“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’scare. 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.
Chapter Eight
Willa
Summer 2006
Amelie and Willa were in charge of the Caraway Fudge Shoppe one day in mid-August, filling orders, greeting customers, and sweating like they’d never sweated before. Luckily, all the fudge was made for the day, and the kitchen had cooled slightly, offering a bit of relief. What they wanted more than anything was to close up early and meet their friends on the other side of the island to swim, drink beer (if anyone had some), and hang out.
Willa and Amelie were seventeen years old and about to start their senior year of high school. It was hard to believe, but in a year, they’d be out of school and “adults.” Neither of them had plans for after. They spoke about next summer and the one after that as being similar to this one: ready for fudge and tourists, enjoying the lake and sunbathing, and maybe dating, if someone special came along.
For Willa, she was pretty sure someone special had already come along. She just wasn’t sure how to make a move. She’d never had a romance before. It made her feel inadequate—and so ready for one. Amelie had had a few flings here and there, mostly with tourists who left after a few days. But that seemed to suit her. She wasn’t the type of person who desperately needed the peace of companionship. She was freer than Willa in that way.
