Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Amelie
At four in the morning on the first day of the Christmas Festival, Amelie was already in the kitchen of the Caraway Fudge Shoppe, working tirelessly on fresh batches for the day ahead: gooey peanut butter, white chocolate macadamia, yum, yum, yum.
She had to fight her urge to eat it all up.
Luckily, in the previous days, she’d worked ahead a bit and was already mostly stocked for the morning’s first onslaught of guests.
However, it was impossible to predict how many tourists would attend the Mackinac Island Christmas Festival.
Back in her childhood, the streets had been swarming.
Now, she blinked the fatigue from her eyes, smiling to herself about last night: another evening at the jazz club, Pascal with his saxophone, she with a glass of wine and a bursting heart.
Perhaps they’d stayed up too late, given the days she had ahead of her.
But she reasoned that she could sleep come January, after all the stress of the holidays was over.
Her primary focus was on the fudge shop and ensuring it would survive the rest of the year.
It was remarkable that after so many years alone, she had people to look forward to seeing. She had responsibilities that didn’t relate to the creative chaos in her mind.
She felt as fresh and clean as the newly fallen snow outside.
As she made the fudge, she checked her phone for messages from the rest of the Caraway family, all of whom had agreed to pitch in at the fudge shop during the week of the festival.
Grandma Mary had told Amelie that no matter how much she wanted to, she couldn’t possibly be in three places at once, which was a necessity for the festival goings-on.
There was the fudge shop, but there was also an outdoor festival stall that sold fudge on one end of Lake Shore Drive, and a that-week-only dessert option at a fancy restaurant, all offered by the Caraways.
Someone had to manage that, as well. “Here comes the big Caraway family to the rescue!” Grandma Mary had said, tucking Amelie into another warm hug.
Sure enough, all of her cousins, uncles, and aunts had confirmed where they would be and when, which freed Amelie’s mind up for other topics: namely, her sister and why she’d been avoiding her. Ugh. It was the last thing she wanted to think about. But it always crept back in.
Amelie hadn’t seen Willa in person since the dinner they’d had at their childhood home.
Amelie was the first to admit that the evening hadn’t been ideal.
They’d gone in with no information and left with nothing but your father is sick, and nobody knows what it is or if he’ll get better or if he’ll ever be able to handle the fudge shop again.
While Amelie felt her anger toward her father dissipating, she imagined that Willa’s wasn’t.
Maybe that was why Willa was keeping her distance, burrowing herself in her work.
Amelie knew better than to demand that Willa reel in her anger. It was a personal choice. Or maybe it wasn’t even a choice. Perhaps it was a matter of the heart.
More than that, just because Willa and Amelie had spent a few nice hours together didn’t mean Amelie felt Willa owed her anything. That wasn’t how love worked.
At eight thirty, the sun shone down on the island, illuminating the snow-lined streets.
Amelie unlocked the front door of the fudge shop and stepped into the chill, watching as the Christmas Festival Committee set up their stalls, brewed coffee, and greeted one another happily.
Christmas music jangled from speakers that hung from light poles.
The first ferry was about to come in, bringing in the early rising tourists.
Amelie had decided to open the fudge shop early to accommodate them. Who didn’t want fudge for breakfast?
On cue, Pascal stepped out of the bed-and-breakfast and bounced across the street to say hello to her. His eyes were glowing. “Amelie, I finished it!” he cried.
Amelie gaped at him, momentarily confused. And then she cried, “Already?”
Last night, Amelie had sent Pascal a copy of the book she’d spent the past few months editing for her agent. She hadn’t imagined he’d ever read it, let alone so quickly.
“It’s brilliant!” Pascal cried. “I teared up in parts and downright sobbed in others. Your work captivates me!”
Amelie’s smile hurt her face. She considered taking Pascal’s face in her hands and kissing him, even in front of all these Mackinac Islanders, all these people who’d known Amelie since she was a girl. Honestly, they’d probably love it if she fell in love with “the island’s chosen child,” Pascal.
A few nights ago, Grandma Mary had asked Amelie if she was considering taking over the fudge shop for good, now that her father was so ill.
Amelie had searched her gut for fear or reservation and found nothing but joy.
If she had someone to help her, she imagined that she’d fall into the swing of things pretty easily.
