“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 womannamed 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 outloud. 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.
