Page 36 of Mistletoe Sky
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 fearor 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.
