The Charm Bracelet by Viola Shipman Page A

the money issues somehow, I promise. You can’t eat an elephant in one bite. But, you must remember, unhappiness can consume you entirely, without you realizing. Happiness is a choice.”
    Lolly tilted her head at her daughter, and gave her a knowing smile.
    â€œLet’s have a little breakfast and then head to the beach. I don’t have to be at work until late this afternoon, so let’s enjoy the magic of this beautiful day,” Lolly added.
    â€œMom, I probably need to work. We’ve already been here four days, and I need to reach out to my boss. I need…”
    â€œâ€¦ to have some damn fun!” Lolly inserted. “I might have to stick to my routine, but you’re on vacation!”
    â€œMother!” Arden started to argue.
    â€œYou’re on vacation, my dear. Be! On! Vacation!”

 
    Eleven
    The winding road to Scoops Beach reminded Arden of the old Thanksgiving song, “Over the River and Through the Wood.” It was an adventure to get there.
    The tiny, two-lane road to the beach paralleled the river that meandered alongside the downtown, and eventually fed into Lake Michigan. The river dissected the beach road from downtown Scoops, which Arden could see was already jammed with returning resorters and fudgies already in town for Memorial Day.
    The beach road wound past a series of cracker-barrel cottages—all shake shingles, shutters, and mossy roofs—which were among the original summer cottages built in the late 1800s. The road slowly climbed a tall dune to breathtaking, 360-degree views of the river, downtown, and Lake Michigan. Here, mammoth summer homes—multistoried behemoths with turrets, towers, and decks—perched on the dune.
    Lolly had won the argument, and now they were all on their way to the beach, though Arden’s mind was still preoccupied.
    Dean Martin began to blare from the backseat, and Arden jumped.
    â€œFound it, Grandma!” Lauren laughed.
    â€œMy Dean,” Lolly sighed. “Ain’t that a kick in the head?”
    â€œWhat, Grandma? I don’t understand.”
    â€œThat’s the name of the song, my dear. Time I teach you a thing or two about my music. Turn it up!” Lolly shouted.
    Lolly began to sing, and Lauren rested her chin on the cushion of the front seat and beamed at her grandmother.
    Why can’t she just be quiet and relax? Arden thought .
    Even over the music, Lolly’s “Woodie” groaned as it continued to climb the massive dune.
    â€œAttagirl.” Lolly patted the dashboard tenderly. “You got it.”
    The 1950 Buick Roadmaster was as much Lolly’s little girl as Arden and Lauren. Lolly’s father had given it to her. The Woodie was the color of the lake, the ultimate beach car: pure nostalgia, unconventional, total fun.
    â€œYour father spent years restoring this car for me,” Lolly said to Arden, repeating the lines she said every time she drove the old car. “It’s a part of the family.”
    Les Lindsey had indeed spent years restoring the car for his wife, returning the outside woodwork of white ash and mahogany trim to its pristine state, painting the car a vintage pearlized green, clear-coating the exterior to make it look as if it had been dipped in wax, and turning the interior into a white-and-pink leather wonderland befitting Lolly. The car was huge, with a backseat and trunk that could hold four kids and enough beach stuff to keep them entertained for a week. Lolly had even used the family sewing machine to add mismatched curtains in the back windows—vintage prints of cherries, stands of pine trees, and bobbing sailboats on a lake.
    Yes, “Woodie” was Lolly’s beach car, and—since her husband’s death many years ago—the two had become nearly as famous as Scoops’s fudge, two bigger-than-life personalities, both from bygone eras, roaming the resort town.
    At the top of the dune, Lolly turned