Chapter 2
WHEN I DRIVE BY THE post office, I almost have to shut my eyes—not a great idea when you’re behind the wheel of a car. And definitely not one that would be sanctioned by certain Scottish police officers.
Feelings bubble up like acid as I pass by some of my old haunts, but I try to shove them down, down, down.
The memories pelt me like glass: My mom in her apron, baking hundreds of Christmas cookies for anyone who stopped in at the post office to mail a letter. Alba and I riding our bikes along this highway in the summer months, not a care in the world. The call a decade ago that changed everything.
I used to describe myself as a bit of a thrill-seeker. I loved the feeling of adrenaline and trying something new—I was always furiously determined to get better at something if I didn’t pick it up right away.
But it’s as if over the last few years I’ve been on autopilot, surviving only on fumes to try and distract myself, to get by one day at a time.
I pull into the driveway of the bed and breakfast and smile at the sign that reads Rose Cottages. Alba surprised her fiancée by naming the business after her. Rose is, quite literally, a rose—she is lovely and sweet, and she cried when she saw the name.
I have never seen Alba so happy, even if it’s mostly been through a phone screen. A pang of regret stings in the back of my throat. We text every day and FaceTime a few times a week, but it’s not the same as seeing her in person.
I pull up beside the house and put the car in park. As I turn off the engine, I hear the front door bang open. I’m barely even out of the car before Alba runs down the front steps and into my arms.
She crashes into me so hard that we fall into the snow, laughing hysterically.
You’re here, Alba says, sighing with what almost sounds like relief.
I’m here, I say, my voice trembling slightly.
I inhale sharply, leaning back into the rage instead of the other emotions trying to crawl their way to the surface.
And, I got pulled over by the world’s biggest jackass.
Some Scottish come-from-away cop who gave me my first-ever ticket. Who is that guy?
Alba grabs me firmly by the shoulders, and her dark hazel eyes, which miss nothing, scan my face.
Her straight, dark brown hair is shorter than the last time I’d seen her in person, cut into a long bob that suits her.
After a beat, she gives me a devilish smirk, something about it making me feel right at home and homesick at the same time.
You got pulled over? By Alistair?
I blink. I don’t know, I didn’t get his name, though it’s probably written on the ticket, I say, gesturing towards the car.
And he gave you a ticket? Alba’s eyebrow quirks, her lips slowly curving into a smile that is positively devious.
Yeah, like I said, total jackass.
Alba is looking at me in a way that I know means she knows more than she’s letting on. What about this guy could she possibly have to keep from me?
What? I ask her, feeling a smidge defensive.
She chuckles and shakes her head, clearing the strange look off her face, Of course you were speeding. You deserve a ticket after all these years. But he’s actually a good guy, she shrugs. Dad loves him.
Her father is my Uncle Albert, or Uncle Albie, which is what I’ve called him since I was a kid. He’s a loud, occasionally obnoxious, take-no-bullshit kind of man. I never knew my own father, so Uncle Albie is the closest thing I have to a parental figure left.
He was married to my mom’s sister Beth, who died of ovarian cancer when Alba and I were toddlers.
But when she was pregnant, Uncle Albie was so convinced it was a boy they would name Albert, he took to calling the baby little Albs before it was born.
When a little girl showed up instead, it didn’t faze him at all—and baby Albert Jr. became baby Alba instead.
Uncle Albie and my mother basically raised the two of us together. We were always our own version of a family, having Sunday dinners at the lake house and getting swapped between homes if one of the parents was working late.
But Alba and I spent most of our time at the lake house, where mom and I lived.
We would make forts in the woods nearby when we were little and lounge on the dock by the water in our teen years.
Every so often, my mother would have enough of our antics—especially during the first six months after we learned about making prank phone calls—and so we’d venture up the hill to play at Uncle Albie’s house.
That sharp pain in my chest is back. The guilt slithers in, coiling there and reminding me of all the years I’ve missed out on, especially with my uncle.
When can I see him? I breathe. Alba lights up at this.
Tonight, at the pub of course, she says, and I groan.
Non-negotiable, Alba says. It’s the first of the Christmas Ceilidhs, which are being held on Sundays this year. And guess who’s playing tonight? She’s fully laughing now as I slump further into the snow, and start to wail loudly. I can’t believe my rotten luck today.
Not them Albs, tell me it isn’t them! Them being The MacNeils & The McNeils, a local band that irritates me to no end. They’ve been around since Alba and I were teenagers. They always cover the same old songs, use way too much fiddle, and I swear the lead singer is always a little bit off key.
Alba laughs fiendishly, looking a little too delighted for my liking. Who else, Flora? She shoves me and says, The whole pub is going to fall off their chairs when they see you tonight.
The pub in Iona is really the only gathering place anywhere near here, apart from the fire hall which sometimes holds events.
Iona is one of the many places that makes up this section of the island along Highway 223, each community so small that to anyone passing through, they would all seem like the same place.
The next closest gathering spot is a good thirty-minute drive away.
Alba and I have spent many, many a night at the pub—where else was there to go?
But her words, the whole pub, send a flood of anxiety through me.
Word travels fast around here and I wonder what people will make of me finally coming home.
I know most of the people who live here don’t mean anything by a little bit of island gossip, but sometimes it still stings.
The whispers about my mother raising me alone, the talk about me being a bit of a wild child in my teen years. I can’t help but cringe inwardly.
