Page 31 of Wassailing We Will Go
Nah, Steph’s making me a new one as we speak, I say. Which is true. After our text exchange the other day, I commissioned a new one and told her to have Hazel pick the colours. I am both nervous and excited about what the result will be. You’ll likely meet her and her daughter, Hazel, on Saturday, actually. They said they’d stop by.
Well, big fan of her work. He flips the scarf around his neck. This is the warmest item of clothing that I own, and it has the added bonus of giving me zero rashes.
Have you been here before? I nod toward the front windshield. It’s slowly becoming covered in snowflakes, but I can still see the water in the distance.
No, I haven’t. And I’ve never seen snow on a beach before. Absolutely wild concept. I’ve been wanting to do this for weeks. Shall we?
He grabs a blanket from the back of his car and wraps himself in it as we walk down a path that cuts through a copse of trees.
Are you really that cold?
I mean, you know that the honest answer is yes, but also, this is for us to sit on. It’s in the back because I took Milo to the dog park yesterday. Wait—you’re not allergic, are you? he asks, turning to me.
No allergies to speak of, I say. When we emerge from the trees, Lake Ontario spreads out before us, and to our left are the Sandbanks sand dunes. The scrubby little brushes that usually grow along the ridges in the summer are bare, just sticky twigs that jut out from the light sand hills.
It’ll be warmer if we stay here by the trees, I say. The wind looks bad out there. Harrison puts the old, quilted blanket down, and we settle in with our rapidly cooling french fries.
Nestled next to the pine trees and low to the ground, it’s chilly but bearable. Looking out at the waves on the lake, I can tell that we’d be freezing if we were out on the dunes, pretty as they are.
Must be nice in the summer, he says, looking out at the water.
It is. It’s nice to come early in the morning before the crowds move in. It can get pretty busy, and the water’s often still cold even into July, but there are no dangerous animals to speak of, I add.
Maybe I’ll still be here, then, he says. I’d like to see it.
You really don’t want to go back to BC? I ask.
He shrugs. I always get restless after a while. Even without the breakup, it would have been getting to be around that time anyway, I guess. Lot of cideries out there to explore… or maybe I just haven’t found where I’m meant to be yet.
Do you ever think you’ll go back?
Home? I think about it sometimes. The wine industry there might have me, as I gained some experience in France before I switched back to cider. And I mean, I do miss my family and quite a few friends out that way. But we had a bit of a falling-out, my parents and I, before I started travelling abroad. He’s not eating the rest of his fries, just moving them around with the tiny fork, distracted.
Have you been back? I ask.
I haven’t. My parents and sister all came to visit me for Christmas in the UK, once, a few years back. My mum has a cousin out that way, so it made more sense to visit me when I was there.
I can’t imagine. The furthest I’ve ever lived away from home is being two hours away in Toronto, I say. I mean, I’ve travelled a little bit. I did a semester in Halifax, which was cool. But apparently, I couldn’t stay away for too long.
If my grandad hadn’t passed, I can’t say for certain whether I ever would have left, says Harrison. My parents sold his property not even weeks later to a developer that had evidently been harassing my grandad for years to sell. And I mean, sure, what’s a few acres of apples compared to what I now hear is some sort of active seniors’ community resort. But I never had a chance to even try to salvage the place. My parents said I was too young. And that’s when I left, he says with a shrug.
I can’t imagine what I would have done if my aunts had sold the cidery off without telling me, I say. I’m not going to pretend every day since I took over Sparks has been a party. During my second week, Daniel found me sobbing in the walk-in freezer, and I am not usually one to cry at all, full stop. It’s not been easy. But I was the first person they called when they wanted to retire, and I don’t regret it for a minute, coming back here. And I realize that I mean that. I look out at the frigid lake, holding my now-cold fries, and have a profound feeling of gratitude. Maybe I haven’t had much practice at that these past few months.
This is really nice, he says. Seeing snow on a beach is just as beautiful and trippy as I thought it would be, and I like talking to you. But if we could maybe continue this conversation indoors, I would be eternally grateful, as I cannot feel my toes.
This isn’t hiking boot weather, I say, looking at his feet. If you’re still around in January, our first order of business will be getting you some real snow boots.
I don’t like it, the way I always have to discuss any future plans with him. A big asterisk over every statement: if you’re still here. If you decide to stay. I realize, of course, that he came here just for a holiday visit, and it would be ridiculous to make concrete plans based on the events of a two-week period, but I still wish I could forge ahead, both personally and professionally, banking on his presence at the cidery well into the future, not just until Christmas. With Wassail starting this weekend, it’s almost like a countdown until his maybe departure: three weeks of holiday festivities, the week before Christmas, the timeless, blobby existence that marks the week in between Christmas and New Year’s, and then…who knows what the New Year will bring.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WE RETURN TO THE PT Cruiser, and as usual, all heaters go on blast, with a local radio station playing only the most generic Christmas music selections.
Not to brag, but my car has seat warmers. And a heated steering wheel. In case you want me to drive next time, I mention as we drive back into town to retrieve my vehicle.
Right, that’s just showing off, he says. But I guess it’s something to aspire to. When he parks near my car, we sit there for a moment or two, neither of us sure what to do next.
I should go home and feed Steven, I say, finally unbuckling my seat belt.
