Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Willa
Willa woke up at dawn after a topsy-turvy night of ragged sleep. Bleary-eyed, she went to the kitchen and made herself a pot of coffee before returning to her bedroom and lying back down again. When sleep wouldn’t find her, she reached for her phone and saw a text.
Amelie: The fudge shop is closed.
Willa snapped up at attention. It was the first correspondence from her sister in ages—and it felt cryptic. Caraway Fudge Shoppe never closed around the holidays. Never. But if for some reason it had, why did Amelie know about it?
Willa rushed to her closet, put on a pair of long johns, two sweaters, her multiple scarves (for protection from other islanders), and went to the garage.
Without letting herself think too hard, she wheeled her mother’s bike to the mostly snow-cleared road and rode back downtown.
As she went, she passed multiple carriages and other bike riders, all catching the morning light.
It was nearly eight by the time she reached Lake Shore Drive.
When she saw the corner where Caraway Fudge Shoppe waited—the same corner it had been on since her great-great-grandfather and great-great-grandmother had founded it—her heartbeat intensified.
If Amelie was wrong, there was no telling who Willa was about to run into. Sweat bubbled on the back of her neck.
When she realized how abandoned the shop looked, she stopped short in the middle of the road, her boots square on the pavement. A carriage almost ran her over.
“Sorry!” she called, pedaling to the sidewalk, where she hauled her bike up and stood before the glass display window.
If this were a typical day in the life of this fudge shop, she would see someone ducking back and forth in the back kitchen, making slab after slab of fudge, preparing for a hard day of sales ahead.
But there was no fudge in the display case, and no one was in the kitchen.
There was a thick layer of dust on the front display case, and zero—absolutely zero—Christmas decorations.
It felt like the end of the world.
Willa squeezed the handlebars of her mother’s bike and thought hard about Amelie, about the Caraway Fudge Shoppe, about everything that had happened and everything they’d tried to run away from.
Inexplicably, she was back. She should have done everything in her power to avoid returning here.
She should have quit her job, for goodness’ sake. This was too much.
But before she could make up her mind about what to do next, her phone rang. Panicked, thinking it was maybe Amelie, she pulled it out of her pocket and read: GAVIN. Her heart sank. She answered it anyway.
“There she is. My brilliant director,” Gavin said. Willa wondered if he was making fun of the fact that she said “brilliant” so much on set, if that had gotten around. She flushed.
“Hi, Gavin,” she said. “How are you?”
“Doing much better now that I’m talking to you!” Gavin said.
Willa continued to stare glumly into the dark window of her family’s fudge shop. She wasn’t in the mood for Gavin’s bounce, his so-called capitalistic joie de vivre.
“How is the cabin?” Gavin asked.
“It’s nice,” she said. “Thank you for arranging that.”
“Anything for you,” Gavin said. “Hey, listen. Are we still on for later?”
Willa searched her mind for understanding, then remembered she was supposed to meet the Christmas Festival Committee that afternoon to discuss her ideas and plot next steps. But she hadn’t known that Gavin would be there.
“We’re still on,” she said, sounding far more confident than she felt. “Three o’clock.”
“I’m on my way up now,” Gavin said. “Tell me. Is it bursting with Christmas spirit?”
Willa took a moment to look around at the elaborately decorated downtown, the garlands swirling around telephone poles, the Christmas trees in every shop window (except for the shop that mattered, of course).
She twisted around to see a blue bed-and-breakfast across the way, one that hadn’t been there during her childhood.
There was a French flag flapping from the porch, looking slightly ragged in the winter air.
“It’s Christmassy, all right,” she said finally.
Gavin barked with unpleasant laughter. “You really are sour about the holidays, aren’t you? It’s rare to meet a woman like you.”
Willa swallowed. “No. I like Christmas.” But she didn’t sound convincing in the slightest.
“We can’t wait to hear your ideas,” Gavin said. “Like I said, the Christmas Festival Committee is fascinated by your work. I can’t fathom why a little island in the middle of the Arctic Circle cares a lick about commercial directors, but people can surprise you.”
The Arctic Circle? Willa rolled her eyes, grateful he couldn’t see her.
