Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Willa
The following morning, Steve, the cameraman, called to discuss next week’s filming schedule.
Willa was jittery, stationed at the kitchen table of Rosemary Cottage with a fourth cup of coffee, her mind elsewhere.
She had to ask Steve to repeat himself three times on a simple subject, cursing herself for her lack of professionalism.
But what had the Christmas Festival Committee expected?
She was in over her head emotionally. She couldn’t handle this.
“Are you okay, Boss?” Steve asked Willa, using the nickname he’d lovingly given her after she’d gotten her big promotion—a promotion he’d said she should have gotten five years ago, at least.
“I’m fine,” she said. “It’s just, you know, another world up here.”
“Should I be worried?” he asked. “What should I do to prepare myself and the crew?”
“I think you’ll love the island, and the people, and all of it,” Willa said.
“Then why don’t you?” Steve asked.
“I do,” Willa said. “Maybe that’s the problem.”
Shortly after that, they hung up. Willa worked on the timeline for an hour or so, which included determining where they had to be, when they could secure certain shots given the light and weather forecast, and so on.
It was work she was accustomed to, having done it even before her promotion as a “hotshot advertisement director.” But right now, sitting so close to where her sister had probably already opened the fudge shop for the morning, everything felt empty and purposeless.
Before Willa knew what she was doing, she was bundled up and back on her mother’s bike, heading toward town.
Another snow was falling, but the road wasn’t slick in the slightest, which she was grateful for.
The scarf protected most of her face, save for her eyes, which felt frozen and bright.
The lake was gorgeous beneath a thick, gray sky.
How she loved this island! She loved these gorgeous trees and the few birds that remained.
As she biked, she thought back to yesterday, her day with Marius, and their dinner.
After the chaos of seeing Amelie for the first time in five years, she hadn’t known what to say to Marius.
In the carriage back to Rosemary Cottage, she’d clasped her hands and whispered, “I’m sorry.
I’m all out of sorts.” Marius had taken her hand, handling the horses’ reins with his left one.
He’d said, “You never have to explain anything to me.” She’d bit her tongue to keep from crying.
She’d wanted him to kiss her. She’d wanted it so desperately.
But when they’d reached Rosemary Cottage, he’d wrapped her in a hug and said, “See you soon. And let me know if you need anything at all. Promise me that.” She’d promised and watched from the window as he drove his carriage back to the stables.
She wondered now if Marius had not wanted to kiss her? Or had he felt like the night was too tied up in past traumas and fears to allow for something so beautiful and soft and romantic?
Oh, she didn’t know what to think.
It was eleven thirty when Willa locked her bike in front of the Caraway Fudge Shoppe.
Incredibly, it was bustling, with tourists lining the front counter and circling outside, shivering.
Willa was amazed. The interior glowed with orange light, and the glass counters were stocked with all her favorite kinds of fudge: chocolate, chocolate raspberry, and even the butterscotch flavor she’d made up long ago.
Hurriedly, she breezed past the line, ignoring the tourists who told her to wait her turn.
She found Amelie at the cash register, her cheeks rosy, her eyes slightly frantic.
She’d just packaged a massive order for a jolly-looking woman in her sixties, who was saying, “Everyone on the ferry said Caraway Fudge Shoppe was closed down, and I said, It can’t be! It just can’t be! And I was right!”
“You were right!” Amelie cried.
“You must be the daughter who took over?” the woman went on. “I’ve been coming here for years. Your father always said his daughters moved away.”
“But I’m back,” Amelie said, smiling. There was sweat on her forehead.
The woman paid and left, drawing the line farther up the glass counter.
Amelie looked nervous, as if she didn’t know how to handle all of them.
Willa knew it was a two-person job. She flung herself into the kitchen and reached for an apron.
When she re-emerged, Amelie was gaping at her.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“Helping out, of course!” Willa said, putting on a smile for the customers.
“Look, Mommy!” a little girl cried. “They’re twins!”
“That’s right, honey!” The mother smiled and lifted her daughter into her arms so that she had a better vantage point of the fudge in the glass counter. Together, they selected five different flavors, all of which Willa packaged up lovingly as Amelie handled another order.
Easily, they fell back into the routine they’d known since they were girls. It was like they were eleven, thirteen, fifteen, or eighteen again.
As Willa worked, she made sure to wear a big, happy, Christmassy smile.
She knew that was what the guests were looking for when they entered.
Sometime after noon, she and Amelie discovered that they could play Christmas music through a speaker system that their father had installed sometime in the past twenty years, and that only added to the magic of the little place.
Willa couldn’t fathom how much fudge they’d already sold.
It was incredible how much Amelie had managed to make just that morning.
But it was clear that they would run out before the day was through.
Willa’s big smile made her think of her mother, who hadn’t always been happy working at the fudge shop, and how she’d had to fake it.
Was Willa faking it now? Each time she heard her sister’s voice or saw her sister’s smile, a new jolt of happiness went through her.
