Page 25 of Wassailing We Will Go
STEPHANIE: Yeah sorry, me neither. I am so, so tired. Hazel is on a 5am wakeup kick right now. I’m going to bed now, at 8:06pm. That’s where I’m at. But we should hang out soon.
KATE: I’d love that
And I would love that, I realize. Do I feel better about work-slash-my behaviour today? Not really. I still owe Harrison an apology, I think. But I do feel better generally. I am back in a space where making a snack and watching the stupid drama boat show at least have some appeal. I’m even struck with the desire to read more of the book club book so that Stephanie will be impressed. Texting her for these past twenty minutes made me realize that I really would like to hang out with her more. Also, with Hazel, and I need to be the kind of woman-who-knows how-to-use-a-potty role model she deserves.
ON MONDAY MORNING, AFTER A long debate with myself over work-life boundaries, I relent and open my laptop. I had really tried not to, but after my coffee and croissant, I couldn’t help but want to know whether there had been any progress on filling our last tour bus spots for the weekend. There were still some big gaps on Saturday morning and Sunday evening that I had hoped would be filled. I had sent out reminders of all our seasonal offerings to all the tour operators, hoping to win over a precious spot in their itineraries. It’s not just other cideries we’re competing with in this arena: there are close to forty wineries, and then there are also the breweries and distilleries, not to mention other fun attractions for a tour bus like Steph’s alpaca farm or the cheese factory. All worthy stops for a tour bus, and we’re all trying to get that end-of-year business before we hibernate for a few weeks.
I know many of the tour operators, and they’re all doing their best to spread the love while making the best choices for their guests. I just need to convince all of them that the best choice for all the guests is Sparks Cidery. Thankfully, one has gotten back to me to fill in a Saturday morning spot with the promise of warmed apple cider and apple fritters as a nice start to the day, and another tour operator wants to know more about the soup flights (score another point for Chef Melanie).
I’m forwarding all this info to Daniel, Chef, and Wendy so that they can plan with their teams when my phone starts vibrating with a call from Aunt Jenn. I answer it, and my aunt’s voice erupts through the speaker with off-the-charts enthusiasm:
Kate! We just booked our tickets home for Christmas! We arrive for the last weekend of Wassail and are staying through New Year’s. Just wanted to make sure this doesn’t mess anything up for you?
Oh! Wow. Okay. No, of course not, I’d love to see you, I say. Do you guys need your cottage back? I can stay with my parents back in Belleville for a bit, if you need.
No, no, it’s your home now. We’re staying with your parents and then travelling around a bit, doing the rounds to see everyone, but Marty’s going to pick us up from the airport. It’s all sorted. Marty is my dad, Aunt Jenn’s younger brother. I don’t even bother to ask what they’re thinking with all of this: she and my dad don’t have much in common, and I wonder what those few weeks will be like for them. They’re sort of like me and Aaron in that they grew up on good enough terms but not very close, wrapped up in their respective worlds. Except in this case, Aunt Jenn was a rebellious partier, and my dad was only ever interested in his hockey career. He was pretty good, I guess, but my grandparents couldn’t or wouldn’t make the sacrifices necessary to get him very far. I think that’s why he and my mom were so adamant about being all in on Aaron’s career, which, to be fair, obviously paid off. Anyway, Dad eventually became an elementary school PE teacher and then married my mom, who is a physiotherapist. While they’ve always been friendly with my aunts, they’ve never struck me as being on spending three straight weeks together terms.
That sounds…nice, I say. But really, let me know if you change your mind.
We heard that Charlie’s new assistant is a hit, she says. Great find on that front.
Yeah, it’s really working out, I think! I never thought we’d be able to find someone that Charlie would like to work with so much, but they hit it off right away, and it’s been good for Charlie to rest more while he recovers.
That’s part of why I was calling. I mean, I also wanted to see how you’re doing! I want to hear everything about what’s going on with you—it’s been a while since we talked. But I wanted to ask: do you see this new cider maker—Harry?—staying on long term, do you think?
Oof. How to answer that one. Oh, I’d love that because I have a schoolgirl crush on him and like to look at his face, but also, it’d be perpetual torture because it’s a bad idea to date your coworkers and because, deep down, I know that I keep self-sabotaging the whole thing.
