A Sprinkle of Sweet Serendipity (tantalizing)

Chapter 1

“Emmie, why does our candy shop smell like burning eyebrows?” My mother’s puzzled voice floats from the front of the store as she comes in the door with a jingle of the bell.

With a start, I snap back to reality. I’m standing in the commercial kitchen of the Happy Viking, our family’s candy and fudge shop, lost in thought while acrid smoke curls up from a large copper kettle in front of me. I’ve scorched the peanut butter fudge. Again.

“Oh, sugar!” I cry, snatching the smoking kettle off the gas burner and rushing to the back door of the kitchen.

I’m careful to not say a stronger word, so I don’t have to put a quarter in the naughty-word jar.

I’m trying to avoid filling the jar because when I do, I promised to buy my six-year-old space-obsessed son a pricey working model of the solar system.

However, this morning is testing my patience to the limit.

At this rate, Gus may be earning his model sooner than anticipated.

Carefully, I set the overheated kettle on the concrete stoop and pause to draw a deep breath of the cool, salty breeze blowing across Liberty Bay.

It’s a relief to be out of the smoky stench.

The bay laps gently at the shore just a hundred yards beyond the kitchen door, silvery and rippling in the morning light.

It’s late June in the Pacific Northwest, which means long days, soft breezes, and lots of our rarest commodity, sunshine.

It would be a perfect summer day if I wasn’t feeling so anxious.

And forgetful. This is the second batch of fudge I’ve ruined this morning.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Scratch that.

I know exactly what’s wrong with me, I just can’t do anything about it.

It’s my thirty-fourth birthday, and the nerves and anticipation are making me uncharacteristically absent-minded.

Maybe this year my wish will finally come true.

I make the same wish every year though, and so far I’ve been disappointed every time.

With a sigh, I head back inside to deal with my mess.

I grab a dish towel and wave it vigorously through the air.

I don’t want to set off the fire alarm and the sprinklers.

I wrinkle my nose. There’s nothing on earth quite as acrid as the smell of scorched butter and sugar and cream.

It smells like all the good and cozy things in the world gone wrong.

“Come on, Emmie. Chin up,” I whisper hopefully. “Maybe this year will be different.”

The smoke is dissipating, whisked out the open door by a lively breeze, but the smell lingers, the unpleasant fug of scorched candy hanging low and heavy in the kitchen.

It reminds me of the time I bent too far over the candles on Ava Jorgensen’s ninth birthday cake and singed my right eyebrow almost completely off.

You never forget the smell of your own burning hair.

Mom comes into the kitchen, moving slowly and leaning on her cane, her handbag slung over her arm.

“Honey, are you okay? What happened?” She’s accompanied, as always, by her pudgy French bulldog Mr. Butters, who wags his little stub of a tail when he sees me.

He’s wearing a bow tie today that is festooned with lilac satin stripes.

They contrast nicely with his pale gold and cream coloring.

Mom spends an almost embarrassing amount of time and money planning daily outfits and accessories for Mr. Butters, which he submits to wearing with an air of good-natured resignation.

“All good,” I reassure her brightly. I don’t like her to worry, so I try to put the best spin I can on everything. She has enough to worry about. I stoop to give Mr. Butters a scratch behind his huge batwing ears, and he grunts enthusiastically, his entire backside wriggling with pleasure.

I’m annoyed with myself. Burnt fudge means more work, less profit, and a slow start to the day.

I give Mr. Butters one final scratch, then lug the cooling kettle back inside and carefully scrape the ruined goopy mess of the fudge into the trash with the big wooden fudge-stirring spoon.

“I messed up. The burner was acting up again and I got distracted,” I admit.

Mom’s expression of concern softens in understanding.

“It’s a big day for you,” she says gently, wincing as she slowly makes her way around the marble slab table in the center of the kitchen.

It’s where we handcraft all our fudge. At sixty, she’s slender and lovely with a neat puff of soft gray-blond curls and a touch of pink lipstick that matches her sweater.