She couldn’t remember being this happy at any point over the past twenty years.
Everything had felt like a struggle: advertising, the big city, dating, money, life.
Maybe she and Amelie should have stayed at the fudge shop where they belonged.
At around four thirty, there was a brief yet surprising slowdown.
The fudge shop was empty save for the twins.
Amelie gasped and fell onto the chair in the corner, shaking her head so that her red hair fell around her shoulders.
To Willa, she looked so beautiful, rougher around the edges than Willa, with those unplucked eyebrows and less makeup than Willa liked to wear.
“You saved me,” Amelie said after a dramatic pause. “I seriously wasn’t sure how I was going to get through the day.” She reached into the counter and sliced herself a piece of peanut butter fudge, then took a bite, closing her eyes.
Willa did the same: slicing off some butterscotch and eating it. It was to die for, the best thing she’d eaten since she was eighteen. “This is insane, Amelie,” she said.
Amelie laughed. “It’s our secret family recipe, remember?”
“Sure, but you mastered it,” Willa said. “And I’m guessing you haven’t made fudge since you were eighteen?”
“Not once,” Amelie said. “I haven’t even eaten it.”
“Neither have I,” Willa admitted.
They held the silence, letting their fudge melt on their tongues.
“How did you know I needed your help today?” Amelie asked finally, reaching forward to slice herself another piece of fudge.
Willa laughed. “I couldn’t focus on work. I got on Mom’s bike and just started riding. I ended up here.”
“There aren’t many places to end up on such a small island, I guess,” Amelie said. “I spent time on other islands through the years. Nantucket. Key West. They all have that ‘island feel,’ I guess, but none of them were like Mackinac.”
Willa closed her eyes, letting the sugar rush take over.
“Maybe it was our twin connection,” Amelie suggested. “Maybe you could sense I needed you.”
“Maybe,” Willa said, smiling.
“I got here at four,” Amelie said, gesturing toward the kitchen. “I forgot how arduous it was. So many steps! I felt like Mom and Dad were watching behind my back, making sure I didn’t make any mistakes. I can’t believe how much fudge I ended up with.”
“You’re a natural,” Willa said.
The Christmas music through the speaker continued, this time with that Mariah Carey song that people couldn’t get enough of.
“What are your feelings about Christmas?” Willa asked.
Amelie sighed. “Complicated.”
“Same.” Willa let her shoulders droop. “I feel like I got tricked into coming here.”
“I’m sure you could leave at any time,” Amelie said. “You can always leave. Make an excuse. Get out.” She sounded ragged and strange.
But Willa shook her head. “Now that I’m here, I don’t know how to pull myself away.”
She realized it wasn’t really about the commercials anymore; although she’d, of course, film them, she’d do what she came here to do. Steve and the others were on their way.
Suddenly, the door burst open, bringing not a tourist but someone else: Pascal, the Frenchman who owned the bed-and-breakfast across the way. His cheeks were ruddy, and he moved like liquid, sweeping through the fudge shop.
“It’s marvelous to be back here again!” he said, beaming first at Amelie, then at Willa. He turned his head from left to right, then back again. “I can see it.”
“See what?” Amelie asked, blushing in a way that suggested she liked this guy. Willa could sense it.
“I can see the difference between you,” Pascal said. “It’s subtle, but it’s there. Anyone who can’t tell who is who isn’t paying attention.”
Amelie laughed, glancing at Willa. “We always were told we were identical.”
“Almost identical,” Pascal corrected.
Pascal wanted fudge and a lot of it. “I’ve been working myself all morning,” he said.
“I’ve missed my helper!” He was referring to Amelie, who’d been working for her room and food.
“I think I’d like some chocolate-peanut butter, regular peanut butter, and lotus.
Oh, and maple!” He rubbed his palms together.
“I’ve been struggling since the shop closed down.
Where should I get my sugar fix if not from here? ”
Willa realized that Pascal must know the Caraway family rather well, given how often he’d come into the shop. Did that mean Pascal knew what was going on with their father?
She got her answer a few minutes later.
“I must confess,” Pascal said, eating another piece of fudge, “I didn’t come here only for fudge.”
“Oh yeah?” Amelie lent him a crooked smile. “What else can we do for you?”
“You both can join me tonight,” Pascal said.
“Another jazz fest?” Amelie asked.
Pascal shook his head. “We’re taking the night off from music. We deserve it. But I’ve been told to bring the Caraway ladies up the hill for dinner. I’ve been told not to take no for an answer. What do you say to that?”
Willa and Amelie turned to look at one another, suddenly panicked.
They knew precisely what up the hill for dinner meant.
More than that, they knew that to get out of it meant avoiding the biggest problem at hand.
They had to find the strength to face it at some point.
Perhaps it was best to face it together.
“All right, Pascal,” Amelie said, her voice shaking. “Let us close up here, and we’ll go together.”
Pascal clapped his hands joyously. “It’s going to be a wonderful night!”