The Charm Bracelet (29 page)

“If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, then you can move mountains. Nothing will be impossible.”

Arden shot her mother a suspicious look.

“There's a difference between faith and religion,” Lolly said, wagging the charm and a finger at her daughter. “We are all given a tiny seed of faith. What we do with it is up to us. How did I survive such heartache? How did you end up with such a special daughter? Faith. You believed. Even if you didn't know it at the time.”

Lolly removed the peony from behind her ear, held it to her nose, and inhaled deeply. “Heaven,” she sighed. “This is what heaven will smell like!”

She tossed the flower to her daughter, who caught it just before it hit the floor of the porch.

“My peonies started from seeds,” she said. “They were planted by my grandmother Mary. They can bloom for hundreds of years. Those flowers will outlive all of us.”

Lolly sat up on the couch and stretched her arms high toward heaven.

“There was a time when I had very little faith,” she continued. “I felt lost, like I didn't have a compass. And then one day, I met a poor man whose soul made him richer than Donald Trump.”

 

Forty-one

1988

Lolly cast her line into the lake, close to the reeds, and gave the lure a quick tug.

Nothing.

She reeled in the bright, wooden lure and gave it another cast—
whiiiirrr!
—into the water, where it hit with a soft splash.

There was something about the act of fishing—the repetitiveness of motion—that relaxed her. It had the same soothing effect as sewing.

It, too, connected her to her father, her husband, her past.

Lolly set the rod down on the dock, her legs dangling over the edge, and zipped up her hooded jacket. Though it was only early October, a fall chill had settled over Scoops. Lolly inhaled and—
whoosh!
—blew out a gasp of air to test the temperature.

I can already see my breath! Winter is around the corner,
she thought.

The giant sugar maples that rimmed Lost Land Lake were already losing their leaves. The lake, in fact, glowed, looked as if it were on fire, between the reflection of the maples' delicate orange, gold, and crimson leaves off the water and the ones already floating on its surface.

Lolly was happy she had found a job that occupied her on fall color weekends and kept her busy over the summers and holidays. She was happy that Arden was doing well at school. Lolly missed Arden and Les, but there was something deeper that seemed to be missing, too. Something that made Lolly ache, even more than the damp chill that surrounded her.

“You gotta have a lot of faith to fish.”

Lolly let out a yelp, nearly dropping her pole, before turning to see an elderly man with a white wisp of hair jutting forth from the middle of his forehead.

“Didn't mean to startle you,” he said. “My name is Joseph.”

“I usually don't scare so easily,” Lolly said, leaning back on the dock—pole in hand, line in water—to extend her hand. “My name is Lolly. It's just so quiet these days. Everyone has left for the season.”

“Quiet don't mean lonely to me,” the man said, shaking her hand.

If Michigan were dressed in its Sunday finest—drenched in brilliant Technicolor—the old man was dressed in his work clothes: worn Dickies work pants, tattered coat and torn overshirt, muddy boots, hands and fingers that were red and curled, knotted as the sassafras that dotted the woods.

“What brings you to Lost Land?” Lolly asked. “Come to fish?”

Lolly was a trusting soul, but there was something about this man—almost an aura, if you believed in such a thing—that made her feel a bit off-kilter.

“Came to build,” he said.

“Build?”

Lolly reeled in her line and pushed off on the dock to stand. After the buying boom of the 1980s, Lolly hated the word “build.” Scoops—and Lost Land—didn't take kindly to renovation, gentrification, and escalation. Things were just fine as they were. She took a step toward the man, and nervously zipped and unzipped her jacket.

“Just a little house,” he said. “A peaceful place, somewhere near the lake.”

“Do you have property?” Lolly asked.

The man laughed, revealing perfect white teeth that didn't fit his aged, whisker-stubbled face, Lolly thought.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Where are you staying?” Lolly asked next.

The man's eyes twinkled, like the lake, and seemed to turn a hundred shades of grey, before settling on slate. “In an old stable just up the road.”