I’m…open to it, I say instead. I just don’t know Harrison’s long-term plans, to tell you the truth. We caught him in between jobs, and he was just visiting the County. I honestly don’t know what he’d say if we offered him a full-time role, no matter how much he likes working with Charlie.
Well, that’s just it. We were chatting with Charlie yesterday, and it sounds like he might finally be considering retirement. Nothing firm yet! she adds quickly. Don’t panic! Kate, I can literally hear you panicking.
I am, indeed, panicking. I know Charlie has to retire eventually—hell, I want him to…just maybe not right now. I take a breath.
It’s something to think about, for sure, I say.
I think this accident has him thinking about things. You know Charlie—he’ll give you all the time you need. I just think it might be wise to start thinking about next steps.
The irony of all of this is that if Harrison weren’t all wrapped up in the business side of things, Aunt Jenn is the exact person I would want to talk to about this. I’d love nothing more than to tell her everything. But I don’t need her worrying about me going around wanting to make out with the employees I hire—ones that apparently, suddenly have long-term prospects.
Absolutely. Will do, I say. I can’t wait to see you guys, I add, and it’s the truth. I’ve got to run, but let’s chat again soon. Miss you.
Miss you, too, Katy-cat. Muah.
I don’t have to run, but I felt dangerously close to spilling everything, and I didn’t need Aunt Jenn flying on the next red-eye over to do damage control. Instead, I pack a gym bag with a swimsuit and towel and head to the rec centre. This nervous energy has got to go somewhere.
CHAPTER TWELVE
WHEN MY BROTHER AND I were kids, Aaron was amazing at pretty much every sport, not just hockey, whereas I would have tried to skip every PE class I could if my dad hadn’t literally been the teacher. But there was one single physical activity where I had the edge, and it was swimming. Maybe it was because even as a kid, he was low-key jacked, but for whatever reason, Aaron sank like a stone, and as a result, water freaked him out. And sure, maybe I was an asshole older sister for this, but I took to showing off a little: diving off the diving board, doing flips into the pool and making a big splash. He wore water wings until he was eight. I mean, he did get over it eventually, and as an adult, he is doing fine. He lives in Florida now, after all, and just last night, I saw on Instagram that he was at a beach somewhere. But for a few years in the mid-to-late 2000s, it was my time to shine.
My main athletic pursuit may have been founded in sibling rivalry, but the end result is the same: swimming calms me down. My old condo had a lap pool, and I was good about going a few times a week. It felt like it kept the crazy at bay, the frantic thoughts from moving in. I’ve been less scheduled with it since I moved here, as the pool is a twenty-minute drive away instead of an elevator ride, and I know I’m not better for it.
So, I drive the gross drive into town in the slushy-not-quite-snow, park my car, and head inside the community centre. It’s busy even for a weekday, with little toddlers getting ready for lessons and seniors doing tai chi, but the dedicated lap section is always open, and I can see through the window into the pool that there are a few lanes open. Even the smell of chlorine has a soothing quality to me, and I’m immediately glad I came.
I change, shower, and dive into the pool. The first few minutes are always the hardest, where I have to convince myself that I actually like this. But sure enough, after a few minutes, my brain is a slate wiped clean. No stress, no cidery, just pool.
After thirty-two minutes of laps, I call it. The flow is broken, and I’m panting and exhausted, but I feel much better overall. I towel off and head to the little sauna that the gym has near the pool area to recover and mentally prepare to make small talk with senior citizens wearing Speedos. The usuals are an octogenarian named Lorenzo, a slightly younger man named Stan, and a recent retiree named Rick, all of whom seemingly live inside the rec centre sauna. That, or they see me coming and head in to make sure that I do not miss a minute of their lively banter. The main thing about Lorenzo, Stan, and Rick is that they do not agree on a single topic that exists, and they live to lure unsuspecting sauna-goers into mediating their debates.
I open the heavy, creaky wooden door, and the heat beckons me in. Sure enough, as I enter, all three of the squad are on the bottom bench closest to the stones, in the midst of what appears to be a spirited discussion over whether the County should be called an island or a peninsula. All of this isn’t a surprise to me, but the presence of a fourth person in the sauna is quite a shock, because of course it’s Harrison. Why wouldn’t it be? He’s sitting on the top bench and was just about to launch into some counterargument about bridges when all four heads whipped around to my direction.
