Page 35 of Home to Christmas Island
Instead, I ask Alistair, So how are you finding the winters in Nova Scotia? Is it similar to Scotland?
A lot more rain where I’m from, he says as he continues drilling. It does snow in Edinburgh, but it never really sticks, and certainly not the way it hangs around in Cape Breton. But outside of the cities, up in the highlands, we get a fair amount of snow. And the skiing here is much better. He smiles at me and I try to ignore the zing that goes up my spine.
We keep talking while he works, and I hold the boards steady. We chat about skiing and hockey, and what makes a good pub, and the next thing you know, more than an hour has gone by.
There, Alistair says, shaking the last board to make sure it’s secure.
When does all this become a rink? I gesture out towards the wooden perimeter.
When the weather cooperates, Fast Florence, he says, looking out to survey his handiwork. And when it does finally get cold enough, we’ll bring over the liner—it’s a large, white tarp that we place over top of all this. We’ll secure it down outside the boards and then fill it with water. Once it freezes over, then we’ll have ourselves a rink.
It occurs to me that, given how fit Alistair is, he’s probably a great skater. A thrill runs through me at the thought of it. There’s something really sexy about a man who can move with confidence on the ice, but maybe that’s the Canadian in me.
I watch him examine the work going on around him. He frowns. I’ll have to get some taller pieces of wood to string some lights up around the rink when it’s ready, too. This guy never stops.
Eddie confirms that everything is as it should be, and soon he and the rest of the boys are getting in their cars and heading home.
Fancy a drink? Alistair asks, motioning towards his Jeep. I give him a quizzical look and he laughs. Come with me. You’ll see.
We walk back towards the parking lot. He puts the last of his tools in the back seat, returning with a thermos in hand. He opens up the back hatch and sits on the back of his car, patting the spot beside him for me.
Cider? He offers.
Alcoholic cider? I ask, a little taken aback. He rolls his eyes.
Always zero to a hundred with you, Fast Florence, he teases. No, just apple, I’m afraid. He hands me a mug that he pulls from the back of his car. It occurs to me that he thought to bring not only the cider, but the extra mug, too. He pours some for me first, then his own in the lid of the thermos. We clink our cups together before each taking a sip.
The flavours surprise me. It’s a perfect blend of spices and definitely not store-bought. I cradle the mug, which is keeping my hands warm.
Did you make this? I ask him.
I did, he nods, assessing me. Not as good as your cookies, I’d wager. I brought your container back, by the way. He reaches behind him and hands me the empty container.
Did you eat all of those cookies already? The words are out of my mouth, and I cringe slightly. It’s a rude question for sure, but I can’t help myself. He’s only one man—and we only brought the cookies over yesterday.
Hey, don’t judge me, he says, his tone serious but I can tell from the look in his eyes that he’s teasing me. I couldn’t help myself, okay? They were addictive, I literally could not stop. I almost brought them into work to get them tested, to make sure they weren’t laced with narcotics. But that would have meant giving one up, and I wasn’t about to do that.
I can’t tell if it’s the cider that’s warming me or the praise, but I smile into my mug.
Thanks for having us over yesterday. Sorry if it was a little awkward, I say, wincing slightly.
It wasn’t awkward, he shakes his head. How are you feeling now, after seeing the house?
I think about this for a minute. Relieved that it hasn’t been completely destroyed, I say, trying to joke with him, but it falls flat. I sigh. I honestly don’t know. Better? Worse? Both?
He nods. I get it, these things can be complicated. But like I said, Florence, you’re welcome back anytime you like. Again, that feeling of relief washes over me.
We continue to chatter on about nothing in particular, sipping on our drinks. It’s easy talking to him like this, but it’s a few minutes before I can work up the nerve to ask the question that’s been nagging at me.
So, you grew up in Edinburgh, right? He nods. Is your family all still there?
He assesses me, his eyes a little more wary than I’m used to seeing. He’s normally so direct, but he reaches up and rubs the back of his neck. My eyes follow the movement, watching the way his sleeve dips down ever so slightly, as I wait for him to answer.
Mum is still in Edinburgh, yes. My younger brother, Finn, lives in Glasgow now.
Do you talk to them a lot?
I hear from them both every so often, but it’s a little strained, he shrugs. Family stuff, I guess. None of us have any contact with my father, though.
