Page 37 of Home to Christmas Island
I feel my mouth twist up in hesitation. I’m trying to talk about Mom more, hoping it will help ease the pain a little bit. But the arrows still find their mark deep in my heart every time she comes up in conversation, or even in my own memories.
Florence: My mother was, no word of a lie, the best baker I’ve ever known. I swear it was some kind of magic she was able to infuse into her cooking or something, because I could never recreate recipes and have them taste as good. It aggravated me and, since we’re new friends and you don’t know this about me yet, I am very competitive. So I made her show me again and again. Then when my confidence grew, I started experimenting, trying out new recipes or making up my own. I almost set the house on fire a few times with my failed attempts. And the pub, on one occasion. But she never made me feel like I couldn’t do it full-time, so I guess I believed I could. I think a lot of people were surprised when I started baking, it seemed almost tame for me, I guess. But I get the same sort of high from trying to get a recipe to taste exactly the way I imagine it tasting in my head. It’s its own kind of adrenaline rush.
He writes back immediately.
Alistair: You? Competitive??? I’m shocked. It’s just a coincidence I’ve been calling you Miss Anne Shirley in my head all week—fighting tooth and nail to outdo poor Gilbert Blythe. And all this time he’s only been trying to be her friend! Remind you of anyone? ;)
While his nicknames for me aren’t new, I’ve learned this week that he has a rolodex of pop-culture references at the ready. He loves to read, has seen about a million movies, and often teases me about his comparisons that go over my head. But this one makes my heart sing. I love Anne of Green Gables and always felt a connection to Anne as a kid, probably because of her red hair.
My phone buzzes again.
Alistair: But that’s lovely, Florence. You should count yourself lucky to have so many people in your corner. And I like that there’s a safe way for you to feed the thrill-seeking beast—well, not including the fires I suppose.
Something about this doesn’t sit right, the nearly wistful tone of having people in my corner. It makes me wonder if he doesn’t have that. I feel a wave of gratitude for Alba, Rose, Uncle Albie and Violet, even though I haven’t seen her in ages. I type out a question I’ve been wanting to ask about his brother.
Florence: I am very lucky in that department, you’re right. But you say it a bit like you don’t feel the same way. Are you and Finn not super close?
He doesn’t reply right away, so I force myself to put my phone down and get to work preparing the vanilla bourbon icing. I let myself check my phone again before I start icing each cupcake: no new messages.
I ice all forty cupcakes by hand. I clean up all the dishes, trying not to strain at every little sound with the hope it’s the buzz of my phone. When I can’t take it anymore, I peek at my screen. There’s one new message, and it’s long.
Alistair: We are. But it’s complicated, I suppose. He took it a lot harder when our dad left, I think because I shielded so much of it from him for so long. And that anger came out eventually. He went through a really dark couple of years. I think he resents me a bit for moving to Canada. He’s actually never been to visit, although I’m certain he’d fit right in here. We either meet up elsewhere, like our hiking trip through Snowdonia last year, or I see him when I’m back in Scotland. I would do anything for Finn and he knows that, which is all that really matters to me. Luckily, I’ve made a lot of good mates since moving here. There are a few guys on the force that I spend a fair amount of time with outside of work. They understand the strain and the frustrations of the job, and I know they’d have my back if I needed it. Plus, everyone in Christmas Island has taken a particular liking to me, I think because I offered to help out with so many things when I first got here.
I mull all of this over for a few minutes. I think back to that first night I saw him at the pub, drinking a beer with a man I didn’t recognize. Was that one of his coworkers? I’m glad he has friends he can talk to about his job though. But I’m not quite ready to delve into that particular subject tonight.
I notice he doesn’t say that Finn would have his back too, and wonder why he might resent Alistair for moving. Maybe because he felt left behind?
I think about how much Alistair does for other people. I remember something he said to me at the beach the day of the polar bear dip—that he got into policing because he liked making people feel safe. My chest feels like it’s been run over by a cement truck. It’s like all these pieces of who he is are finally slotting together, and I wonder how Uncle Albie saw who he was so early on.
I feel a surge of protectiveness for Alistair and I’m selective with what I say in my response.
Florence: I get it, I really do. The family stuff can be a lot sometimes. I don’t have any siblings, but Alba and I have had our fair share of complicated phases over the years. But hey, you’ve got another friend in Christmas Island who’s in your corner now, too—even if she does have a lead foot. The Cape Bretoners are really lucky, Alistair, that you ended up here to keep us safe.
Us? Since when did I think about myself as fully us with the Cape Bretoners again?
Alistair: Thank you, Florence. I’ll see you tonight?
I think there’s something almost hopeful there, but maybe I’m imagining it. I send him another picture of the finished cupcakes and three words: See you tonight.
Chapter 16
YOU LOOK STUNNING, ALBA SAYS, her mouth agape. She and Rose are wearing matching elf costumes—and I’m pretty sure Alba’s ears are the ones she got from the parade. The theme of the party is simply Christmas, but I’ve gone a bit over the top. I’m wearing a dark-green sequinned jumpsuit. It has a deep V-neck with short sleeves and wide bellbottom pant legs. It’s fun enough that I think I can pull it off without seeming overdressed, but I know I look great in this colour. And it helps that it fits me like a glove.
Oh, Floraaaaaa, Rose is practically jumping up with glee. She leans over and smooths a piece of my hair, which is down in long, loose waves tonight. He’s going to be speechless.
Alba only smirks beside her. I’ve said nothing to either of them about the non-stop texting with Alistair, but they know. And they know I know they know.
Come on then, hotcakes, Alba says, motioning for me to follow. Let’s go, people will be here soon.
The party tonight is being held in the bed and breakfast’s main lodge, which is basically one giant gathering room on the main floor. There’s a small kitchen near the back, but it’s used mostly to assemble breakfasts during the busy seasons. The entrance to the lodge is covered in glittering lights and deep red poinsettias. The fireplace is roaring with heat and there are dozens of beautiful garlands hanging all around the room—some made of flowers, others of delicate wooden beads—all of them crafted by Rose.
Uncle Albie is fiddling with some of the string lights that are falling off the table. There’s a real tree in here, too, looking a bit boring without our childhood knick-knacks among the pristine ornaments. In the middle of the room is a long wooden table that I imagine will be filled with food shortly. It’s a potluck tonight.
Along with my cupcakes, Alba and Rose have set out a huge charcuterie board of meats, cheeses, and fruits. Uncle Albie must have brought the meatballs I spy sitting on a slow cooker on the far end of the table.
Looking good in here girls, he praises us. He has on a plum-coloured shirt that’s been freshly ironed and a Santa hat that looks like he’s had it for years. Flora, did you make those cupcakes?
I did.
