Page 39 of Wassailing We Will Go
I wondered if you had a moment, I start. They’re packed, and she clearly doesn’t, but I continue. I’ll be quick, I promise.
She sighs. Fine, come into the office. She leads me around the corner from the tasting bar, down a hallway to a quiet back room. Like everything with b&s, it’s designed to perfection, with a big window, trendy office chairs, and Milo the dog napping in the corner. He lifts his head as I walk in, glares at me, and puts it back down.
I owe you an apology, I think, I say. I haven’t been the best neighbour.
I mean, we did also accidentally poison you, so I think we can call it even on that front, says Brittney as she sits down at one of the chairs. She motions to one nearby, a bright yellow one, and I sit. I still don’t know what happened with that, to be honest. Ryan is an amazing baker. He washes his hands every three seconds. We sourced everything locally: the fig jam was from a cute shop in Picton, and the goat cheese was from just down the road.
Wait, wait, I say. Not from Linda?
Yeah, we went over to talk to her so she’d stop calling the police on us. We brought her some baked goods, tried to shmooze her. We bought a bunch of products from her farm. We thought it had worked, but then two weeks later, she called to complain about traffic again, so I guess that one is a lost cause.
I don’t think Ryan is to blame for the cookies, I say. The goat cheese was just placed on top, right? Not cooked.
Yeah, it was more just like a finishing touch… says Brittney. Wait, you don’t think—
I absolutely do. I don’t know how we’d ever prove it, though, I say. But this is not our first run-in with Linda. She’s pulled some stunts over the years. Usually, she does it behind the scenes by going to council and kicking up a fuss and trying to get us shut down, and obviously, you already know that Linda loves calling the police. But even they’re all over her nonsense by now. She clearly decided to take it into her own hands.
Brittney looks shocked. Do you think she’s the one who ruined your cider? she asks.
I don’t. But I know who did. That’s why I’m here. I’m hoping to find Harrison.
I don’t know if you’ll recognize him when you do, she says. He’s back to being a sad mountain man, beard and all. He should be back at the house. He couldn’t get a flight out until after Christmas. It was all too insanely expensive, so he’s here for a little while yet.
Thanks. And, um, congrats on the award. It was well-deserved. I tried the cider, and it was really good. This was true. Daniel had recently brought a few bottles over for us to try in the office, and we were all in begrudging agreement that it was, in fact, the superior cider, even Charlie.
Thanks. I just need to figure out how to get the LCBO to pick it up. I mean, we’re small. We’re never going to get the batches necessary for a big run. But you’d think it would be easier to get bottles on the shelf in our own backyard, she says, and her expression is so defeated, and I am already so emotional, that my last wall comes down.
I can help with that, I say. It’s just getting the right paperwork in and proving that you can deliver on the—we can get into details later, but I can help. If you want.
That would be amazing. I— To my amazement, she tears up and wipes them away quickly. Sorry. This business, it’s mostly been exciting, and we’re so blessed, but it’s also so, so much harder than I thought. I opened this place with the inheritance I got when my dad passed away, and some days, it feels like I’m maybe letting him down with all of this.
Because I have zero chill left, I also tear up. It is hard, I agree.
Can I hug you? she asks, and we do. And then we laugh.
I can see why Harrison likes you. I admit that I didn’t before, she says. I thought you were a little…standoffish.
I mean, I was, I say. But…I think I’m ready to not be. I think maybe we could collaborate a bit on some things. Like the party next week. I’ve called the tour groups and switched around our order for Sunday. We’ll close early, end up back here at the end of the night, for your party.
We hug again, and I get directions to her house to go and speak with Harrison.
But I have one more stop to make first.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I ARRIVE AT THE PICTURESQUE farmhouse just after dark, which in early December, around these parts, is about 4:00 p.m.
Like at bitter&sweet, I sit in the car for a moment, mustering courage. But meeting Britt went about a thousand times better than I would have ever imagined, and with that thought, I stroll up to the front door with my peace offering.
I ring the doorbell with my elbow. It takes longer than I would have liked for the door to open since I’m laden with bags—and for a moment, I think he’s not going to answer at all. Finally, Harrison is at the door, and wow, was Britt not kidding about his appearance. In the four days since Harrison quit, he’s managed to grow an impressive amount of facial hair. Not quite the mountain man Britt described, but still. He’s wearing a housecoat that I doubt belongs to him and slippers that definitely do, as they have the Australian flag on them.
He sees me notice them. They were a gag gift from Ryan, he explains. The floors are cold, and Milo sheds—anyway, sorry, what are you doing here? he asks.
The bags I’m struggling to keep in my arms are getting really heavy, and I realize that I maybe should have brought them in after the front-door conversation that we’re currently having. Sorry, can I put these down first?
Oh, sorry, yeah. Come in, he says and takes the multiple brown bags out of my hands. The inside of the farmhouse is just as beautiful as the exterior, and he leads me to an open-concept kitchen with beautifully restored barn board beams. From the next room, I hear the TV and what is unmistakably the reality TV yacht drama show.
Good choice of television, I offer as he puts all the bags onto the dining room table.
