But at eight thirty, right before they opened, they had a surprise visitor.
“Grandma!” they cried happily, running to hug their grandma Mary, their father’s mother. She was in her sixties with gray-brown hair and wore cute summer dresses that fell to her ankles. Previously, she and their grandfather had owned andoperated the Caraway Fudge Shoppe, but when they retired, they passed it on to their mother, father, Willa, and Amelie.
“My girls!” she said, relaxing into the shop. “What is that delightful smell?”
“We invented a new fudge recipe,” Willa explained, smiling. “Want to try?”
Their grandmother followed them into the kitchen to assess the butterscotch slabs. She gasped when she took her first bite. “You’ve really got something here,” she said proudly. “Wait till your grandfather hears about this. He’ll be so proud of you!”
Willa blushed, pleased with herself. Amelie smiled and said, “It was Willa’s idea. I just helped.”
“It’s good that you girls help each other with everything,” their grandmother said. “I hope you always will.”
“We’re going to own the shop one day,” Willa reminded their grandmother, raising her chin.
“You’re going to own it together?” their grandmother asked, cocking her head. Normally, Caraway Fudge Shoppe was operated by a husband-and-wife team and their children, if they were old enough. After that, one of the siblings took over, usually the eldest.
“We’re twins,” Amelie reminded her. “One of us isn’t really older than the other.”
“I’m seven minutes older,” Willa said with a funny smirk.
Amelie rolled her eyes. “We talked about this already, Willa. We said that our husbands will help us. Our kids will be closer than cousins. They’ll be like siblings.”
Their grandmother nodded wisely. “It sounds like you have it all planned out.”
Frank washed his hands in the sink and smiled at his mother. “When they get an idea in their heads, there’s no arguing with them.”
There was a shuffle on the stairs, followed by the scream of the door that hid the staircase in the back of the three-story building. Upstairs were two floors: a tiny one-bedroom apartment and a storage room.
It was their mother, looking at them, her face blotchy. They hadn’t known she was upstairs.
“Mom!” Amelie said breathily, suddenly nervous.
Their mother didn’t smile. “What’s this I’m hearing about you taking over the fudge shop?”
Amelie and Willa exchanged glances, suddenly nervous. Their mother was in a mood, and there was no telling how to get her out of it.
“You know how it is, dear,” their grandmother said kindly, her face difficult to read. “The Caraway Fudge Shoppe has to be taken over by someone in the Caraway family. It’s tradition!”
“Traditions are made to be broken,” their mother said.
Willa’s heart cracked. Why was her mother talking like this?
Their mother fixed her face and bent down slightly to look at her daughters. “All I mean is, you don’t really know what you want to be yet, do you? You’re thirteen years old! All you’ve known in your life are the fudge shop and the island, and it’s been magical and good. But what about careers? Art? Music? What about all that creativity and intelligence you both have? Do you really want to stay here? In the fudge shop? Forever?”
Their mother’s voice sounded different from what Willa had ever heard. She looked at her sister, who was obviously frightened, then at her grandmother and father, both of whom didn’t look entirely surprised, as though their mother had done this spiel before. Willa clutched her elbows. She’d wanted to bring her mother a few pieces of butterscotch fudge to try. Now she felt like her mother might throw them away or tell her the flavor was stupid.
Suddenly, Amelie burst into tears.
Their mother’s spell was broken. Immediately, she hurried toward her daughters and drew them into a big hug, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I love you. You can do whatever you want.”
Willa shook next to her sister, waiting for her mother and Amelie to calm down. She couldn’t see her father or grandmother from where she stood. She wondered what they were thinking.
“Mom, why did you say that?” Amelie cried. “Does it mean you don’t want us here? Does it mean you don’t want us to live on the island?”
Amelie sounded younger than thirteen, but really, they were just children. They’d only very recently become “teenagers.” As much as they wanted to be respected as grown-ups, there was so little they didn’t understand.
“Shh,” their mother said. “I love you. I want you near me always.” She wet her lips. “I didn’t get a chance to leave the island when I was younger. I didn’t get a chance to dream. I want you to know that you can write your own stories. You can be whatever you want to be.”
