Page 43 of Home to Christmas Island
I debate for a second about whether or not to ask, but I decide not.
Florence: It sounds like you need coffee cake. I have just the thing! Be right there :)
I HAVE TO ADMIT SOMETHING to you, I say, a bit sheepishly. Alistair is ushering me inside the house. I thought I’d be shaky and anxious again being here, but instead I feel an immediate sense of rightness, like all my muscles are relaxing into the familiarity of this place. This is where you’re supposed to be, a voice in my head says. But I don’t dwell on it.
Go on then. He’s wearing dark grey sweatpants and a navy-and-red plaid shirt. It looks soft, and I have to physically restrain myself from reaching out to touch it.
I really wanted to be here today, at the lake house.
His lips twitch. Okay. Then I must admit something to you.
Go on then, I say, repeating his words back to him and trying hard not to imitate his Scottish accent.
I really wanted coffee cake. He smiles this cheeky, delighted smile and leans down to kiss me. My laugh melts into a sigh. I pull him closer, feeling greedy for more of him. He tastes like coffee.
I thought you were a tea drinker? I say accusingly, looking for his mug, but my tone is playful as I pull away from him.
Why can’t it be both? He laughs. I didn’t realize it had to be one or the other.
I smile at him and nod. Both then. I lift the tinfoil-wrapped dessert in my hands and ask, Cake?
He gets us two plates and I turn the oven on, explaining that it’s better warm.
I’m bustling through the kitchen, looking for a pair of oven mitts, when I look up to find Alistair watching me.
What? I ask, wondering if I’ve overstepped. For a second, I feel an ache in the pit of my stomach. I’ve invited myself over and maybe he doesn’t want me here and—
Nothing, he shakes his head. It’s nice to see you making yourself at home here. His voice is teasing but I wince.
Sorry, is all I can manage to say. A look of surprise passes over his face and he comes over to me.
No, Florence, I didn’t mean it like that. It is nice to see you here. His tone is genuine, gentle even.
But a little weird? I glance up at him almost guiltily.
He shakes his head again. I don’t find it that weird, to be honest. The tension leaves my body and I’m hit a second time with that sense of rightness at being here. At being with him, too, that little voice in my head says.
The oven dings and I pull out the coffee cake, putting each slice onto a plate. Alistair thanks me when I hand it to him. We move to sit by the couch next to the fireplace. I’m watching him eat, I can’t help it, and he catches me staring at him.
How is it? I ask, bracing myself and motioning to the coffee cake. This is a particularly nostalgic treat for me and for some reason, his opinion matters. I want him to like it.
Oh, he says as he swallows his next bite, and for a second I prepare to hear him critique it. I know that comes from Justin, who always started with the ways to improve. It’s easily the best cake I’ve ever had. He says this like it’s nothing, popping a cranberry from the top of the cake into his mouth. He studies me and I’m not sure what he’s reading on my face.
I chew on my lip before I answer, staring towards the fireplace. Are you only saying that to be nice?
He drawls out his response. Would I lie to you, ‘Just Florence?’
It occurs to me that, no, he wouldn’t. If I’m being honest with myself, I think Justin did the opposite—he found flaws where there were none, in some attempt to keep me under his thumb.
It’s like Alistair senses this thought radiating from me. He’s looking at his cake when he says, So, tell me about the guy on the boat.
There’s no guy on the boat.
The look he gives me is so deadpan that I giggle a little bit. He just waits patiently, continuing to eat his coffee cake, until I answer.
There was a guy on the boat. Justin. We worked together on the cruise ships, he’s the head chef and is a pretty talented one at that, I wince before adding, He was a little critical of my baking. I say baking the way Justin always said it, like it was something that was beneath him. Alistair notices the tone and frowns.
What’s wrong with baking?
