by Nancy CoCo
“What can you do if your fudge doesn’t set up?” A woman in the middle of the crowd asked. “What did I do wrong? Do I have to throw it away and start over?”
“It’s best to make fudge on a cool, dry day,” I said as I worked the fudge. “Too much humidity and you have to adjust the temperature you work with. It’s also why we use wooden spoons or, in my case, a paddle when we cook the fudge. Metal will absorb the heat and slow down the process.”
I worked my way around the table, pushing the scraper under the fudge and folding it toward the center. “You’ll notice that I lift the fudge and let it pour through the air. This helps to cool the fudge as I work. As for your very good question, the reason it doesn’t set is that it didn’t cook long enough. If you can get it back into the double boiler, boil it some more.” I stopped and eyed the crowd. “If you want to make candy at home it really helps to purchase a good double boiler. The steam from the water bath is best for keeping chocolate from scorching.”
I went back to my work; as the fudge set it became heavier, and I could tell when it was nearly ready simply by how much strain was in my shoulders. “If you can’t recook it, then you can melt it down and add powdered sugar to it. Beat in a quarter of a cup at a time until it sets right up.”
“Do you like that pat-in-pan fudge?” another woman asked. “Isn’t it cheating?”
“I think any type of fudge you make is fine. You don’t have to be an expert bakery chef to make a birthday cake. It’s the same with candy.” I picked up the container of black walnuts, chopped them, and poured them in a generous line down the center of the fudge. Then I took a container of black cherries, chopped them, and poured them on top of the nuts and worked them into the candy.
I ended up with a nice loaf of dark chocolate, black-cherry, and black-walnut fudge. I sliced it up in roughly quarter-pound sections. I carefully cut up bite-size pieces and scooped them on a plate and offered them to the crowd. It was always the best part of the demonstration. It was instant feedback on my work when the audience would have expressions of childlike delight at the fudge tasting.
“A safe fudge,” said a male voice to my right.
I turned with my plate and saw that Chef Thomas was in the crowd. Squealing with delight, I handed the plate of fudge to a man shepherding a bunch of Boy Scouts. Then I threw my arms around Chef Thomas’s neck and hugged him hard. “Oh my gosh, I’m so happy to see you.”
He patted my back and then untangled me from his neck. “Good to see you, too, Allie.”
“Frances said you were staying on island for a month to teach a master class at the Grand Hotel?” I put my arm through his and walked him out of the crowd and over to the pair of overstuffed chairs near the fireplace.
Jennifer came around from the reception desk and took over for me at the candy counter. A great thing about my best friend is that she always knows when to step in and take over. My customers were safe with her.
“Can I get you some coffee or tea?” I asked and waved toward the coffee bar. I hoped to get a barista and a top-of-the-line coffeemaker one day, but for now I had a Keurig machine that offered coffees and teas of every type and flavor in individual cups.
“No, I don’t drink that crap,” he said. “I only drink coffee-press coffee.”
“Oh, right, you hate Starbucks,” I remembered. “Even though they grind your beans and make individual espresso.”
He leaned back in the chair and studied me. “Life is short. There’s no reason to drink anything but the best.”
“I have a French press up in my apartment.”
He shook his head. Chef Peter Thomas was in his late fifties. He was a short man—only five foot five inches tall. Today he wore a blue button-down shirt and a pair of black slacks. Crossing his legs, he let his top knee fall to the side so that his ankle rested on the opposite knee. He wore no socks and dark brown Top-Siders. A gold wedding ring gleamed on his left ring finger. The rest of him was absent of bling.
His dark blue gaze was attentive. “I’m fine.”
“Here.” Frances came over with a bottle of Evian water. She handed it to Chef Thomas.
“Thank you,” he said and took the water, twisted the top off, and drank.
“You’re welcome.” Frances turned on her heel and headed back toward the front desk, her midlength, flowered skirt floated around her ankles. She wore a simple pink tee shirt with a scoop neck. On her arms were three inches of bangle bracelets that clattered at her wrists.
