“Oh, thank you. How kind.” He pauses to consider the rows of assorted fudge flavors. “So this is a family-owned local establishment then?” In a flash I see the opening and take it.
“Yes.” I nod enthusiastically. “For almost forty years. We’re proud to serve our community. All our fudge is handmade the old-fashioned way. With these.” I hold up my hands and wiggle my fingers, then feel dumb and drop them. Smooth, Emmie. Really smooth.
Henry glances around, taking in the cluttered aisles and wall of dozens of types of bubble gum. “It’s very retro, very Americana, isn’t it?” he muses, glancing down at Mr. Butters, who is both farting and panting simultaneously. “Have you worked here long, um”—he glances at my name tag—“Emmie?”
“I grew up here,” I tell him. “My parents opened this shop before I was born, but my dad passed away about two years ago and now I run the business. With my mom.” Talking to him feels surprisingly normal. I’m still short of breath and my heart is beating hard, but I feel like I can at least carry on a reasonable conversation.
“Oh, I see. A true family business then.” Henry’s gaze is warm and sympathetic. “I’m sorry about your dad. I lost mine too, a few years back.”
His eye catches on my little display case of caramels. “Hello, what are these?” He reads one of the cards I handwrote this morning and just finished placing in the case by each type of confection. “Honey sea salt lavender caramels. Are these locally sourced?”
“They’re from my kitchen,” I tell him, mustering my courage. “I make them myself.”
He looks surprised. “You made these?”
“Here, take one. On the house.” I slide open the case and with a pair of tiny silver tongs carefully select a caramel wrapped in waxed paper. I’m proud of how they turned out. I wonder if he’ll like them.
Henry takes the caramel from me and hesitates, “Do you mind if I try it now?” he asks. I gesture an invitation. He unwraps it and bites into it. It’s very pretty, dotted with lavender buds and sparkling with crystals of sea salt. I clasp my hands in front of me and hold my breath. His eyelids flutter closed and he makes a sound deep in his throat. It’s a groan. Henry Summers is groaning over my caramel. Pinch me, I must be dreaming. Dani is not going to believe this.
“That is…astonishingly good,” he says with his mouth full. When he opens his eyes, there’s something stirring in their depths. Admiration perhaps? Curiosity. I think he’s intrigued. I am flustered by his presence just across the counter from me. This entire interaction feels surreal. My hands are still shaking a little, but I am managing to keep calm in front of Henry Summers. WHO IS STANDING A FEW FEET FROM ME. For just a second I start to lean in, to see if he really does smell like bergamot, but then I catch myself and pull back quickly. I don’t want him to think I’m some sort of weirdo. Like a girl who has had avision of him proposing to me in a dress that looks like sunshine. Inwardly, I roll my eyes at myself. Get it together, Emmie. This is your big chance.
“The lavender adds a unique complexity of flavor,” Henry observes around a mouthful of caramel. “I’ve never tasted anything quite like it.” He looks pleasantly surprised.
“I make them with local Pacific Northwest ingredients,” I tell him, beaming at the compliment. Henry Summers likes my caramels! Other than when Gus was born, this might be the best day of my life. “The sea salt is from the San Juan Islands a little north of here, and the lavender is from an organic farm near Sequim.”
“It’s lovely.” Henry nods approvingly and pops the rest of the caramel in his mouth. “How much do I owe you?” He pulls out a sleek leather wallet.
“Consider it a welcome gift to Poulsbo.” I wave away the five dollars he tries to hand me and instead press another caramel into his palm, this one flavored like orange blossoms and almond. “Take one for later.”
“That’s very kind. Thank you, Emmie.” He hesitates, then pockets the caramel and lingers for a moment, seeming in no hurry to leave. He glances at me and opens his mouth. At that exact moment, the doorbell jingles as Dani rushes into the shop. She’s in uniform and is already launching into a story as she flies through the door, shaking off the rain.
“You will notbelievethe call I just responded to,” she says without preamble or a pause to exchange pleasantries. “We got a request to do a wellness check on a ninety-eight-year-old man, and it turns out he is a nudist! You cannot unsee that wrinkly…” She groans dramatically, then realizes I’m not alone. She does a double take when she sees Henry standing at the counter. He nods politely to her.
“Hello,” he says. He looks pleasantly bemused. Dani looks like she’s been hit in the head with a heavy object.
“You’re…you’re Henry Summers.” Dani gapes at him in shock, approaching slowly. So much for playing it cool. She looks like a goldfish out of water, her mouth opening and closing but no sound coming out. Behind Henry’s head I pantomime for Dani to cut it out, but she doesn’t see me. She’s too busy staring at Henry in wide-eyed wonder. For once she seems to have lost all her words.
“Ah, yes. Yes, I am.” Henry sticks his hand out and Dani mutely shakes it. “And you are?” he asks politely. His manners are very genteel.
“Officer Dani Diaz,” she murmurs. She cuts a glance in my direction, her eyebrows raised almost to her hairline. I shrug, just as baffled as she is that Henry Summers is standing in our shop.
Seeing one of his favorite people on earth and the source of all his contraband treats, Mr. Butters waddles over to Dani and puts his paw on her knee, waiting for a doggy pot pie.
“What brings you to our little town?” Dani asks, recovering a little. “Are you doing a segment on the best small towns in America? Because you totally should feature Poulsbo.” Without looking down, she takes a doggy pot pie from her pocket and drops it straight down into Mr. Butters’s waiting open mouth. Then she glances down and sees the cap. “He looks like an extra fromNewsies,” she observes. Mr. Butters is unperturbed. He chomps his treat with relish and waddles back to his bed to curl up and nap.
Henry chuckles. He has a nice laugh. “This townisvery charming, but no, I’m not filming here. I’m here for personal reasons.” He glances in my direction, thoughtfully including me in the conversation. “I’m renting a beach cottage just outside of town. I’m taking the summer here to try and finish a long-overdue food memoir.” He looks a little rueful at the admission.
I think Dani is going to swoon, but she recovers enough to offer a squeaky “Is that so?” She cuts her eyes to me.
“We’ll see how much writing I actually get done,” Henry says with a self-deprecating grimace. “You’ll probably see quite a bit of me around town this summer. I’m very good at procrastinating.”
“Emmie should show you around, since you’re going to be in town for a while,” Dani says in the most unsmooth segue I’ve ever heard. “She knows everyone here—all the good places to go, and which ones to avoid.”
I open my mouth to protest, but instead squeak out a high-pitched “Happy to be of service!” And then I just stand there grinning like a ninny.
Henry shoots me a polite smile. “That’s a generous offer,” he says. “I might take you up on it, once I’m settled. Thank you, Emmie.”
I like how my name sounds in his mouth. All crisp vowels, like a forkful of lemon tart.
