Page 3 of Wassailing We Will Go
I get up and feed him because he is clearly on the verge of starvation and death, and then I go to grab dinner for myself out of the chest freezer. Earlier in the year, I was pretty good about meal prepping, so I always had not-depressing meals to come home to, but I haven’t had the chance to do so in weeks—not since the harvest started, maybe even before then. For a few moments, I stare at the freezer-burnt box of pad thai in my hands, and then, surprising myself, I burst into tears.
I don’t know why the frost-covered box of noodles is specifically what breaks me, but the day catches up with me in a tidal wave of repressed emotion. I know that it’s not actually about the sad pad thai. It’s not even about bitter&sweet or Wassail or even Charlie. It’s everything, and I suddenly feel so, so tired.
I wipe the tears gathering in my eyes, toss the box in the garbage, and check my watch. It’s only 7:00 p.m.—still enough time to end this day on a better note. Determined to get it together, I clean the mascara from my raccoon eyes and get back into my car.
CHAPTER THREE
I REALLY BELIEVE THAT THERE is no problem that cannot be solved by spending time in a bath, and to that end, becoming friends with the owner of the Lakeview Spa Resort was one of my greatest accomplishments. I met Heather at a mutual friend’s birthday barbecue earlier that summer, and we bonded over the trials of hospitality business management. Ever since, she’s given me an open pass to come by on quieter nights since I live nearby.
When I call to ask if there is room at the spa tonight, I think she can hear the desperation in my voice, and maybe even a trace of tears. She books me in right away, and I drop off a six-pack of cider with Hannah at the front desk to pass on to her with my gratitude.
When I emerge from the changing rooms in my swimsuit and fluffy white robe, Hannah hands me a complimentary glass of local sparkling wine as part of their Sunday Date Night Special. She then slides over another glass with a wink. Hannah is now my new best friend, and I plan on tipping her exorbitantly on my way out. I take my glasses and head outside.
The day’s grey skies have turned to an equally cloudy, starless night, only now the rainy drizzle has turned into fat, wet snowflakes. I’m not bothered by it, as the usually packed spa is not half as busy as it would be if the weather were nicer. The boutique, Nordic-style spa is typically packed with bachelorette parties and honeymoony couples, and while I wish Heather every success, tonight, I want to hot tub in peace without watching happy couples make out.
I slip into the hot tub, and my whole body starts to relax. The steam from the bath rises to stop the snowflakes from meeting the water, and the effect is serene. I reach for the novel I bought for the book club I am allegedly a part of (I have yet to finish a book in time for the meetings). Still, everyone in the group is nice about it, and it’s been good to leave my house once a month, even if I still feel new to this whole making-adult-friendships thing. I have read exactly seven pages of said book in the last four weeks, and I am determined to make progress. I prop my elbows on the ledge and manage to get through one whole chapter of my book and one whole glass of wine before I hear someone entering the hot tub behind me. I restrain myself from sighing. I do not actually own the hot tub and cannot prevent others from joining me, but the quiet solitude was nice.
Is snow in November normal around here?
Normally, I would not turn around to answer; I would keep my eyes straight ahead, avoiding eye contact. Generally speaking, I don’t like making small talk with strangers while my belly button is exposed, but the accent has caught me off guard. As much as Prince Edward County is becoming an increasingly international destination, it isn’t every day you hear an Aussie accent while minding your own business in a hot tub. So I turn and then have to fight mightily to keep my facial features in check and not openly gape at the man before me.
The speaker is one of the most handsome people I have ever seen off-screen. He’s tanned, which is a notable feature for a person in November in Canada, and our current setting (a hot tub) makes it so that his very fit upper body is on full display. His pleasant facial features are looking up at the falling snow in mild bewilderment, and with his shaggy blond hair, he looks for all the world like the human equivalent of a golden Labrador retriever or maybe a lost Hemsworth brother. A cousin, at least. He is also holding two glasses of sparkling wine, one in each hand—apparently, my very special connection to Hannah, the front desk lady, is not as special as I had thought, and I mentally revise our best friend status.