“Tell me about your hotel and fudge shop,” Peter said. “I thought you said your grandfather would be here to teach you the ropes.”
“He was supposed to,” I said and leaned back in the seat. “He died unexpectedly a few months ago so I’ve been learning by trial and error.”
“You seem to be doing a decent job,” he said and took another sip of his water.
“Thank you.” Any kind of compliment was rare from the man. He defined taste and refinement in the restaurant business. “Tell me about the class at the Grand. Have they put you up in a nice room?”
“I’ve got a nice suite with a view of the lake. Not that I’ll have much time to look out the window.” He sipped again.
“Frances says you bought about twenty pounds of fudge yesterday.”
“Yes, I did,” he agreed and then didn’t take the bait I laid out to tell me how good it was.
“Who is taking your class? I didn’t know there was a culinary school on island.”
“Regretfully, I’m not giving lessons to culinary students,” he flicked a piece of imaginary lint off his pant leg.
I drew my eyebrows together, confused. “Then who?”
“It’s for a reality series,” Jenn said as she abandoned the now-empty candy counter. “I heard about it online.” She held out her hand. “Hello, I’m Jennifer. I’m working with Allie for the summer. Helping her get on her feet.”
“I didn’t know she needed help,” he said, stood and shook her offered hand. Then he settled back down and took another sip. For all his protests that he didn’t need anything to drink, he’d nearly finished the bottle of water.
“Jennifer is an extraordinary event planner. She’s working with me to bring in more events to the McMurphy. And hopefully more events to Mackinac Island. She has it in her head that there should be more movie shoots on island.”
“She may be right. Any kind of media event on the island is sure to create more traffic to your shop,” he said thoughtfully. “That brings me to the reason I’m here. We had a contestant drop out. It seems she had a fear of water and wouldn’t suck it up and take the ferry onto the island.”
“Why didn’t she fly?” I asked.
“Fear of flying,” he sounded put out.
“If she is so afraid, why did she try out for the television show?”
“She thought it would be set in Chicago.” He rolled his eyes. “How unimaginative would that have been? Back to the reality series, I told them you would be a perfect addition to the candy-making cast.”
“Wow, really?” I said.
“Yes, really.” He raised one dark eyebrow. “Why not?”
“I’m not exactly Hollywood material.”
“The show is a contest. They’re looking for bakers, not actors. Besides, they thrive on quirky creative types like you.”
I couldn’t tell if that was a compliment or not. I decided it was. “What kind of time are we discussing? I’m pretty busy with everything happening at the McMurphy.”
“Don’t worry, it’s only a few hours every morning. It should give you plenty of time to entertain your fudgies in the afternoon and evenings.”
“Is this one of those reality shows or is this for real?” I gave him the squinty eye.
He laughed heartily. “I did say cast, didn’t I? Not competitors.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Think of it as marketing for your hotel and fudge shop.” He waved his hand. “When this airs you will be able to charge whatever you wan
t for your rooms and it will double or triple your fudge sales.”
I chewed on my bottom lip. “I’m not altogether certain I want to double or triple my fudge sales. I’m the only candy maker here.”
“Trust me, you’ll be able to hire as many employees as you need.”
“I kind of like small-batch, real homemade fudge.”
“Please.” He crossed his arms and made a face. “Everyone knows that the fudge shops all make their fudge in a factory in Mackinaw City and ferry it out to the island.”
I raised my right eyebrow. “Not mine,” I said with my chin high and pride in my voice. “It’s what makes the McMurphy recipe so select.”
“And that’s a message you can get out to your customers.” He leaned forward to press his point. “I overheard your lovely receptionist worrying about your customers all leaving for the new hotel built up close to the Grand Hotel.”
“They’ll come back when they realize it’s just another modular hotel like the ones off island.” It was my turn to cross my arms. I realized that I missed these arguments—excuse me, “discussions.” Peter Thomas was one of the few people I could do this with, and I found it refreshing.
