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 she’s definitely been a solid friend to me over the years and she always seemed to understand what it was like to have a challenging family situation.
I think she was pretty upset she couldn’t come, Alba continues, a shrug winding its way up her shoulder. I told her it was for the best, though. It would be rotten for her to finally come to Cape Breton in the dead of winter when there’s nothing going on here.
Oh yeah, nothing going on, just you getting married, I tease her. But thinking about all of this has twisted a knot in my belly. I distract myself by cleaning up the mess I’ve made in the kitchen.
As I start tidying up, Alba tells me our plans for the day.
We can bring the muffins to Uncle Albie’s first. Then we have a few wedding things to drop off or pick up or both—so I’d better hurry the hell up and get ready, she adds while running out of the kitchen, knowing full well I’ll smack her with the dish towel for rushing me when she isn’t even dressed yet.
About an hour later, we’re bundled up in our winter jackets and pulling into Uncle Albie’s driveway. I smile at the perfectly sloped ramp leading up to the front door and then scowl, wondering if Alistair made this one, too.
Alba doesn’t even knock, just barrels through the door of her childhood home, which looks almost identical to the last time I was here.
The front door opens into the living room, where Uncle Albie is sitting on a faded leather couch, doing a crossword.
He doesn’t even blink as we barge through the door.
Morning girls, he says, peering up at us over his reading glasses.
He’s wearing a dark blue wool sweater with the sleeves pushed up.
He makes a face that’s uncharacteristically serious for him.
Did we have too much fun last night? This is a longstanding family joke, and how he used to not-so-subtly ask us if we’d been drinking when we were teenagers.