“They’re honey sea salt lavender caramels,” I tell her. “Want a taste?”
“I’d love one.” She comes into the kitchen, Mr. Butters shuffling along right behind her like a snuffly, asthmatic shadow. He was a gift from my dad, the last big gift he ever gave Mom, and while she’s always doted on the dog, they’ve been inseparablesince Dad’s passing. We tease her about it, but I think somehow Mr. Butters makes her feel closer to Dad. Now she pours all the love and care and attention she gave to Dad for so long into the dog. I’m not sure it’s good for either of them. Mom needs something more to focus on than what sweater-vest Mr. Butters will wear today.
I run warm water and a squirt of dish soap into the Dutch oven. “What are you doing still up? Is the pain bad tonight?”
“About like normal,” Mom says, waving away my concern. “I just came down for a glass of water.”
She reaches into the cabinet, wincing, and I spring to grab a glass, running cold water from the tap and handing it to her. Her fingers close painfully around the glass and she drinks.
“Thanks, honey. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She sets the glass down and gives me a grateful smile.
When I came back from France, I moved back into my old room upstairs temporarily, intending to find an apartment as soon as Dad was on the mend. But then I found out I was pregnant, which changed the timeline for me to get my own place. I was still planning on moving out at some point after the baby was born, but then Gus arrived and turned my world inside out. I don’t know how he and I would have survived if it had just been me and this tiny, squalling human I had to keep alive. Mom was a rock star grandma, taking a few night shifts a week so I could sleep, rocking Gus for hours when he was fussy. Dad was great with him too. Somehow we got through the first hard year together, and then soon after Gus’s first birthday it became obvious that Dad was in a slow decline from which there was no recovery. So I stayed.
It was good for all of us. My parents helped watch Gus, and I helped drive and organize medical appointments and cook and keep the household and the candy shop running during Dad’slong deterioration. After he died, the thought of moving out never even crossed my mind. By that point, Mom’s condition was taking a turn for the worse too. There was no way I could leave her. Nor did I want to.
Now it isn’t practical for Mom to live alone anymore, as she can’t do things like drive a car or open jar lids. Sometimes she even has trouble with doorknobs. So we are a multigenerational family of three under one roof, and I can’t imagine us any other way. What would she do without us? What would we do without her? And yet sometimes I still secretly dream of another life, one where I get a starring role, where I still live in France, where I open my chocolate shop, where my days revolve a little less around others and a little more around what I always hoped my life might look like. But that isn’t now. That isn’t real. So I tuck those thoughts away and get on with life as it is.
Mom sits down carefully at the little round kitchen table where we eat all our meals at home. Mr. Butters parks his squat body next to her chair leg in the hopes that she will drop something tasty. I slide the dessert plate into the center of the table and sit across from her. Carefully I twist off a bit of caramel and hand it to her. It’s greasy with butter and still warm in my hands.
“It’s been a long time since you made something like this. Did you learn to make these in France?” Mom asks, taking the caramel from me.
“Romaine’s mother taught me,” I confirm. “His family owned a property in Provence, nestled in the lavender fields. He took me there once for a weekend, and his mom taught me how to make these.” Although my relationship with Romaine didn’t last, I walked away with Gus and a handful of really excellent recipes.
“Mmm, that’s delicious.” She nods approvingly, chewing the candy. “Your creativity is such a gift, Emmie.”
“Thanks.” I’m pleased by the compliment. I twist off a long ribbon of the caramel for myself. The candy itself is rich and buttery, and the sea salt and lavender give a nice bite at the end. It really is decadent.
“How are you doing, sweetie?” Mom eyes me carefully. “After what happened at dinner.”
I blow out a breath. “I’m disappointed,” I admit. “I really felt like this was going to be the year I’d finally get answers and figure out what I’m supposed to do with my life.” I look down and pick little sticky flecks of caramel from my nails. “Now I feel more confused than ever.” I don’t say it, but I also feel a little embarrassed to have made up this ridiculous fantasy of a future for myself.
“You know what’s strange about what you saw,” says Mom slowly. I glance up. Her brow furrows in a confused frown. “I saw the same things when I got my vision. The same gold sparkles and shimmers and fireworks. It’s exactly what every one of us has seen when we’ve been given our visions. I know you think there’s no way what you saw could be true, but what you’re describing feels like the visions we’ve all had. Exactly the same. And every one of those visions has come true.”
I shake my head. “Well, I guess there’s a first time for everything.” I twist off another bit of slightly too-dark caramel and pop it into my mouth. “Because there is no way what I saw is anything but a pipe dream.”
Mom cocks her head and considers me thoughtfully. “Or maybe there’s something we just don’t understand yet,” she says, arching a thin, plucked eyebrow and looking at me expectantly. “I have a feeling, my sweet birthday girl, that you just may be in for a surprise.”