He leaned back. His shoulders fell as if in defeat.
My eyes widened. Had I won an argument?
He eyed me sideways, smiled, and went for the kill. “You get twenty grand an episode. I can see that you stay on or leave as soon as you have had enough.”
CHAPTER 5
“You should do it,” Jennifer said. “Think of the publicity.”
“Think of the money,” Frances encouraged.
“Don’t do it. They’ll make a fool of you on television. No amount of money or publicity is worth it.” For the first time Mr. Devaney, my cranky handyman, sounded more like the voice of reason than a contrary senior citizen.
It was seven-thirty PM, and we gathered in my apartment after another busy day. The windows were opened wide to let the cool lake breezes blow through. The island didn’t offer a lot of nightlife—which was part of the appeal. When the last ferry left with the day-trippers, the entire island seemed to breathe a sigh of relief and life slowed down.
The hourly cannon shots stopped. The shops closed up, and the horses finished their last trips for the day. Even the bike shops closed up, and those who stayed on island enjoyed a slower pace. Bonfires were lit. There was laughter and quiet family times where people made s’mores. Children chased lightning bugs, and the slap of the water against the shore could be heard once more.
It was my favorite time of night. The hotel visitors retreated to their rooms or went out to dinner at one of the restaurants and walked back in the soft air.
I hired two interns to work the night-desk shifts. It was an easy job. All they were there for really was to watch the door and answer questions. The McMurphy didn’t offer room service, so for the most part the calls consisted of people locking themselves out of their rooms or not being able to open the sometimes humidity-warped windows.
I brought the large pitcher of sangria I had made into the living-room area of the apartment and set it down on the coffee table in the middle of the arrangement of soft chairs and couches. The apartment on the fourth floor of the McMurphy had belonged to my grandparents—Papa Liam and Grammy Alice McMurphy. It was only recently that I had moved the last of their things out and brought in a few pieces of my own. The big furniture I had kept; mixing my handpicked pieces with their old ones created a comfortable synergy between old and new.
“Mr. Devaney is right.” I sat down in my favorite overstuffed rocker-recliner. It had been Papa’s chair, and I always felt comfort when I sat there, as if he were still at the McMurphy, watching over me. “They script those reality shows to have over-the-top drama. The last thing I want to do is have to scavenger hunt the island for bizarre fudge ingredients.”
“What in the world could they possibly ask you to put in fudge that can be found in a scavenger hunt?” Frances asked. She looked so pretty this evening. Her skin glowed. That glow was something I’d noticed only on healthy women over fifty-five years old. There was something so lovely about the delicate, refined skin of a woman in the peak of her life. It was my goal to have skin like that when I was older.
Perhaps, though, it wasn’t simply the care she had taken with her skin. Perhaps it was the fact that Mr. Devaney sat in the chair beside her. They were so cute and discreet. Someone who didn’t know them wouldn’t know what was going on. They sat an arm’s length apart, but their body language gave them away. Frances leaned on the armrest of the couch nearest to him. Mr. Devaney sat with his legs wide, his left foot, clad in the slip-on leather shoes of a retired teacher, touching Frances’s white orthopedic athletic shoes. Her socks were pink to match the scooped-neck tee shirt she had on.
In contrast to Frances’s relaxed outfit, Mr. Devaney wore a pair of pressed dark blue Dockers and a blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The top button of his shirt was unbuttoned to show the pure white T-shirt underneath. How he managed to stay so pressed and clean when he was my handyman was a mystery to me.
Jennifer picked up the pitcher as I sat down on the stuffed ottoman I used as both footrest and extra seating. “You are silly if you pass up this opportunity. Seriously, you can’t buy marketing better than this. If you don’t take it I will, I could use the press.”
“Oh, please,” I said with a wave of my hand. “You already have more business than you can handle. How’s the Postma wedding coming?”
