well, well, well! If it isn’t Nurse Ratched.”

Arden turned and gasped. “Mother!”

“What?” Lolly said, mocking confusion.

“Your memory is a little bit better than any of us thought, isn’t it? Tonight’s dinner isn’t a coincidence at all, is it?”