I put my book down slowly and clear my throat. Sometimes, I say. It won’t stick around, though, not until Christmas, usually. I am very, very aware that I cried off all my makeup earlier and that the steam from the bath is likely returning my dark brown hair back to its frizzy factory settings. Not my best foot forward when faced with the prospect of chatting up Temu™ Thor.
He smiles and runs his hands through his damp hair. Seems early, he says. It’s nice, though. At least when you’re sitting in a hot tub.
Well, you haven’t seen much yet. Snow here can get pretty intense. Come back in January, and then tell me if you still think it’s nice.
Oh, I’ll still be in here then. I’m planning on staying a few weeks, he says, shuffling the few feet to sit on the hot tub bench beside me. He’s a few feet away, a perfectly respectful distance, but it still feels weirdly intimate since we’re the only two people here. I’ve only been in the County a few days, but it seems like a nice place, this. Then in the new year, I’ll decide where I want to go next, he finishes and then sips from one of his glasses of wine.
Now that he’s sitting close by, I become keenly aware of how green his eyes are. Distractingly green. I try to look somewhere that doesn’t make me feel awkward, but we are in a hot tub. Everything is just…right there, and there is no place on this man to focus on that doesn’t feel inappropriate. As I think this, it occurs to me that the glass of wine has probably gone directly to my head, as I haven’t yet had a chance to eat or drink anything else. Now that I think of it, everything has been a little on the blurry side for a few minutes now, but I ignore that and press on.
Strange time to move to the County, I say, choosing to look down at my wine glass instead. November is a quieter time around here.
At this, I look up and see his white smile finally falter a bit. Just needed a change, he says with a shrug and drains the rest of his glass like it’s nothing. It’s a perfectly normal-sized flute, but in his large hands, it looks downright dainty. I’ve got a mate here; I used to work with them back in BC. The season’s all done over there, so I’m spending Christmas here with her and her partner while I figure out where I want to go next, he says, looking down at his empty glass. This was quite good, actually. I knew there were a lot of wineries here, but I didn’t know how they’d compare to out west or back home.
I smile. If you’re after the kind of beefy reds you’re used to, you might be a little disappointed. It’s too cold here for that. But lots of nice crisp whites, sparklings, some lighter reds, certainly.
He perks up. Do you work in the wine industry?
Not really, I say. I work in…tourism, though. And I’ve lived around here most of my life. I’m Kate, I say with an awkward wave.
I’m Harrison, he replies, imitating my derpy little wave. He’s the kind of person who smiles with his whole face, so the action comes off as deeply charming instead of mocking.
You came at a bad time for tourism but an excellent time for visiting the spa, I say. A few weeks ago, this place would have been jam-packed with people who just finished a six-hour wine tour. I nod to the grounds around us, empty but for an elderly couple who sit a few pools over, each reading a book and ignoring the other.
Sounds like a party, he laughs.
Mmmm, if you like shrieky bachelorettes and drunk couples that are fully okay with rounding first base while you’re sitting two feet away from them, I say. I mean, it’s not the spa’s fault. They do their best to manage it, and if you come during the week, it’s okay. But you couldn’t pay me to come here on a Saturday night.
He raises his eyebrows and sips his second drink. I happen to love bachelorettes, he says with a wink. Hen nights are my specialty. I worked in the industry in the Okanagan before this, and they were thick on the ground out there, too. A lot of fun, though.
Oh yes, I am sure they were…for you, I say, toasting my remaining wine glass in his general direction. So, um, what did you do out there? Now that I know he’s in the wine industry, my curiosity about this stranger is piqued for reasons beyond his perfect bone structure.
Out in BC? I got my foot in the door out there working for the wine industry but then switched to a cidery. Before that, I was in the north of France, the UK before that. Usually cider, but sometimes wine, and usually on the crafting side of things. Few more places besides, too, but you get the idea.
I do get the idea. I also need every detail of this man’s life and also the link to his LinkedIn profile, stat.