Chapter 6
Early the next week I’m tending the shop alone with Mr. Butters. Mom is at her monthly Social Ladies’ Tea Time at the senior center, and Gus is at jujitsu. It’s almost closing time on a wet, gray Monday. Foot traffic has been slow all day and the shop is empty. The weekend was sunny and business was good, but now the rush has petered out. Apparently no one wants fudge on a drizzly Monday. I’m taking the opportunity to set up my new side project.
At least one good thing has come from my disappointing birthday. After my spontaneous caramel-creating session that night, I decided to see if my caramels would sell at the shop. Of course I can’t do anything large scale yet, but I’ve decided to start making some of my own chocolates on the side too. Just for fun, in my nonexistent spare time. I’ve started to fill a notebook with ideas for chocolates I want to try to make. I can’t produce chocolates at the scale or, frankly, the quality I aspire to. That takes professional equipment I have no money to invest in right now.But these caramels are at least a start. When I told Mom my idea, she agreed immediately. Since then, I’ve been staying up late every night to research and brainstorm while I watch reruns ofSavor. I’m even more tired than normal today after another late night getting my first inventory ready to sell, but I’m strangely energized too. It feels amazing to finally be exercising my creativity once more.
Since the shop is empty, I seize the opportunity and empty out a glass case on the counter near the register. We’ve been using it to display novelty candy items like licorice pipes and candy cigarettes (high time to retire those bad boys—it isn’t the ’80s anymore!) and those rolls of colored sugar buttons that taste like the white paper you can never quite fully peel off the back. Now I box up the dubious novelty candy and replace it with a selection of my own caramels. It is a far cry from my dream shop, with wooden floors and a tree full of candy whimsy, but it’s a start. Seeing the neat rows of caramels I created with my own hands is gratifying. It reminds me of my years in Switzerland and France, of Jacques and the crew who mentored me, of Romaine and those heady, giddy days in Paris. Those memories are bittersweet. I know I won’t go back to live in Paris, but it feels good to bring a little more of Paris into my life here and now. It feels like a step in the right direction.
The doorbell jingles just as I finish up arranging the caramels on pretty silver trays and place them in the case. I glance up and stop dead. There, standing in the doorway, is Henry Summers. I blink hard, but he is not a mirage. Henry Summers is standing in our candy shop. What. Is. Happening? Henry looks around with a slight frown, sees Mr. Butters in his tweed doggy newsies cap and does a double take, then starts to back out the door.
“Hello, can I help you?” I blurt out, too stunned to think ofsomething smooth to say. I can’t let him leave. He just can’t go yet, not when he’s here, in the flesh. What is he doing here? My palms have gone clammy. My heart is beating so hard I feel as though it may fly straight out of me, and I’m light headed. Henry hesitates in the doorway, then steps inside. It’s definitely him. He’s dressed in butterscotch-colored chinos, boat shoes, and a navy-and-white Breton striped shirt with a navy blazer over it. He looks like an ad for some expensive European cologne.
“Um, hello, yes. Good afternoon.”
Ooh, that posh English accent! I force myself to act normally although my hands are shaking, and I feel like I’ve forgotten how to breathe. Thank goodness I showered this morning and let my hair dry naturally in soft waves. I even put on a flick of mascara and some tinted lip balm. And deodorant. Did I remember deodorant? No time for the sniff test. Henry Summers is coming over to the counter. He. IS. COMING. OVER. TO. ME. My mouth goes dry.
He’s a little scruffier than on TV, and it looks good on him. Really good. His hair is damp with rain, and he meets my eyes and smiles, a genuine smile. He has a little gap between his two front teeth. I’ve never noticed. It’s adorable. Mr. Butters heaves himself to his feet and wags his stumpy tail in welcome.
“Hello,” Henry says again, nodding to Mr. Butters and to me. He eyes Mr. Butters’s hat with a look of curiosity. “Sorry to bother you. I was trying to find my way to Sluys. It’s an iconic local bakery, I believe? Somewhere around here, is it?” He leans down and lets Mr. Butters sniff his hand. The dog gives him an approving lick on the palm, and Henry scratches under his chin. Mr. Butters grins happily.
I force my mouth into a smile, trying to radiate helpfulness, competence, and approachability. No man has ever had this effecton me. I feel completely twitterpated. “That’s Mr. Butters, our shop Frenchie,” I tell him in what I hope is a casual tone of voice. “And Sluys is just down the street, but it’s closed now. You have to get there as soon as it opens, when everything is fresh. Since you’re here, welcome to the Happy Viking Fudge and Candy Shoppe.” I beam. And because it’s Henry Summers, I can’t seem to stop myself from babbling. “My family’s been serving the best fudge in Western Washington since 1986. Want to try a free sample?”
