The summer when Amelie and Willa were eleven, they learned how to pick locks. With the old doors in their house and the even older doors at the fudge shop, they were able to peerthrough the hole in the knob, find the glinting piece that needed to be struck, and burst their way through most locked doors. But Amelie couldn’t remember ever having tried the back door, probably because, if it had broken, there was more at stake.
Amelie prayed that nobody was looking out their back window to see her. Perhaps some people would recognize her, but it was likely that most wouldn’t. They’d think she was the first person ever to rob an abandoned fudge shop.
It took Amelie about fifteen minutes to get the door open, during which time her fingers nearly froze. She couldn’t operate the bobby pin correctly with her gloves on. When the lock finally clicked, she almost couldn’t believe it. She’d been seconds from giving up.
The door creaked open, bringing her back into the familiar mudroom. A pair of men’s worn boots waited for her father, and there was a stack of towels and cardboard boxes in the corner. Amelie shivered, walking into the familiarity. It was like a haunted house. She closed the door and stood in stunned silence, gazing through the glistening white kitchen and into the shop just beyond. She knew that if she went too far toward the street, someone would spot her.
Rather than take that risk, Amelie went up the stairs, drawing her fingertips along the wallpaper and thinking about her mother. How many nights had her mother come up these stairs and slept in the apartment by herself? What had that felt like? Had she missed Willa and Amelie, just up the hill, sleeping in their own bed? Or had she enjoyed the solitude? Amelie reached the landing and struggled to breathe.
What was she doing here? What had she expected to find?
Amelie walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, letting it bounce gently beneath her. It had been the summer that Willa and Amelie were seventeen when their mother had moved into this apartment. Amelie and Willa had been so angry withher! They hadn’t talked to her for a week, which had probably destroyed her. Amelie remembered watching her mother like a hawk, searching for clues that she would return home soon, or leave the island and abandon them. She remembered how their mother had said that she never got to leave the island or experience anything else. Their mother had wanted so much for them. But what would their mother say about Amelie’s life? Would she say Amelie was a vagabond without a book deal and should have just stayed at the fudge shop? Or would she have compassion? Amelie didn’t know.
She lay down on the bed and pressed her hands over her heart. It was overwhelming.
Suddenly, the front door opened downstairs, the same jangling bell that always sang its song when someone came in or left. Amelie was on her feet, frantic. Who could it be? And how could she get out before she was discovered? She crept to the top of the stairs, listening hard to figure out what was going on. She heard the opening of the fridge in the kitchen, followed by a familiar whistling. Someone was whistling “Silver Bells,” the Christmas song.
At the sound of the whistling, Amelie knew exactly who it was.
It was hard to fathom at first.
She knew she shouldn’t sneak up. She knew it was reckless and maybe even mean. But she hurried down the stairs, unable to stop herself. Before she knew it, she was in the kitchen, gazing with love at the woman whose whistling had always captivated her.
Grandma Mary stood in the refrigerator door, contemplating something, when she heard Amelie’s footsteps and yanked herself around. At eighty-something, she had pearl-white hair and a sharp gaze. But at the sight of Amelie, she melted.
“Oh! Willa!” she said, closing the fridge door and gaping. “Willa, you came back! For the commercial! I didn’t think you’d come! Oh, Willa!” She threw a set of keys on the counter and hurried toward Amelie. But then, she stopped short and let out a brilliant laugh. “No. I’d know that face anywhere. You’re Amelie.”
When Grandma Mary first called her Willa, Amelie hadn’t been able to breathe. Now that she’d recognized her, Amelie hurried over and threw her arms around her grandmother, so grateful that Grandma Mary hadn’t lost her ability to tell the twins apart. It had been too long. But their love remained strong.
Amelie bit her tongue to keep from sobbing.
“I can’t believe it,” Grandma Mary said, drawing Amelie toward the little table in the corner of the kitchen and sitting her down. “If I didn’t see you here myself, I wouldn’t believe it. Maybe I’m dreaming.”
Amelie shook her head. “You’re not dreaming. I drove many days to get here.” Unless that was a dream too, of course. But whose dream was it?
Grandma Mary put her hands on her hips. “And your sister?”
“She doesn’t know I’m here,” Amelie said.Although I gave her a hint that she hadn’t responded to, she thought.
“Oh.” Grandma Mary looked terribly sad. “You girls aren’t talking, are you?”
Amelie shook her head. Grandma Mary turned and walked to the stove, where she put on a kettle and fetched some tea leaves. All Amelie wanted in the world was a mug of tea from her grandmother. She suddenly realized that was the medicine she truly needed.
As the water warmed and bubbled on the stove, Grandma Mary whirled back around and said, “Tell me absolutely everything, honey. I don’t want you to leave anything out.”
Amelie smiled at the older woman, tears filling her eyes. She realized there was nothing she could say to make up for all the time she’d lost. She now felt that she’d wasted nearly twenty years, running from place to place, and never returning here where she belonged. She would regret it for the rest of her life.
Before Amelie could say a thing, her grandmother lowered her head and said, “I’ve read everything you’ve ever written, Bug. Every single word.”
Amelie let out a sob.
Chapter Twelve
Willa
December 2025
The night after the Christmas Festival Committee meeting, Willa stayed up late, writing a brand-new script for a commercial to be filmed at Marius’s horse barn. Remembering how the committee and Gavin had looked at her during her speech, she felt fueled and alive, typing quickly, visualizing each scene. When it came time to sleep, she washed her face, brushed her teeth, and lay down, listening to the rushing wind against Rosemary Cottage. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw Hannah and the others in the festival, looking at her with a mix of curiosity and anger, as though daring her to ask them what was really on her mind.Why are you doing this to me?