Alba must see the change of expression on my face because she says, Aw, come on Cousin, they’re not so bad for a local band. I bet they’ll play all your favourites if you ask nicely. It’s almost menacing the way she says it and she pokes me in the side. I bat her hand away.
Rose appears at the still-open front door like a ray of sunshine, her golden brown skin and long, dark hair glossy in the light of the porch lamp. I see her shoulders shake as she laughs at the pair of us in the snowbank.
Get in here you two, you’ll freeze to death! She calls out to us, still laughing, and her honey-smooth voice makes me smile so big I realize my cheeks are freezing. I run up the steps to Rose and pull her into a hug, breathing in her smell of cedar and saffron.
When Alba moved back to Christmas Island three years ago, she wasn’t even here a week before she and Rose got together. We’d known Rose a little in school growing up, but she was two grades behind us, and our paths had never really crossed. Alba says when they met again, it was instant fireworks.
They came to visit me not long after they first started dating, when I was in between cruise ship routes.
The three of us spent two weeks in Buenos Aires—and it took less than twenty-four hours for me to realize that Rose was here for the long haul.
Her gentle, sweet nature really helps soften Alba, who can be a little rough around the edges.
Oh Flora, it means so much to us that you’re here, Rose pulls out of our hug and puts her hand on my cheek. I know it wasn’t easy for you, coming home, so thank you.
I feel another wave of anxiety. Rose is very openly affectionate in a way that doesn’t come naturally to me, but she does it so lovingly it’s hard not to react warmly to her.
Still, I feel a bit of tension creeping into my shoulders, my heart picking up its pace.
I take a deep breath and try to shake off the guilt.
I wouldn’t miss it, I say, and mean it. Not even my own stubbornness could stop me from being here for Alba and Rose’s wedding. But if you could get me out of going to the pub tonight…
Oh no, Rose laughs, patting my shoulder in apology. There is nothing on earth that could get you out of that.
I FEEL LIKE I’VE BEEN transported back to high school as Alba, Rose, and I cram into their bathroom, taking turns to straighten our hair and do our makeup.
Alba doesn’t wear a lot on her face these days—a little mascara and bronzer for special occasions.
But like me, she’s always been obsessive about her hair.
I watch her straighten each piece repeatedly. It reminds me so much of our teen years, when both of us would use a literal iron to get our hair ramrod straight, that I can’t help the laugh that escapes me.
What are you giggling about? Alba demands, her eyes never straying from her own hair in the mirror. Rose answers before I get a chance.
She’s probably watching you straighten that same piece of hair for the fiftieth time. Her tone is playful, and she kisses Alba on the cheek after she says it. I notice her left hand as she cups my cousin’s cheek, her ring glittering in the harsh bathroom light.
Let me get a look at that ring in person! I squeal, ushering Rose over. Alba video called me while she went ring shopping and I’ve seen tons of pictures, but I can’t help the familiar twinge of guilt that I wasn’t here in person for their engagement.
Rose comes over and waggles her fingers at me as I ooh and aah over the ring. She gets a little teary as she says, Oh Flora, I really do love it. It’s better than anything I could have dreamed.
Okay no more of that right now, you’ll ruin your eyeliner!
I laugh, wiping a tear off her cheek that brings a streak of black with it.
Rose shrieks at this and Alba and I laugh at the sound.
Rose is normally pretty chill, but she’s serious about her makeup, always doing it first thing in the morning, even if they’re not going out anywhere.
Alba says Rose’s mom is exactly the same way.
That thought feels like a rock in my stomach, and I mentally bat it away.
My cousin has made us both cranberry Moscow Mules as our pre-drink before heading to the pub—and a virgin one for Rose, who has graciously agreed to be our designated driver tonight. There’s no Uber in Cape Breton and it would be a waste of breath to try and call a taxi out this way.
I sip on my drink as I try to decide on my outfit. Alba is wearing her usual: head-to-toe black. Black cargo pants, a soft, black button-up flannel and I assume she’ll wear her black Blundstones that she’s had for years.
Rose has on a beautiful, flowy green dress with fleece-lined leggings underneath to keep her warm.
The sleeves of her dress get wider as they get closer to her hands, reminding me almost of a fairy.
She has on three or four gold necklaces, all different lengths, with green jade earrings that shine through the strands of her long dark hair.
I finally land on a pair of faded black jeans and a shimmering gold halter top, which is a bit ridiculous for winter, but I know it will be warm in the pub tonight.
I’m leaving my long hair down in loose waves and I’ve done my most glam level of makeup, which for me means foundation, blush, and a little chocolate-brown eyeliner, since black always looks too dark on my pale skin.
I opt for a brown mascara, too, which makes my green eyes pop.
I’m very aware that I’ll be seeing people I haven’t laid eyes on in over a decade. I want to look good.
Some part of me is desperate to prove that I have it together now.
Who all will be there tonight? I feel a little bit nervous about going to the pub, but I try to play it off, laying on a thick Cape Breton accent for my question.
The usual suspects, Alba says, raising an eyebrow at me.
I try not to gulp. At big gatherings like this, people often used to say things to my mother like—You’ve got your hands full with that one, dear.
It wasn’t that I was a bad kid, necessarily. I did well in school. I just worked hard and partied hard. And I always loved to find a new adrenaline rush.
But it meant I had a bit of a reputation for getting into trouble.
Come on Cousin, the night is young, Alba says before downing the last of her drink, pulling on her black Blundstones, and ushering Rose and I out of the house.