Chapter 10
Anne
I raced down the hill toward town, the wind in my face, the sun on the water, tiny stones flying out from beneath my bicycle tires.
Dandelions starred the grass along the path.
Flags snapped above the boats in the harbor.
The first day-trippers, in bright jackets and dark sunglasses, straggled up from the ferry.
Along the two-block stretch of Main Street, tourists were already standing in line for breakfast or strolling into Doud’s for groceries.
I stopped for a horse-drawn taxi clopping toward the inn, dodged a family on bicycles, and ditched my bike against a lamppost.
Late. Again.
“Excuse me.”
I straightened, narrowly missing the basket of purple petunias hanging overhead.
“Do you know the way to the butterfly house?” asked a tourist with a little boy in a pirate hat.
“There are two butterfly houses on Mackinac.” I gave directions while the kid tugged at his mother’s hand. I smiled at him. “Make sure you visit the fort while you’re here, too. They fire cannons! And there’s a kids’ quarters where you can try on uniforms.”
“Thank you.” The woman’s gaze flicked over my scarlet hair, my tattooed arms, as if I were another island attraction. “You’re so lucky to live here.”
I opened my mouth. “I…” I sublet my apartment in Chicago until August. My boyfriend wants me to move to Atlanta. “Just for the summer,” I said. “I grew up here, though.”
My roots were on the island. I belonged here, if I wanted to. Maybe whether I wanted to or not.
I waved as they left.
The exhaust fan above the door to Maddie’s Candies rattled, blowing hot, fudgy goodness into the street, tempting passing tourists inside, the smell as strong as memory—the scent of my mother coming home at the end of the day, chocolate clinging to her hair and clothes like perfume.
The sign on the door was flipped to closed. Through the window, I could see Mom working a batch of fudge with quick, sure movements, circling the white marble slab with a long-handled creamer blade.
I went around back and let myself in through the kitchen. The aprons hung in the same old place by the door. I slipped one over my head and reached for a familiar teal ball cap.
Mom glanced up from the worktable. “You’re late.” She sounded more resigned than upset.
I glanced at the clock. Last night I’d calculated the time it would take to get ready and then doubled it, the way I did during the school year so I wouldn’t be late to class.
But this morning I couldn’t find my lucky underwear.
And then there was the lady with the kid in the pirate hat…
“You said to be here before the shop opened.”
“Which it will in ten minutes,” my mother said.
I was not making excuses on my very first day. I looked around. Every surface gleamed. “What can I do?”
She continued to cream the fudge, paddling it toward the center of the block. “Drinks need restocking.”
I was lining up bottles of water in the refrigerator case by the door—evenly spaced, facing front—when Zoe came in, tying an apron over her deep purple leotard. “Namaste, darling Maddie. What a beautiful day! You should have come to yoga class. I feel absolutely energized!”
I grinned. I’d always liked Zoe, even before she married Mrs. Powell.
My mother’s lips twitched. “I get up early enough every morning without tying myself into a pretzel on the beach.”
“Annie! You’re here!” Zoe enfolded me in a familiar cloud of patchouli, holding on, as she always did, a second too long before pulling back. “And what’s this? A new tattoo!” Her eyes welled with tears. “For Rob! You must miss him terribly.”
All the time.
My mother met my gaze. Something unexpected moved between us. Sympathy. A meeting of spirits. “You’ll need to cover that up in the shop,” Mom said.
I must have imagined that moment of understanding. “Lots of people have tattoos at work now, Mom.”
“Not unhealed wounds in food service, they don’t,” she said in her blunt way.
I flushed. I didn’t think. “I took off the dressing last night. I don’t have anything with me.”
“First aid kit in the kitchen.”
“I’ll get it,” Zoe said.
“How’s Mrs. Powell?” I asked as Zoe smoothed ointment over my arm. I realized I was bouncing on the balls of my feet and forced myself to stand still.
“You can call her Beverly, darling. She’s not that much older than I am.”
“Fifteen years,” my mother said.
Zoe tossed her curly golden mane. “Age isn’t important unless you’re a wine.”
“Or a cheese,” I said. “It just feels weird to use her first name. She was my English teacher.”
My favorite teacher, who never busted me for reading in class. Who challenged me to turn my daydreams into stories and encouraged me to apply to Northwestern.
“Was your teacher.” Zoe taped gauze over my tattoo. “You’re all grown-up now.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Mom said.