Her face looks younger than her years, but her body is bent into a slight question mark and she walks with a pained effort she tries hard to conceal.

I see it though, and it gives me a pang of worry straight through my heart.

I should be used to those pangs by now, but I’m not.

I don’t think I’ll ever be. I blink hard and poke at the scorched brown mess glued to the bottom of the kettle.

“I’m really hoping today is the day,” I admit softly.

I give up on the kettle. I’m going to have to let it soak in boiling water and then use salt and lemon to scrub it clean.

I’m feeling off-kilter today, not my usual glass-half-full, can-do self.

It’s hard to want something, wish for something, year after year, and be disappointed each time.

I’m feeling the rising anxiety as my birthday rolls around once more—the hope mixed with apprehension.

I want it so badly, but I’m worried I’ll just be disappointed again.

“Emmie.” Mom’s voice is a warm reprimand. “Every birthday we get on this earth is a special day, regardless of what happens on it.”

“You’re right,” I sigh, and set the kettle in the sink, then lean back tiredly, swiping a wisp of pale blond hair from my forehead and tucking it behind my ear.

I need more coffee, but I’ve already had three cups.

I feel like I’m always tired, like tired is my default setting.

I can’t remember the last time I didn’t feel the dull tug of exhaustion.

I’m tired from the moment I open my eyes each morning as Gus clambers into bed next to me at the crack of dawn, blinking solemnly at me like an owl from behind his round glasses with electric blue frames.

He’s usually holding a science book from the library, eager to share a new and alarming fact about the universe.

A fact I’m pretty sure no first grader should know.

And I’m tired each night I stay up late poring over accounts and spreadsheets until the numbers swim in front of my eyes.

Tired from juggling everything at once—single parenthood; medical bills and appointments for Mom; trying to keep the shop afloat; trying not to drop anything important; trying to be a good friend, neighbor, small-business owner; trying to eat enough fiber and stay hydrated and floss my teeth; trying to remember to just breathe…

Sometimes—often—it feels like too much, like I’m drowning in a sea of responsibilities. But I can’t let anything sink. Everyone is depending on me. I fill a glass with lukewarm water and chug it in lieu of another cup of coffee. It helps a little. Maybe.

“You should take some time for yourself today,” Mom urges, eyeing me with a soft expression of concern. “You could get a massage or get your nails done? I bet Mary Beth could squeeze you in over at the Nail Boat. My treat.”

I picture the only nail salon in town, decorated to look like a Viking longboat.

In keeping with our town’s nickname, “Little Norway,” all the staff at the Nail Boat wear fake blond braids and plastic helmets with horns on Halloween.

The residents of Poulsbo, Washington, are proud of their strong Viking heritage, and take every opportunity to celebrate it.

They’ve turned our quaint little town nestled on the shore of Puget Sound into a tourist destination, with festivals, annual events, and a charming downtown dotted with brightly painted wooden buildings that look like they’ve been lifted straight from the banks of a Norwegian fjord.

I shake my head. “Thanks, Mom. I’m okay. I’ve got too much to do to leave right now. Besides, I think Dani’s going to swing by with coffee soon.”

Caffeine and Dani Diaz are my two best friends.

Together they help keep me sane and vertical.

I run hot water into the copper kettle and leave it to soften the burnt remains of the fudge.

“If anyone is getting a massage, it should be you.” I glance pointedly at Mom’s hands.

She’s covertly massaging the joints of her right thumb and snatches her hand away guiltily. “Is it bad this morning?” I ask softly.

She waves away my concern. “About like always.”

Her hands are so gnarled that her fingers are bent and twisted sideways like the roots of a tree.

I watch her put on a brave face as usual, but I’m concerned.

Despite what she says, I can tell her pain has been worsening.

She’s using her cane almost every day now.

Her rheumatoid arthritis is steadily growing worse.

It’s why she’s now unable to make the fudge she and my dad crafted together and sold here in our family’s candy shop for almost four decades before he passed away after a long battle with cancer.

It’s why I came home from Paris after years living abroad.