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“A ghost, huh?” Charlotte said. “There’s a twist.”
“You don’t believe in ghosts?” Zoey asked, surprised. “What about your witch balls?”
“That’s just a story. Real life is scary enough.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who’s afraid of anything.”
Charlotte had heard that for years. And she’d carefully cultivated that image, traveling alone across the country on her scooter. She would never tell anyone the truth. That she was scared. All the time. Of everything and everyone. Especially of herself. “I’m not that hard.”
“I don’t think you’re hard,” Zoey said. “You’re just… guarded.”
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
Zoey thought about it for a moment. “I’ve never seen one. But that doesn’t mean they’re not real. There are a lot of things we can’t see that are real.”
“Such as?”
Zoey shooed something away above her head. “Stories. Scent. Love. Lots of things.”
She turned back around to face the front when the old woman from the ticket counter hopped on the trolley and introduced herself as Flo.
“Have you ever wondered how the beloved white confection we know asmarshmallowgot its name?” Flo asked. “It’s actually named after a leafy green plant. Confectioners—including the very ones who came to this island—used to use the root of the marshmallow plant as a thickener to make it. These days, modern marshmallows are mass-produced using gelatin and don’t actually contain any part of the marshmallow plant. But the name stuck. Now you can go home and impress your family and friends with this little bit of trivia. You’re welcome.”
Everyone on the trolley laughed. Even Charlotte.
The man at the wheel turned at the end of Trade Street and drove down the coastal highway. Flo pointed out the tidal marshland where the marshmallow plant with its tall reeds could still befound growing, so densely it almost obscured the water and gave the impression of a great field of overgrown land. They were soon passing the Mallow Island Resort Hotel, which was a large Greek Revival–style house set back on what looked like miles of tended gardens. Flo informed them that it was once the stately home of Edward Pelletier, referred to by islanders simply as the Englishman, who had bought the island after the Civil War, discovered the marshmallow plant growing here, and spearheaded the island’s short-lived marshmallow-candy boom.
Zoey turned to Charlotte and mouthed,Mac works there!
Charlotte smiled and nodded.
The trolley then turned and drove through the center of the island, a lost-in-time place of locals. The buildings were all low and old, as if ducking to avoid high wind. Flo pointed out places where the movie adaptation ofSweet Mallowwas filmed, including the courthouse steps where Silas Sparrow gave his famous speech. The trolley finally meandered down a long residential street of an exclusive neighborhood with large old homes in bright candy colors like those on Trade Street, homes built by the Englishman for the candymakers he’d brought over from England. There, the trolley stopped in front of the home of Roscoe Avanger himself. The bus almost tilted as everyone on board craned over, trying to make out his house past the gate and pecan trees. Until this tour, Charlotte hadn’t realized just how important the book and the writer were to the island. He had preserved it all with a story, like putting it under glass. How much of this place would still exist, would still be remembered, if he hadn’t shared it with the world?
On the hot drive back, she watched Zoey stare out the open window, wind lifting her dark hair. She saw something faraway and sad feather across Zoey’s face, which was surprising. She’d neverthought of Zoey as anything but happy and bright. It occurred to Charlotte that there was more to Zoey’s story than she wanted to reveal, the story of a hard, dead mother and a father who didn’t help her move.
She tapped her on the shoulder. “You okay?”
Zoey nodded. “I was just thinking that I understand why my mother loved this place.”
As the trolley pulled back in front of the building on Trade Street about an hour after it had left, Charlotte thought she understood why she loved this place so much, too, why it spoke so strongly to her, and probably Zoey, and countless others. Mallow Island had reinvented itself over and over. And just like the candy itself, no one here had to be made up of what they used to.
Zoey waited outside while Charlotte went in the ticket office to talk to Flo.
And based on Mac’s recommendation alone, Charlotte was offered a job on the spot.
The air was swollen with moisture as Mac drove home from work that night. He took the coastal highway and could see the storm moving toward the island. By the time he got home, the first fat drops had started to fall. He crossed the dark parking lot and hurried through the garden gate as the rain got heavier. He unlocked his door, almost kicking the small white box with a note taped to it sitting on the patio. He picked it up and went inside.
He set his keys on the coffee table and shook the rain out of his hair. Holding the box in one hand, he opened the note with the other.
I got that job at the trolley tours today. As a thank-you, here’s an ornament called a witch ball. I collect them. I hope you like it.
Charlotte
She had drawn intricate patterns around the edges of the paper. Heart-shaped petals formed into flowers, and paisley curlicues formed into leaves, all of which connected to look like lace. It was similar to the designs he’d seen decorating Charlotte’s skin over the years. He opened the box and lifted out a glass ball. He held it up and saw tiny glass threads inside that reminded him of strings of batter falling from a spoon.
He stared, mesmerized as he twirled it back and forth, until Fig meowed from the couch.
He snapped out of it, embarrassed. He put the ball, the box, and the note all on the coffee table quickly. “I’m not smiling,you’resmiling,” he said as he headed for the shower.