She’d work in the mornings, leave in the afternoons, and spend the rest of the day writing.
She’d find a way to make her writing and her family’s business work.
It was a beautiful setup.
And already, it seemed like Pascal was willing to loop himself into her world.
According to him, he had several summertime workers who came to the island to help at the bed-and-breakfast, and the bed-and-breakfast itself was more of a jazz bar until the warmer weather hit. It meant he had plenty of time.
As Pascal and Amelie chatted more about her novel (Pascal had numerous questions, which pleased her), the Christmas Festival setup escalated around them.
Tourists streamed through the softly falling snow.
Eventually, they discovered the fudge shop and demanded Amelie’s attention, which she gave gladly, cutting fudge and answering another set of questions—this time about flavors and prices.
After a few minutes, Pascal came into the shop with her, helping her prepare orders and take money and cards.
“I’d heard the Caraway Fudge Shoppe was closed for the season!” one woman told her, clutching her package of fudge. “I was terrified. I always have it at my place for Christmas Eve. My grandchildren wouldn’t forgive me if it wasn’t there!”
Amelie smiled, touched by the woman’s joy. “We’ll always be open around the holidays,” she promised. As long as she was around, they would be.
It was midway through the morning that Amelie glanced outside and saw, to her surprise, Willa.
Willa was walking through the festival next to three men, two of whom had video cameras.
She gestured, maybe instructing them how to film and what angles to take.
It was all for her commercial, Amelie knew.
It was incredible to watch Willa in her professional element, doing the job she’d given her life to do.
Amelie turned to Pascal and asked, “Can you watch the shop for a second?”
Pascal agreed, having seen Willa as well. “Good luck.”
Amelie headed into the cold, past the woodworking stall and the cocoa stall and the festival games, to reach her sister and her camera crew. When Willa saw her, her face tightened, as though she were frightened of her twin. Amelie’s smile faltered.
“Morning,” Amelie said, crossing her arms.
“Good morning.” Willa’s tone was stiff. “Amelie, this is my crew. Steve, Brent, and Greg.” When she gestured at her camera crew, Amelie realized that the men were mesmerized, looking between Willa and Amelie as though they hadn’t known she had a twin.
Steve was especially smiley. “It’s a pleasure to meet you!” He shook Amelie’s hand excitedly. “I can’t believe you and Willa grew up here. What a magical place. Tell me, are you identical twins?”
“We are,” Amelie said. “But Willa will tell you that she was born a few minutes before me.”
Willa sniffed and looked down at her gloved hand. Amelie sensed that she hadn’t told anyone about her twin sister at all—nobody at work, maybe nobody in all of Chicago. Amelie hadn’t gotten close enough to anyone to tell, really. She couldn’t blame her.
“Can I talk to you for a sec?” Amelie asked.
“We’ll take it from here, Willa,” Steve said, turning with the others to meander down the festival, taking outside shots, capturing the magic.
This left Amelie and Willa in a face-off.
“Listen, Willa—” Amelie began.
Willa raised her hand, interrupting her. “I’m sorry about the other night.”
Amelie’s heart softened.
“I shouldn’t have gone up there,” Willa said, her voice shaking. “I knew it would affect me, and I knew it would hurt. But I got swept up in what was happening at the fudge shop. I let myself forget—if only for a moment—how angry I am.”
Amelie watched as two little girls with bright blond curls skipped past, holding hands and singing Christmas songs. If they’d had red hair, they might have looked precisely like Willa and Amelie during a less complicated year.
Willa watched them, too. Amelie wondered if she was thinking the same thing.
“Dad’s sick,” Amelie said helplessly.
Willa raised her shoulders, although her face was marred with sorrow.
“I know you care,” Amelie breathed. “I’ve known you my entire life. There’s no way you don’t.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “You love Dad.”
“I do,” Willa whispered. “I’ll always love Dad. But that doesn’t mean I can get over it.”
Amelie closed her eyes tightly. On the speakers, the song switched from “Jingle Bell Rock” to “Silent Night,” which felt far too depressing for a bright morning like this. Someone on the Christmas Festival Committee needed to check the algorithm.
“It’s not your fault,” Willa said, reaching out to touch Amelie’s shoulder. “I had to take this job. I had to come back. But I’ll be gone as soon as I can. I don’t belong here anymore.”