Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Willa
There was a traffic jam on Mackinac Island. Three carriages ahead, a wheel had broken, sending the carriage tilting leftward and blocking everyone from moving that way. At the sound of the commotion and the whinnying horses, Willa leaned forward, panicked, watching to see if anyone was hurt.
“Oh dear,” Marius muttered, drawing his own horses to a halt.
The broken carriage was so wobbly and shaking that its contents began to spill out onto the snow.
Terrified it was a person, Willa prepared to heave out of the carriage and save whoever it was from the harsh cobblestones on the street.
But before she could, the driver of the carriage hurried off his post and waved at the carriage drivers behind him, calling out, “It’s only fudge! Boxes and boxes of fudge!”
Everyone laughed, including Willa and Marius.
Sure enough, as they watched, boxes tumbled from the interior, forming a funny pile on the road.
Even though it was Rita’s fudge and vastly inferior to the Caraway Fudge Shoppe, Willa’s mouth was watering.
She tucked her face deeper into her scarf, willing her heart to stop beating so harshly.
She’d thought this would be a fifteen-minute carriage ride.
But the road was narrow here. She wasn’t sure how the carriages in front of them would clip around the broken one and get through.
It was a tragedy. It meant more time with Marius Isaacson. It meant more time pretending to be anyone but Willa Caraway.
It meant hiding herself as best as she could.
“Sorry about this, ma’am,” Marius said with a friendly laugh. “I guess it isn’t easy to get anywhere quickly around Mackinac. I hope you aren’t in too much of a hurry?”
Willa made her voice small. “No. It’s fine.”
Now that he didn’t have to keep his eyes on the road, Marius twisted around to look at her.
A chill went through her. How she’d always loved his eyes!
She forced her own away, just in case he recognized them.
She inspected his black leather gloves, willing him to take them off.
She wanted to see his long, thick fingers.
She wanted to know if he was wearing a wedding ring.
What! Where did that come from, Willa? Calm down.
He was very likely married. He was handsome, more handsome than he’d been as a teenager.
He’d probably taken over his father’s horse barn up in the hills and probably had three or so kids he was very proud of, the boys with their father’s jawlines and the girls with their mother’s kindness and slender wrists.
The image of his pretend family was perfect for Willa’s commercial for the Christmas Festival. It depressed her how perfect it was.
“So,” Marius said, becoming more and more curious about her the less she talked. “What brings you to Mack in the winter? It isn’t for the faint of heart.”
“Work,” she said.
“Ah! Wow. Work. Are you a digital nomad or something like that?” he asked.
“No.” There was nothing nomadic about her. She wasn’t Amelie.
And then, because he wouldn’t stop looking at her and obviously wanted an answer, she said, “I’m in advertising.”
Marius snapped his fingers. “Are you here to help one of the shops advertise? Maybe one of the hotels? There are a few that are struggling. We haven’t fully recovered since the pandemic. I don’t know if anyone has.” He paused, his eyes on the lake.
Willa couldn’t help herself. She followed his gaze to the sloshing water beneath the indigo dark, her heart aching with memories.
“You know about the Christmas Festival, don’t you?” he asked.
Willa flinched into a nod. Could she avoid talking till they got to the cabin?
“It’s pretty spectacular,” he said. “A multiday festival event with all kinds of food and activities. The streets fill up with islanders and tourists, friends and family. If you’re advertising for anyone on this island, you have to mention the Christmas Festival.
It’s part of the heartbeat of this island. ”
Willa blinked back tears. “Thank you,” she said, her voice wavering.
Marius scrutinized her face for longer than he needed to.
She had the sense that he felt something between them, that he recognized something.
But suddenly, the carriage up ahead was out of the way, and they were on the road again, clip-clopping toward Rosemary Cottage.
Marius’s eyes were safely focused ahead, charting their course.
Rosemary Cottage came into view about ten minutes later.
Back when Willa was a girl, Rosemary Cottage wasn’t called Rosemary Cottage.
Still, it had been owned by an older woman named Rosemary, a woman who knitted sweaters for everyone on the island and had several tabby cats.
Willa and Amelie loved to run around her yard and play.
Afterward, Rosemary would always make them a big pitcher of lemonade and tell them stories about her childhood on Mackinac Island.
Rosemary was long gone, of course. She’d been in her eighties when Willa was a teenager. But she’d left behind a gorgeous place, which her children rented out to tourists. Tourists like Willa.
As they pulled up, Marius began to tell her about Rosemary. “Everyone on the island loved her. Her children left the island a long time ago, but they renovated the old cottage in her memory and turned it into a destination. I think they did a pretty wonderful job.”
The sight of the cabin took Willa’s breath away.
It had been completely refurbished, yet still retained its old-world Rosemary charm.
Without waiting for Marius to help her down, she slid off the carriage seat and into the snow in front of the house.
Just beyond was the expanse of the lake, dark and brooding.
Willa gazed at the dark windows, waiting for Rosemary to poke her head out from behind the curtains and welcome her back.
Suddenly, Marius was beside her, eager to get her bags.
Sharp winds blasted against them. Willa knew that if she acted quickly, she could be out of Marius’s hair in no time.
She pulled her wallet from her coat pocket and, flustered, asked, “How much again?” But as she sorted through her bills and random receipts and the ferry ticket, another sweeping wind came along and tugged the scarf out from under the neck of her coat.
Her face was revealed: naked to the cold.
Immediately, the air shifted. Marius was quiet, and Willa didn’t know how to look up at him. She removed several bills from her wallet and tried to hand them over, but her hand was shaking violently.
Finally, Marius spoke. “Willa?” His voice was like a string. He stepped back, as though she were poisonous.