Gavin’s raucous attitude worked so well for him back in the city, but it felt painful, obvious, and arrogant here.
She thought about telling him to get lost. She wanted to break into the fudge shop, go upstairs, and fall asleep on her mother’s old bed.
That afternoon, Willa entered the restaurant of a swanky Mackinac hotel.
Because she’d bundled up for the bike ride, she quickly found the bathroom, changed into a black pantsuit, and fixed her hair.
A hostess greeted her and led her to a ten-seat table toward the back of the restaurant, where she spread out her notes and folded her hands.
Outside, it had begun to snow so gently and beautifully that it reminded her of a poem.
The server came and took her drink order of water and tea.
She hoped Gavin wouldn’t make her drink anything alcoholic.
He liked to pretend they were in the “Mad Men” series.
He often pretended their advertising world was far more important than it was.
Again, it rang through her. Why is the fudge shop closed?
“There she is!” Gavin appeared in his luxurious suit, his arms spread as he cleared the restaurant to get to her. “Funny to find ourselves in such a little place, isn’t it?”
Willa got up and shook his hand, although she could tell he wanted to hug her. “It’s beautiful,” she said, sounding more genuine than she wanted to.
Gavin chuckled. “Is this small-town life already getting to you? I already hate taking the horse and buggy, but it’s romantic, I guess. If you’re into that.”
Gavin ordered himself a whiskey cocktail and tried to push Willa to order one for herself.
Miraculously, she resisted, then stood when a woman she recognized entered the restaurant.
Willa’s heart pounded. It was Hannah Collins, the owner of the dress shop located down the road from Caraway Fudge Shoppe.
She’d made several of Willa’s and Amelie’s Halloween costumes.
She was probably in her late fifties at this point, with gray-blond hair and a sturdy, plumpness that spoke of long, cozy winters spent with nice desserts and pasta dinners with people she loved.
Hannah walked directly toward Gavin and Willa; a sense of purpose sketched across her face.
“Ah, Willa, may I introduce you to Hannah Collins?” Gavin was saying. “She’s in charge of the Christmas Festival Committee.”
“Just this year,” Hannah said, her eyes still on Willa. “We rotate the job from family to family.”
“How charming,” Gavin said, although it was clear he didn’t find it charming at all. He didn’t care. “And is your husband on the way?”
“He is. The others should be here soon as well.”
Hannah extended her hand, which was warm, sturdy, and small. Willa’s knees quaked.
“It’s a pleasure to work with you,” Willa said to Hannah.
“We’re so grateful that a big-time director like you would come out to our little island,” Hannah said. “We need all the help we can get.”
Willa’s heart cracked. They sat down, and Willa clutched her knees, trying to find a way to ask Hannah what was going on without indicating to Gavin that this was an elaborate setup that had nothing to do with how “good” Willa was at directing commercials.
Gavin was talking a mile a minute, upping the charm in front of the client.
“We should celebrate, shouldn’t we?” he said, trying to get Hannah to order something alcoholic, to join him.
“I have to sew a few more dresses today,” Hannah said kindly. “Just water for me.”
“That’s right,” Gavin said to Willa. “Hannah has her own dress shop. It’s been in your family for generations, I think you said.”
“There are numerous family-run places on the island,” Hannah said to Willa. “Fudge shops. Restaurants. This hotel is even run by a family. The server is the owner’s nephew. The hostess is his sister.”
Willa’s throat felt tight with sorrow. We were supposed to run the fudge shop together and uphold tradition.
Was Hannah trying to make her feel bad about this?
Or was she just reminding Willa of the beautiful simplicity of the island?
Willa crossed her arms and listened as Gavin talked more about the island, its beauty, and Willa’s advertising brilliance.
“It’s why we reached out to you specifically, Gavin,” Hannah said. “We knew you had a special connection with our favorite director.” There was a quiver to her lips, like she was trying not to laugh.
Hannah’s husband, Brian, arrived a few minutes later, as did Alex Swartz and his sister Cindy, who was born and raised on the island as well.
After that came Bethany, Jared, and Roger Kaplan, all of whom had been friendly with Willa’s mother and father.
Willa’s palms were sweaty. Was this a nightmare from which she could pull herself?
Or was she trapped here?