“Oh, it’s going to be grand.” Jenn perked up as she sat back and sipped sangria from one of my bowl-shaped wineglasses. Hers had a pink stem. Mine had a green stem. Frances’s had a blue stem, and Mr. Devaney . . . well, he drank a beer from the dark glass bottle. A man had to have his priorities. “I’ve got the courtyard of the fort reserved. It will be a red, white, and blue affair with cannon fire and fireworks over the lake.”
“That is grand,” Frances said and sipped her drink. “What ever happened to two people standing before God in a church and saying vows?”
“Oh, those days are long gone.” Jenn waved her pink, manicured fingernails. “Ever since the eighties when Princess Diana married her prince, weddings have gotten to be bigger and bigger affairs. It’s a show of wealth now.”
Mr. Devaney frowned. “The marriage should be more important than the wedding. Save your money to buy a house or put your kids through school.”
“Please.” Jenn’s bell-like laughter filled the air, waking Mal from her nap at the base of the couch. “Buying a house is a fifteen- to thirty-year commitment. No one stays married long enough to see the benefits of money they put in a house.”
“You’re jaded,” I said and savored my sangria. It was a mixture of oranges, strawberries, and blueberries in a crisp white wine. I had changed from my candy maker’s uniform to a pair of soft, flowy linen pants in pale blue and a tight, white T-shirt. My feet were bare, and I took note that I should paint my toenails.
“Not jaded,” Jenn said with a sigh. “Realistic. So many people lost so much money in the housing crash. Besides, no one keeps the same job long enough to buy a home and live their entire lives in it.” She shook her head. There was a bit of sadness in her blue eyes. “Life is not like when our parents got married.”
“It wasn’t like when our parents got married either,” Frances said. “We were glad of that. My parents moved in with my grandparents for the first ten years of their marriage. Thank goodness that tradition went away with my generation. I may have killed my mother-in-law.”
Jenn and I were surprised by the vehemence in her voice. “Wow, who knew Frances could be vicious?” Jenn said. I stifled a laugh.
“Now this generation complains that their kids can’t afford to leave home. My kids have married kids living in their basement,” Mr. Devaney said.
“What goes around comes around.” I tried not to snicker. “I haven’t said no to Chef Thomas yet. I may not have to say no. I have to go up to the
Grand in the morning for an audition. They want to see how I look on video.”
“You’ll be fine.” Frances shifted slightly so that her leg brushed Mr. Devaney’s. She tossed down the last of her drink and stood. “Well, girls, it was a fun day but this old woman needs to go home and get her beauty sleep.”
On cue, Mr. Devaney stood. “I’ll see you home.” He made a sweeping gesture, and Frances stepped in front of him as they walked to the door. I noted how his hand touched the small of her back.
“Good night, you two,” I said. “See you in the morning.”
We waited for them to close the door behind them and listened for the arrival of the elevators.
“Those two aren’t fooling anyone.” Jenn wiggled back into the couch, her perfectly pedicured bare feet curled up underneath her. Mal jumped up and snuggled beside her.
“I know, aren’t they cute?” I sent her a wry smile. “What are we doing wrong that our love lives are not even close to theirs?”
“Speak for yourself.” Jenn wiggled her right eyebrow. “I happen to have a date Thursday.”
“A date!” I jumped up. “You’ve been holding out on me.” I sat back in Papa’s chair, careful not to slosh my beverage. “Spill.”
“It’s with a certain crime-scene fellow.” She smiled that secret feminine smile of a woman interested in a man.
“Shane! Seriously? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you date a science geek.”
She shrugged and ran her fingers through Mal’s soft, curly fur. “He’s cute and I like to listen to him talk.”
“You don’t have a clue what he’s saying,” I teased.
“That’s the best part,” she replied. “I don’t have to understand. All I have to do is smile and nod and say things like: right? Wow! I know . . .” She laughed again, causing Mal to lift her head and place it on Jenn’s knee.
