Chapter 6
Early the next week I’m tending the shop alone with Mr. Butters.
Mom is at her monthly Social Ladies’ Tea Time at the senior center, and Gus is at jujitsu.
It’s almost closing time on a wet, gray Monday.
Foot traffic has been slow all day and the shop is empty.
The weekend was sunny and business was good, but now the rush has petered out.
Apparently no one wants fudge on a drizzly Monday.
I’m taking the opportunity to set up my new side project.
At least one good thing has come from my disappointing birthday.
After my spontaneous caramel-creating session that night, I decided to see if my caramels would sell at the shop.
Of course I can’t do anything large scale yet, but I’ve decided to start making some of my own chocolates on the side too.
Just for fun, in my nonexistent spare time.
I’ve started to fill a notebook with ideas for chocolates I want to try to make.
I can’t produce chocolates at the scale or, frankly, the quality I aspire to.
That takes professional equipment I have no money to invest in right now.
But these caramels are at least a start.
When I told Mom my idea, she agreed immediately.
Since then, I’ve been staying up late every night to research and brainstorm while I watch reruns of Savor.
I’m even more tired than normal today after another late night getting my first inventory ready to sell, but I’m strangely energized too.
It feels amazing to finally be exercising my creativity once more.
The doorbell jingles just as I finish up arranging the caramels on pretty silver trays and place them in the case.
I glance up and stop dead. There, standing in the doorway, is Henry Summers.
I blink hard, but he is not a mirage. Henry Summers is standing in our candy shop.
What. Is. Happening? Henry looks around with a slight frown, sees Mr. Butters in his tweed doggy newsies cap and does a double take, then starts to back out the door.
“Hello, can I help you?” I blurt out, too stunned to think of something smooth to say.
I can’t let him leave. He just can’t go yet, not when he’s here, in the flesh.
What is he doing here? My palms have gone clammy.
My heart is beating so hard I feel as though it may fly straight out of me, and I’m light headed.
Henry hesitates in the doorway, then steps inside.
It’s definitely him. He’s dressed in butterscotch-colored chinos, boat shoes, and a navy-and-white Breton striped shirt with a navy blazer over it.
He looks like an ad for some expensive European cologne.
“Um, hello, yes. Good afternoon.”
Ooh, that posh English accent! I force myself to act normally although my hands are shaking, and I feel like I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
Thank goodness I showered this morning and let my hair dry naturally in soft waves.
I even put on a flick of mascara and some tinted lip balm.
And deodorant. Did I remember deodorant?
No time for the sniff test. Henry Summers is coming over to the counter.
He. IS. COMING. OVER. TO. ME. My mouth goes dry.
He’s a little scruffier than on TV, and it looks good on him.
Really good. His hair is damp with rain, and he meets my eyes and smiles, a genuine smile.
He has a little gap between his two front teeth.
I’ve never noticed. It’s adorable. Mr. Butters heaves himself to his feet and wags his stumpy tail in welcome.
“Hello,” Henry says again, nodding to Mr. Butters and to me.
He eyes Mr. Butters’s hat with a look of curiosity.
“Sorry to bother you. I was trying to find my way to Sluys. It’s an iconic local bakery, I believe?
Somewhere around here, is it?” He leans down and lets Mr. Butters sniff his hand.
The dog gives him an approving lick on the palm, and Henry scratches under his chin. Mr. Butters grins happily.
I force my mouth into a smile, trying to radiate helpfulness, competence, and approachability.
No man has ever had this effect on me. I feel completely twitterpated.
“That’s Mr. Butters, our shop Frenchie,” I tell him in what I hope is a casual tone of voice.
“And Sluys is just down the street, but it’s closed now.
You have to get there as soon as it opens, when everything is fresh.
Since you’re here, welcome to the Happy Viking Fudge and Candy Shoppe.
” I beam. And because it’s Henry Summers, I can’t seem to stop myself from babbling.
“My family’s been serving the best fudge in Western Washington since 1986. Want to try a free sample?”
“Oh, thank you. How kind.” He pauses to consider the rows of assorted fudge flavors. “So this is a family-owned local establishment then?” In a flash I see the opening and take it.