Willa forced her eyes up to his. She wanted to beg him to pretend they didn’t know each other, to take the money and run.
But in his face, she saw how mesmerized he was with her.
He wasn’t disgusted or angry—just surprised.
Willa straightened her spine. She wished she could say something, something that would make her seem normal and wise and good. But she stood there like a fool.
Marius snapped his fingers. “You said you’re here for work.”
Willa nodded.
“Someone said you make commercials now,” Marius said. “Someone said they wanted you to make a few for the festival. But I didn’t think you’d actually come back.”
If Willa could speak, she’d tell him that she didn’t want to come, that she was relatively new in her position and didn’t have a choice. But she felt frozen and inarticulate.
“But here you are,” Marius said after a long pause.
Beside them, Marius’s horses whinnied, eager to stretch their legs, maybe to get home and eat in their warm barn. The temperature felt like it was dropping five degrees a minute. Willa yearned for the warmth in the cottage. She longed to draw her fingers through Marius’s and tug him inside.
No! What am I thinking? Get a hold of yourself, Willa.
“And your family?” Marius asked then. “You’ve seen them already?”
Willa stiffened. “I’m just here for work,” she said. “Remember, I just got off the ferry.”
“Right.” Marius turned to look at the cottage, his hands on his hips. He looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t know how. “Right,” he said again.
There was silence after that. Willa didn’t know what Marius wanted her to say. It had been nineteen years, for crying out loud. They didn’t owe each other explanations or stories or apologies. They didn’t owe each other anything beyond a wave hello.
“Well, I’d better get inside,” she said, drawing her bag over her shoulder.
“Let me get your suitcase,” Marius offered.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“They haven’t shoveled the walkway,” Marius pointed out. “And this thing is heavier than a bucket of rocks.”
Willa suppressed a bubble of laughter. Marius didn’t wait for her to protest again and carried the suitcase under his right arm until he parked it by the front door.
Willa was right behind him, following in his snow prints.
There was a lockbox with a code directly next to the front door.
She opened it swiftly, eager to get inside. Marius was still standing there.
“Oh! Sorry. Your cash.” Willa jangled the key and reopened her wallet.
“Please,” Marius said, extending both hands. “It was my treat.”
“What are you talking about?” Willa furrowed her brow. She wanted to say, This is your livelihood. I don’t take handouts. You don’t owe me anything.
But Marius was already backing away from the cottage, a glint in his eyes. “Welcome back to Mackinac Island, Willa Caraway.”
Willa watched him, a smile quivering over her lips. Before he was too far away for conversation, she called out, “How did you know I wasn’t Amelie?”
“I could always tell you apart,” he said. “You know that.”
Before she could answer, he turned on his heel and hurried back into the carriage, clicking his tongue so that the horses knew to get going.
Deftly, he swerved the carriage back around to head toward town.
Willa watched, listening to the horses’ hooves clopping, until they were out of sight.
Only then did she push the key into the door and twist the knob.
Inside Rosemary Cottage was a kitchen, a living room with a fireplace, a bedroom, and a little office space filled with books.
From most of the windows was a gorgeous view of the frigid lake and the spindly trees that arched over the beach.
Willa read the Rosemary Cottage instructions on the fridge, turned up the heat, and unpacked, hoping to steady her heart.
But she kept coming back to the same fact: she’d just seen Marius Isaacson. What were the chances?
The only person in the world who would recognize the magnitude of this situation was Amelie. And Amelie wasn’t talking to her, wasn’t returning her calls, wasn’t texting. Was she still angry about their fight in Tennessee? That was five years ago. But Amelie was sensitive, even more so than Willa.
A horrible thought struck Willa. What if Amelie wasn’t okay? What if she needed help?
What if she wasn’t reachable any longer?
Willa sat down on the sofa and put her head in her hands. No, she couldn’t sit with thoughts like this. She needed to do something. Amelie was fine. She was being Amelie.
Willa got up and sent a few work emails, including her ideas for the Christmas Festival commercials, most of which she was proud of.
She checked the fridge and cabinets to see that Gavin had them stocked with her requested foods, drinks, and a few bottles of wine.
She poured herself a deep red and considered the morning, how she might get around.
On the fridge was a note about bicycles kept in the attached garage.
If the plows went through, she’d be able to bike to all of her meetings, just like old times.
Willa clicked the light on in the garage and entered what had once been a cluttered and homey space under Rosemary’s care. Now, it housed only cleaning equipment and two mountain bikes, plus a road bike.
Willa’s heart stopped at the sight of the road bike.
It was a 1970s Schwinn.
Gently, she removed it from its stack with the others and propped it against the free wall on the other side of the garage.
It couldn’t be her mother’s bike, could it?
But it was the same sky blue with the same yellow handlebars.
It looked precisely the same. Willa could hardly fathom this.
She sat down directly on the dirty garage floor and sipped her wine.
The bike itself felt like a ghost. But how could she be sure if it was really her mother’s bike?
Her mother had adored this bike. She’d owned it since she was a teenager and taken incredible care of it.
She’d oiled it, painted it, and ridden it everywhere.
Once, a tourist had stolen it, and Willa’s mother had sounded an alarm on every Mackinac corner until someone tracked the tourist down.
He was arrested, of course, and had to pay a major fine.
But maybe he would have gotten away with it, were it not Willa’s mother’s bike that he’d stolen.
With her phone, Willa took a photograph of the bike and sent it to Amelie, knowing she’d ignore it anyway. Then she sent a text.
WILLA: Is this Mom’s bike? Why is Mom’s bike at my rental cottage? Help me understand.