“Whose barn?” Lolly asked. “I grew up around here. Know pretty much everyone.”

“Just some nice folks,” he said. “I help look after their animals in exchange for room and board. Gives me a chance to build in the afternoons. I'm looking for some help, if you're interested.”

Lolly narrowed her eyes and gave the man a wary look.

“I'm sorry,” he said, sensing her distrust and stepping slowly backward until he was off Lolly's dock. “I didn't mean to overstep any boundaries. Just looking for someone who might have some skills to offer. You have a good day, ma'am.”

“I don't have any skills!” Lolly called, surprising herself. She hadn't even considered responding. The words just came out as if she couldn't control them.

“We all have skills, but most of us don't have faith in ourselves,” the man said. He pointed a swollen finger that hooked at the knuckle. “Meet me on the opposite side of the lake tomorrow—over there by the weeping willow, see?—around three.”

Lolly knew the willow well, but turned just to make sure. When she spun back around, the man was gone, not even a puff of breath hanging in the fall air to indicate he had even been there.

The next day, Lolly walked the edge of the lake, arriving at the willow promptly at three. A stack of two-by-fours and knotty pine wood sat under a tarp, alongside bags of concrete, saws, hammers, wheelbarrows, buckets, a spade, and a rusty toolbox. The man was already up to his waist in the wet ground, digging up shovelfuls of Michigan sand mixed with dark mud.

“You own this land?” Lolly asked, looking around the spot. “Millers own that cabin up the hill from here.”

“This is the right spot,” the man replied.

Lolly considered his response odd but conclusive. She glanced back up at the Millers' cabin.

I could call them. Do I have their number?
she considered.

“Why don't you start hauling up some water from the lake?” the man asked, distracting Lolly from her thoughts. “I'll need it for the concrete. Need to finish fast, before the ground freezes.”

“What are you building, exactly?” Lolly asked once more. “Seems small.”

“Tiny of space, huge of inspiration,” the man said.

Lolly began hauling water, and asking the man questions: Was he married? Where did he live? Why did he come here? Did he have a family? What did he do for a living?

The old man worked feverishly, with the inexhaustible drive of youth, dispensing little personal information but much wisdom.

“I have no family,” he would say, “save for the world.”

And, “I come from everywhere. My home is wherever one will accept me.”

The man never tired, only stopping on occasion to drink water from the lake, like one of the deer. Once, when he lifted his shirt to wipe his brow, Lolly gasped: The old man had the body of a young one. His stomach was taut, muscles rippled.

Over the next few weekdays, at three, Lolly did what she could to help the man: Hauling water, raking dirt, stacking lumber. She didn't know why she returned, but she felt compelled to do so. She found the hard labor as comforting as fishing or sewing.

“Told you I don't have any skills,” she would tell the man over and over.

“You have many gifts,” he would repeat. “You just need to believe in them.”

The following Monday remained drizzly and cool, and Lolly walked around Lost Land Lake, her galoshes leaving sloppy, wet footprints in the muddy grass. When she neared the willow, she looked up, stopping dead in her tracks: The structure was complete.

In front of her stood a tiny white chapel, no bigger than a back-yard playhouse for two children, a cross made of birch jutting from the roof. There were small windows on each side, empty pine window boxes underneath both. The back—facing the lake—was all glass. The front double doors were painted red, and a steppingstone path led to the lake.

“What?” Lolly stammered, as the man emerged from inside. “How did you? When did you?”

“Labor of love,” he said. “Come inside.”

Lolly ducked to enter the front doors and again gasped once inside: The cathedral ceiling soared toward heaven, and was outlined with wood beams. It was tall enough for Lolly to stand fully and stretch her body. The walls were knotty pine, the floors painted white. Four tiny pews, two on each side, big enough to hold two people each, were burnished and lacquered to a high shine. One step up led to a tiny altar that was lit with candles. A single Bible sat in a wood stand in front of the glass window, the lake shimmering beyond.

