Page 36 of Home to Christmas Island
I let that hang in the air for a beat. Why not?
He was very strict with us, to put it mildly. I took the brunt of it to try and shield the others from him, but when I was legally an adult, it was like I snapped. I told Mum I would get her an apartment, get her out, but that she had to leave him or I was taking Finn and she’d never see either of us again. He doesn’t look at me as he says all this. It was kind of a mess, to be honest with you. But I got them away from him in the end. None of us have heard from him since, and I’m glad for it.
He looks up from his cider, not at me but out towards the trees. It’s starting to get dark out now. Alistair sighs, then adds, I think Mum would like it here, but all her friends and her sisters are still in Scotland. So there she stays.
I’m sorry Alistair, I say, and mean it. I feel strangely grateful that I didn’t know my own father, if this was the possible alternative. Your mother and brother are lucky to have you looking out for them, even if they don’t see it.
I feel an insane urge to run my hand along his arm in an act of comfort, but I’m not sure if we’re there yet, so instead I grip my mug tighter. He doesn’t say anything, but notices my empty cup and reaches down to pick up the thermos.
He’s pouring me another round of cider when I ask, the question tumbling out of my mouth, So, has Cape Breton been the fresh start you were hoping for?
He finally looks at me then and there’s so much emotion etched in his face, swirling around in his dark green eyes, that I chalk it up to the intensity of the conversation we’re having rather than something he might be feeling for me.
It has indeed, ‘Just Florence,’ he says, emptying the last of the cider into my mug. It has indeed. He looks at me again and I swear there’s heat in his gaze this time.
A huge gust of wind picks up, tearing both of our stares back to the night air. The wind swirls around the dusting of snow on the ground, lifting it up and circling in front of us like a little tornado. It feels like magic.
I think I could use one of those too, I tell him, my voice quiet.
One of what? He asks, his voice full of that warm curiosity.
I smile at him when I finally say, A fresh start.
Chapter 15
THE NEXT WEEK GOES BY in a delicious, sugary haze. There are Christmas goodies galore as I run around town with Alba and Rose to help get everything ready for their New Year’s Eve wedding.
I go through some of the boxes of things from the lake house—looking only for Christmas ornaments but finding troves of memories instead. Uncle Albie has kept it all in storage for me, and I’m grateful, but I’m not ready to go through everything that belonged to my mother just yet.
Alba and I tick nearly everything off on our Christmas Countdown.
We drag Rose to a tree lot and cut down the perfect tree, decorating it with tinsel and dozens of ornaments we made as kids, disturbing proof of our extreme lack of artistic talent. We stare at one block of wood for ages, trying to figure out what the hell Alba had painted on the side, before finally deciding it was supposed to be a candy cane and hanging it up amongst the much prettier, store-bought ornaments. We save the star for last, and I cheer when Alba plugs in the lights, as the tree glows to life.
Rose hides the bright green ornament shaped like a pickle somewhere in the house. It’s supposed to be hidden on the tree itself, but my mom had to start finding more elaborate hiding spots as we got older, so we instructed Rose to hide it anywhere on the property. It takes me a few days to finally track it down, but I find it nestled in the potted plants in the living room—much to Alba’s devastation.
Whoever finds the pickle ornament gets to add it to the tree, and Alba sulks when I get to be the one to do it. When we were young, nine times out of ten she was always the one who found it first. My smugness lasts for at least two full days.
We go sledding, but we’re only out on the hill for about twenty minutes before Alba and I are cursing about how sore we are already, lamenting how our old and weary bones can’t handle the thin material of the crazy carpets—which is basically the same as riding down the hill on a plastic sheet. We have to spend the rest of that afternoon resting, so we use the time to tick off the second-to-last item off our list: an I Spy race.
One year, Mom gave us both the same Christmas I Spy book, where you have to find all the things in the photo listed in rhymes. It’s a lot harder than it sounds, and Alba and I frantically skim the pages in our eagerness to finish first. She always gets stuck on one tin soldier, while I can never find the seventh star.
And in the midst of it all, I text Alistair.
It’s easy to talk to him, and the growing tension between us hums like the strings of a guitar, even through messages. He’s been working, and I haven’t seen him since the outdoor rink, although we’ve texted every day.
But I’ll get to see him tonight.
Alba told me this is the second year in a row she and Rose have hosted a community party at the main lodge of the bed and breakfast on December twenty-third. They’re also using it as an unofficial rehearsal dinner, not wanting to jam-pack people’s calendars during the week between Christmas and New Year’s.
I carefully pull the last batch of gingerbread cupcakes I’ve been baking out of the oven. I take a picture and send it to Alistair.
Florence: They just need icing now. It’s too bad you can’t smell this photo. Soooo good!
Alistair: They look delicious. However, I don’t think I’d like to be able to smell every picture that’s sent to me, thanks.
I laugh out loud and am starting to craft a reply when another text comes through.
Alistair: Tell me about the baking. How did you get into it?