“Yes.” I nod enthusiastically. “For almost forty years. We’re proud to serve our community. All our fudge is handmade the old-fashioned way. With these.” I hold up my hands and wiggle my fingers, then feel dumb and drop them. Smooth, Emmie. Really smooth.
Henry glances around, taking in the cluttered aisles and wall of dozens of types of bubble gum. “It’s very retro, very Americana, isn’t it?” he muses, glancing down at Mr. Butters, who is both farting and panting simultaneously. “Have you worked here long, um”—he glances at my name tag—“Emmie?”
“I grew up here,” I tell him. “My parents opened this shop before I was born, but my dad passed away about two years ago and now I run the business. With my mom.” Talking to him feels surprisingly normal.
I’m still short of breath and my heart is beating hard, but I feel like I can at least carry on a reasonable conversation.
“Oh, I see. A true family business then.” Henry’s gaze is warm and sympathetic. “I’m sorry about your dad. I lost mine too, a few years back.”
His eye catches on my little display case of caramels. “Hello, what are these?” He reads one of the cards I handwrote this morning and just finished placing in the case by each type of confection. “Honey sea salt lavender caramels. Are these locally sourced?”
“They’re from my kitchen,” I tell him, mustering my courage. “I make them myself.”
He looks surprised. “You made these?”
“Here, take one. On the house.” I slide open the case and with a pair of tiny silver tongs carefully select a caramel wrapped in waxed paper. I’m proud of how they turned out. I wonder if he’ll like them.
Henry takes the caramel from me and hesitates, “Do you mind if I try it now?” he asks.
I gesture an invitation. He unwraps it and bites into it.
It’s very pretty, dotted with lavender buds and sparkling with crystals of sea salt.
I clasp my hands in front of me and hold my breath.
His eyelids flutter closed and he makes a sound deep in his throat.
It’s a groan. Henry Summers is groaning over my caramel.
Pinch me, I must be dreaming. Dani is not going to believe this.
“That is…astonishingly good,” he says with his mouth full.
When he opens his eyes, there’s something stirring in their depths.
Admiration perhaps? Curiosity. I think he’s intrigued.
I am flustered by his presence just across the counter from me.
This entire interaction feels surreal. My hands are still shaking a little, but I am managing to keep calm in front of Henry Summers.
WHO IS STANDING A FEW FEET FROM ME. For just a second I start to lean in, to see if he really does smell like bergamot, but then I catch myself and pull back quickly.
I don’t want him to think I’m some sort of weirdo.
Like a girl who has had a vision of him proposing to me in a dress that looks like sunshine.
Inwardly, I roll my eyes at myself. Get it together, Emmie. This is your big chance.
“The lavender adds a unique complexity of flavor,” Henry observes around a mouthful of caramel. “I’ve never tasted anything quite like it.” He looks pleasantly surprised.
“I make them with local Pacific Northwest ingredients,” I tell him, beaming at the compliment.
Henry Summers likes my caramels! Other than when Gus was born, this might be the best day of my life.
“The sea salt is from the San Juan Islands a little north of here, and the lavender is from an organic farm near Sequim.”
“It’s lovely.” Henry nods approvingly and pops the rest of the caramel in his mouth. “How much do I owe you?” He pulls out a sleek leather wallet.
“Consider it a welcome gift to Poulsbo.” I wave away the five dollars he tries to hand me and instead press another caramel into his palm, this one flavored like orange blossoms and almond. “Take one for later.”
“That’s very kind. Thank you, Emmie.” He hesitates, then pockets the caramel and lingers for a moment, seeming in no hurry to leave.
He glances at me and opens his mouth. At that exact moment, the doorbell jingles as Dani rushes into the shop.
She’s in uniform and is already launching into a story as she flies through the door, shaking off the rain.
“You will not believe the call I just responded to,” she says without preamble or a pause to exchange pleasantries.
“We got a request to do a wellness check on a ninety-eight-year-old man, and it turns out he is a nudist! You cannot unsee that wrinkly…” She groans dramatically, then realizes I’m not alone.
She does a double take when she sees Henry standing at the counter. He nods politely to her.
“Hello,” he says. He looks pleasantly bemused. Dani looks like she’s been hit in the head with a heavy object.