Zoe smiled at her fondly before turning back to me. “I had a dream about you the other night. I saw you”—she touched her heart—“here.”
“I have a dream,” my mother said dryly, “that the two of you will get to work before I have to open this door to customers.”
A joke? From Mom? Zoe laughed and ducked behind the counter to make coffee. I resumed loading the fridge with orange juice, moving on to straighten the already neat displays of souvenir shirts and hats.
“Right, then,” my mother said, and flipped the sign on the door to open, letting the first customers inside.
Growing up, I’d spent as much time in the shop as in the kitchen at home.
More, maybe. I’d done my homework at one of the little tables, spent summers weighing fudge and washing up under my mother’s watchful eye.
I used to complain about working when I could have been out playing or off with my dad.
But secretly, I liked being the owner’s daughter, earning my own money and a tiny measure of respect for smiling and chatting with customers.
Looking back, I realized it was good preparation for teaching—the constant interruptions and demands for attention, the thousand tasks waiting to be completed, the need to think on my feet all day.
The big difference was that in my classroom, I was in charge.
At Maddie’s, Mom was Undisputed Ruler of her domain.
She bustled from the kitchen to the marble slabs in the window, stirring and blending, putting on a show for the tourists.
Zoe operated the POS system, shedding her particular brand of sunshine over the front of the house.
I played backup, sliding trays in and out of cooling racks, separating slices of fudge with thin sheets of bakery paper, cutting end pieces into samples.
“Smaller,” Mom said. “We’re giving away tastes, not the whole store.”
She lifted the thermometer from a bubbling cauldron of chocolate. Grabbing hot mitts, she shifted the heavy copper kettle to a stand with a thunk.
I put down my knife. “Let me help you.”
I trailed her as she rolled the kettle stand to the front of the shop. There was a line at the counter craning to see, customers eyeing the fifteen different flavors of fudge or—in the case of some of the dads—Zoe in her purple leotard.
I took the other side of the big round pot, lifting with Mom, positioning it over the marble. A little girl peered through the window, cupping her hands to see. I smiled at her through the smeared glass.
The kettle wobbled. Chocolate dribbled over the frame and onto the floor.
“Anne,” Mom snapped.
I jerked my attention back to the fudge.
Slowly, we poured the molten chocolate onto the cold marble slab, careful not to slop over the iron frame.
As Mom scraped the bottom of the kettle with a spatula, the door opened.
I flashed a look toward the entrance, expecting the little girl.
But it wasn’t a child with her family in tow.
It was Joe Miller.
I swallowed a groan. Because of course he could be counted on to show up now, when I was catapulted back in time to my awkward, clumsy teenage self, with chocolate on my apron and sweat stains under my arms. I clunked the kettle onto its stand.
The noise made him glance over. “Anne.” Like he couldn’t be bothered with more than my name.
A muddled dream memory (me burrowing into his chest as if I could crawl inside him, the weight and heat and smell of him in the dark) made me flush.
“Joe,” I said just as shortly. “Hailey, hi!” I said to his sister, a round-faced girl with her brother’s sturdy build and dismissive gaze. “What are you doing here?”
“I work here.”
“Get your apron on,” my mother said.
“Bike give you any trouble?” Joe asked me.
“Sorry, what?” So much for impressing him with my witty repartee. Not that I wanted to impress him. (I totally wanted to impress him.)
“Your bike. Is it working okay?”
I thought of the way I’d found it this morning, leaning by the door, wiped free of spiderwebs.
“I…No, yeah, no problems. Except I was late. But that wasn’t your fault.
Do you know how much time you can spend watching dance videos to ‘About Damn Time’?
Which is pretty ironic if you think about it.
” Please stop talking now, my brain begged.
“Anyway, thanks for putting air in my tires. Or whatever.”
His eyes crinkled. “Least I could do.”
Which is what he said to my mother the night before I accused him of letting my dad fall off a roof to his death. I cringed. Another case of my feelings overwhelming my good sense, my mouth outrunning my brain.
I needed to apologize.
“Well, I appreciate it.” I took a deep breath. Squared my shoulders. “Listen, Joe, at Dad’s wake…What I said…”
“No worries.” He leaned against the counter, his deep brown eyes intent on my face. “Nice basket,” he added. “Colorful.”
Nice…? My bike basket. The same one I’d had at age ten, rainbow-striped with bright plastic flowers that glowed in the dark. My embarrassment transmuted into something safe and familiar. Jerk.
“Color makes a statement,” I informed him loftily.