Page 3 of Mistletoe Sky
“But my guess is these people are obsessed with Christmas,” Gavin said with a laugh. “They probably don’t take their decorations down till it goes above thirty degrees. And when does that happen that far north? April? May?”
Willa’s heart pounded. She couldn’t do this. She had to make an excuse and tell Gavin to tell the Christmas Festival Committee to back off.
But she’d made it her mission to be easy to work with, to be the commercial director who Gavin and other agents sought first. If she shoved this one away and made up some excuse about hating Christmas or islands or horses or something, what then? Would Gavin start working with another director? Would the bosses at her company get word that she’d ignored an incredible opportunity—for reasons unknown?
Willa had never been in the habit of sharing her past with anyone, including where she came from or why she never went home for the holidays. She tried to imagine explaining herself to her bosses, and a wave of panic overtook her.
She had to get out of this. But she really didn’t know how.
“Can I think about it?” she asked Gavin.
Gavin’s face echoed surprise. “How long do you need?”
Chapter Two
Amelie
December 2000
Amelie Carway was a full two inches shorter than her twin sister, Willa, and she was tired of asking Willa to reach the kitchen equipment on the third shelf. Willa, who’d just had a growth spurt at the end of October, sauntered past her, flipping her long red hair. She easily grabbed the whisk and passed it over with a glint in her eye. Amelie hadn’t had to ask. But she still felt the sting.
“It’ll happen for you too, Sis,” Willa said. “You’ll be just as tall as me. It’s in your genes.”
Amelie rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”
“Come on. Don’t be dumb.” Willa hurried over to the boom box in the back corner of the kitchen and put their overused Britney Spears CD in, then started shifting around, snapping her fingers in time to the beat. As she danced, she reached for the kitchen thermometer, dropping the tip into the vats of chocolate. The trick to making exquisite Mackinac Island Fudge was tomonitor the temperature to a T. It was essential not to stir the vats too much after they started to simmer. It was like a science experiment, but the stakes were high.
Each of the vats was labeled with its assigned flavor: chocolate, chocolate peanut butter, chocolate mint, chocolate raspberry, white chocolate, and so on. The air was sugary, decadent, and mouthwatering. But Amelie and Willa were used to it, this being their family’s fudge shop, a place they’d always known.
Their father entered the kitchen, untying his apron and smiling at his daughters. “Hard at work, I see? My perfect girls!” He kissed Willa on the forehead and Amelie on the cheek, then sped upstairs to find their mother, Georgia. “We’re going to be late!” he called.
Their parents were the heads of the Christmas Festival Committee this year, roles that alternated from couple to couple on the island so that nobody was too overwhelmed for multiple years in a row. Now that the girls were twelve and fully capable at the fudge shop, the Caraways had decided to keep the shop open, with Willa and Amelie at the helm, as they went to Christmas Festival meetings and decorated downtown Mackinac Island. Amelie and Willa took on the responsibility with confidence. They were thrilled to handle Caraway Fudge Shoppe on their own. After all, one day, when they were older, they planned to take control.
Caraway Fudge Shoppe had been in the family for generations. Their great-great-grandfather had founded it, and their great-great-grandmother had perfected numerous of their top-selling recipes. They were secret recipes that Willa and Amelie had sworn never to repeat.
Their mother appeared, blinking sleep from her eyes and following their father into the swirling snow outside. “We loveyou, girls!” they called before they closed the glass door behind them.
Willa and Amelie finished a batch of fudge and wandered into the front, where a long glass counter was filled with twelve flavors. Usually, even in the winter, tourists came into the shop, sampled the fudge, and purchased large boxes of it to take home to their families and friends. But today was too windy and cold for wandering through downtown and fudge shopping.
Sometimes tourism on an island as bone-chillingly cold as Mackinac Island felt silly to Amelie. She knew that most people didn’t have her cold tolerance. Being raised in Michigan meant she could handle everything winter threw her way.
Willa opened the glass container and removed a slab of chocolate-raspberry fudge.
“What are you doing?” Amelie asked, checking the time. It was only eleven thirty, and they hadn’t had lunch yet. Their mother, Georgia, had a rule: real food first, then they could have a sliver of fudge. Not every day, but most days. Having “a little something sweet” in life was their business model.
Their mother said that life could be bitter, so it was good they had fudge.
“Come on,” Willa said mischievously. “Mom and Dad will never know!”
Amelie’s stomach sloshed. She looked out the window, which displayed a sheet of flowing white snow. It felt cozy to be in here with her sister, listening to Britney Spears and watching the snow. And Willa could be really persuasive.
“Just a little,” Amelie said. She watched as her sister sliced two pieces of chocolate-raspberry fudge, then slotted the rest of the slab back inside the glass case. Amelie took a bite and felt the chocolate melt across her tongue, gritty in texture and sinfully delicious.
“Oh. My. Gosh.” Willa groaned and rolled her head back.
Amelie laughed and sat cross-legged on the little chair they kept behind the counter. They weren’t supposed to sit when they were working, but nobody was here. Willa slouched down against the wall, bending her knees in a squat for as long as she could stand.
“This is boring,” Willa said finally.
