Page 10 of Home to Christmas Island
It’s like Alba can see inside my head. She reaches over and puts her hand on mine.
A tomorrow problem, she says.
A tomorrow problem, indeed.
Chapter 5
I’M STARTLED AWAKE THE NEXT morning and for the first few seconds, I’m not entirely sure where I am. It’s been a long time since I’ve woken up anywhere apart from a cruise ship cabin or a hotel room. The clock on the side table says it’s after six o’clock. I’m so used to my early baking shifts that this is considered sleeping in late for me.
I can see the water through the window of the room where I’m staying, which is in Alba and Rose’s two-level house. They’ve kept their home separate from the main lodge of the bed and breakfast to have their own space, so guests don’t come over here, but someone is always close by if they need anything. There are individual cabins of varying sizes spaced out in a circle around the main lodge, which has rooms upstairs as well.
I’ve been nothing but impressed by how well Alba seems to be doing with the B&B, especially after creeping her ratings online. People love this place, and she already has quite a few repeat guests, even though it’s only been open for two years.
I’m not sure exactly what Alba has planned for us today, although I know the preparations for the wedding are about to start ramping up. But I want to bake first, and knowing Albs, she’ll be sound asleep for at least another hour.
When I finally make my way downstairs, Rose is sitting at the kitchen island, in a pair of very chic matching mauve pajamas, typing away on a laptop. She runs the social media accounts for a local florist, so I assume she’s trying to get some work done. She’s also an early riser, like me. I walk over and squeeze her shoulder on my way to grab some much-needed coffee.
Morning sunshine, she says cheerily. How’s that hangover?
Not too bad to be honest. But the painkillers your wife-to-be shoved down my throat before bedtime definitely helped.
She laughs at this, as her eyes glance back down to the computer screen. I notice her makeup is already done for the day, so I guess Alba wasn’t kidding about her doing it first thing in the morning. How’s the wedding planning going?
Rose beams. Oh, Flora, it really is going well. I think it’s going to be perfect. You and Alba have a few things on your to-do list today though, she pauses, looking towards the staircase to make sure Alba isn’t awake, before leaning across the kitchen island and asking in a whisper, And how goes everything with your surprise?
I’m making Alba and Rose’s wedding cake, but Alba doesn’t know it’s me baking it. I called Rose over the summer and asked her to tell Alba she had her heart set on a particular bakery. Then I asked her to quietly freeze several pallets of fresh Nova Scotia blueberries for me to use.
The wedding cake will be a more elevated twist on Alba’s favourite blueberry loaf, with hints of lemon and a blueberry glaze—her something blue.
I’ve done a few test runs with blueberries from god-knows-where, and it’s been pretty good, so I suspect with our local berries, it will be perfect, too.
Rose nods excitedly, I love being in on a surprise for her! She always gets me and it’s never the other way around. Your blueberries are all buried in the deep freezer at Albie’s, by the way.
Thank you Rose, you absolute angel, I lean over and squeeze her hand. And speaking of Uncle Albie, I’m going to try and get back into his good graces through his stomach, so I might borrow your kitchen for about half an hour if that’s all right.
Oh honey, Rose says, smiling at me softly. This was always meant to be your space too—you’ll get more use out of this kitchen than Alba and I combined anyway. She giggles. So you just make yourself right at home.
Home. I try not to let the word sting as I roll up my sleeves and get to work.
I fall into an easy rhythm at the counter. Baking on the ships can be mindless, in both good ways and bad. We use a lot of pre-made dough mixes, which I hate, and it’s about quantity over quality. I don’t get to experiment or try new things, except for the rare occasions when I’m able to sweet talk my way into using an oven for a few hours.
But I love the quiet, early mornings to myself. I don’t sleep well anyway so the three o’clock start time never bothered me. It means I finish work early and can spend the rest of the day getting out to explore wherever the ship is docked.
When the oven dings, I feel slightly smug. Uncle Albie loves my maple muffins with a crumble topping—a recipe I made up as a teenager—and I know it will help ease both his teasing me for being away so long, and my own guilt.
Mom was an excellent baker, but she, Alba, and Uncle Albie always went over the top in their compliments to me. After high school, Alba and I moved to Halifax for two years while she started university and I worked at a bakery full-time, saving up to go to the Culinary Institute for the two-year associate degree program in Baking and Pastry Arts. Alba switched schools and moved with me. I loved the program, loved baking every day, but was definitely a little overwhelmed by New York.
The smell of the muffins has roused Alba, who waltzes into the kitchen and inhales dramatically. She’s wearing a black tank top and baggy grey sweatpants I know she’s had since high school, and her short hair is tangled up in a scrunchie on the top of her head. It reminds me so much of her on the mornings after a childhood sleepover that I can’t help but smile. When she reaches for a muffin, I bat her hand away.
Hey! What the hell Flora, she says, getting into a stance that suggests she’s about to fully tackle me. You can’t make these and not share!
They’re for your dad. I’ve got to start buttering him up or I’ll never hear the end of it.
He doesn’t need twelve muffins, she huffs, crossing her arms. After I’ve had my fun teasing her for a little longer, I finally hand Alba two of the still-hot muffins lathered in butter. She moans, and says with her mouth full, You’ve outdone yourself, Flora. I put two aside for Rose, who went into town to run some errands before the muffins finished baking. I watch Alba lick butter off her fingers, already reaching for her second.
Since Alba quit her job on the cruise ship, this stretch of time is the longest we’ve ever been apart. We were inseparable, always. Even in the haze of our grief after my mother died.
But everything started to change when the pandemic hit five years ago.