“I don't understand,” Lolly said. “It's beautiful, but I thought you said this was going to be your home.”

“It is my home.” The man smiled, showing those perfect teeth. “It is yours, too. It is everyone's.”

“I still don't understand,” Lolly stammered.

“Now it's your turn,” he said. “What skills can you offer to make this place your own?”

Lolly looked at the man. She knew she should have felt scared, but instead she felt incredibly calm. This felt like a place she wanted to be.

“I can sew curtains for the windows,” Lolly said. “I have an old Singer at home. Oh! And I can make a garden, too.”

“See,” the man said. “You have many talents. It's a deal. I have some things to finish here. Come back when you are done with your work.”

Lolly scurried home, working round the clock to make sweet curtains from sheets her mother had loved, a pattern dotted with deer, pine trees, steeples, and little lakes. When she was done, Lolly went into her garden, which had died back but whose flowers still held their pods for spring, and gathered seeds from her peonies, daisies, foxglove, coral bells, and hollyhocks. She returned the next Monday at three. The man opened the doors when she arrived. He looked younger to Lolly, although he was cloaked in the same dirty work clothes.

“These are gifts from your mother,” he said. “Gifts from your family.”

“How did you know?” Lolly asked.

“Because they tell a story, just like your bracelet.”

He helped Lolly hang the curtains, and then the two went outside, turned over the earth, and planted the seeds.

“If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, then you can move mountains,” the man said when they were done. “Nothing will be impossible.”

“Excuse me?” Lolly said.

“We have all been given a seed of faith, but it is up to us to spread that around. We must believe in ourselves, have faith in what we don't understand. When we do, the world will open. You will no longer fear.”

Lolly stared at that man.

Was he getting younger? I must be tired,
Lolly wondered.

“It's time I went home,” the man suddenly said.

“I thought this was your home.”

“My home is everywhere. See you tomorrow at three?”

Lolly nodded. She bent down to retrieve an extra curtain rod she had brought, and when she stood, the man was again gone, not even a footprint to track his departure.

At three the next overcast day, Lolly returned. The man was not outside waiting. When she opened the doors of the chapel, it was aglow in candlelight.

“Hello?” she called.

Nothing.

Lolly looked around, again admiring the incredible craftsmanship of the building: the angles, the beams, the woodwork. She walked to the front and took a seat in a pew. The candles flickered, like the lake, and that's when Lolly shut her eyes and prayed.

She stayed that way forever, it seemed, and when she opened her eyes she felt at peace. Her internal ache was gone. Lolly stood to blow out the candles, and that's when she noticed a little box on the altar next to the Bible.

She sat on the step and untied the bow. Inside was a little charm of a tiny yellow seed encased in a little bubble of glass surrounded by a frame of woven silver.

Lolly ran the charm between her fingers, confused as to what it was and what it signified. As she rolled the little seed to and fro, the man's voice popped into her head:

“If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, then you can move mountains. Nothing will be impossible.”

Lolly added the little charm to her bracelet, and when she walked out of the chapel, she felt—for the first time in her life—a great sense of peace.

Over the course of the winter, Lolly returned to the chapel at three—trudging through several feet of snow—to see if the man had returned. She asked around Scoops if people had seen the man, and stopped at farms around Lost Land Lake asking if anyone had let an elderly man stay with them.

No one had seen such a man.

When spring came, and Michigan thawed, the resorters returned. All that is, save for the Miller family, who Lolly would learn had been killed in a tragic car accident that fall.

Over time, the chapel became a playhouse and hideaway for the children who lived around Lost Land Lake.

On fall and winter days, when everyone had left Lost Land for the year, Lolly would return, around three, and bow her head in prayer.

 

Forty-two

“No matter what happens—in your lives, in my life, with my health—you need not fear anything,” Lolly said, giving her charm a little kiss. “Faith will see you through it all. My only fear is forgetting. That's why I'm telling you these stories.”