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I erupt into giggles. “Please no ship museums.”
“I promise,” he chuckles, feathering kisses over my neck, chest, and face.
“Lighthouses?”
“Not unless you want to.”
“Not really,” I say, stroking his hair and tracing my fingertip along his hairline.
“What would you say to a friend tagging along with you to Mackinac Island for the day?”
* * *
Driving down to Saint Ignace to catch the ferry, I find myself staring at him and smiling.
“This is so nice of you,” I say. “Please let me give you gas money.”
He waves me off and glances at me briefly with a smirk. “Nah. I’m really in the mood for some of that peanut butter fudge.”
I have to smile to myself as I make a note to buy him a whole chalet full of peanut butter fudge.
We arrive on the island a few hours later and it’s just as lovely as it is in the photos. Horse-drawn carriages, turn-of-the-century architecture, ice cream shops on every corner that spell the word “shoppe.” Everywhere I turn, the scent of chocolate is carried on the breeze.
I’m carrying my mom’s box of ashes inside my backpack. Josh and I enjoy ourselves, exploring the island, shopping, lounging on park benches, listening to the clip-clop of horse hooves. At the same time, I scout for just the right spot to spread Mom’s ashes, but every place I come to is crowded with tourists.
When we come to the Grand Hotel, I fully expect Josh to sneer at the whole idea of taking a tour.
To my surprise, he’s eager to join me. And I think, because this man seems incapable of faking pleasure, he enjoys the tour.
“You know, it’s not that bad,” he says once we’re shuffled back outside the front entrance to keep the constant flow of tourists going. “You were right. It’s pretty cool,” he remarks.
I squeeze his arm and rise on my tiptoes to kiss him. “You could have wandered off to do your own thing and let me take the overpriced tour on my own,” I say.
“Listen,” he retorts, “I might be a bit of an oaf, but there is no way in the gods’ green earth I’m letting my woman tour the Grand Hotel by herself just because I’m too much of a cynical cheapskate. Please ignore the ravings of that idiot you met four days ago.”
He holds out his arm for me to take as we walk.
“Okay, but I met you 15 years ago,” I remind him.
We stroll around the grounds while Josh turns on a Mid-Atlantic accent out of nowhere, using it to point out made-up points of interest. “And over here we have the pelican that attacked Christopher Reeve on the first day of filming Somewhere in Time. He became so put out he threatened to quit unless the pelican was shot and put into a stew.”
“Stop,” I say, holding my hand over my stomach.
Josh replies. “I can’t believe you of all people never heard that story. It was a huge uproar. Here’s the kicker: the director tried to play it off as a joke, and was later horrified to learn the chef on set had carried out Superman’s demands. That night the entire camera crew ate pelican stew and all died of food poisoning.”
“This is neither true nor funny,” I say, laughing so hard I snort.
“It’s true. Well, not totally. One of the crew lived to tell the tale, but he was never right in the head after that.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I say with a cackle.
“I can’t believe you’ve never heard of the curse of Somewhere in Time.”
Our afternoon’s entertainment continues until we’ve wandered so far from the island’s main attractions that we’re standing on a short, rocky cliff overlooking a majestic expanse of the lake. The whole world shifts under my feet. This is it. This is where I lay my mom to rest.
I hear seagulls, feel a cool breeze, smell the chocolate wafting down the hill, but all I can see and feel is my mom’s spirit. I take her remains out of the backpack.
When Josh sees what I’m doing, he grows solemn and quiet. “I’m ready if you’re ready,” he says.
