Chapter 20
WHEN WE WALK INTO ALBA and Rose’s house, I can smell that the turkey is already in the oven, which means Uncle Albie’s here. He’s always in charge of the turkey and for good reason—he cooks it perfectly every single time.
I brought a guest, I say, not looking at Alba as we walk into the kitchen. Rose claps and runs over to hug Alistair.
Oh Al, it’s so nice that you’re here, she beams at both of us.
When I chance a look at Alba, she’s smiling at Alistair, and it’s not a pretend smile either.
Her eyes drift over to me, and we have one of those silent conversations: Truce?
I nod. Truce. Relief floods me so fast I almost shudder. I hate fighting with my cousin.
I don’t like coming empty-handed, but Florence assured me there was plenty of food. So I brought some Scottish whisky, if that’s of interest to anyone, Alistair puts the bottle on the kitchen counter. He’d been so adamant about bringing something it actually reminded me of my mother.
Ho ho boy, this is well received, Uncle Albie picks up the bottle to examine it and soon he, Alistair and Alba are all enjoying a glass.
Not a big whisky fan? Alistair asks me, and I can already tell he’s going to tease me about it.
Oh, she can’t handle it since the incident, Uncle Albie says, grinning, and I can only groan out in protest.
Not this story please, I beg, covering my eyes with my hand. Alba is already laughing.
Our little Flora had to learn the hard way that different drinks have different levels of alcohol. And that drinking a bottle of beer isn’t the same as, say, drinking an entire bottle of whisky, my uncle continues, pretending to wince. Let’s just say it wasn’t pretty.
How was I supposed to know? I cross my arms in defiance. No one ever told me any differently!
Well, you were only fourteen, if I recall, so it’s not like your mother and I had time to prepare.
Always pedal to the metal, our Flora. Albie gestures at Alistair when he says this, winking.
Went from never having a sip of alcohol to drinking everything she could get her hands on in a single night.
It’s rough having to get sober at fourteen, Alba jokes.
You guys are the worst, I mutter under my breath.
But unfortunately, Alistair, that does mean I still can’t taste whisky without also tasting vomit.
So, none for me, thanks. I shake my hands at him in refusal and notice he’s got quite the frown on his face—it feels like a lifetime ago that his scowl made me see red.
We’re going to have to do something about that, he shakes his head. I’ll start researching exposure therapy methods tomorrow. I can’t imagine being with someone who can’t appreciate a good whisky. Goes against my DNA.
Everyone laughs at this, but I'm a little stunned by his candour. Being with someone? It’s like I can feel my fight or flight kicking in, but I can tell the comment hasn’t rattled Alistair at all. I’m not sure it even registered.
An hour or so later, we’re all gathered around the table as Alistair helps Uncle Albie bring over the turkey. My uncle is beaming. He sits down beside me and pats my arm affectionately.
So lovely to have you here, Flora, Uncle Albie says quietly to me. I feel like I could cry, but the pit in my stomach changes to something sour when he says more loudly to the rest of the table, All right Florence, if you could lead us in grace, please.
This was something my mother always did at Christmas. Always. I’m sure the panic is written all over my face.
Dad— Alba starts, but Alistair clears his throat.
I actually have a good one, if you like.
It’s a Scottish grace typically saved for Burns supper in January, but I think we can make an exception.
He winks at me when he finishes the sentence.
He clearly saw the panic in my eyes and didn’t question it, just quietly stepped in and offered to take the burden from me.
But he’s left the door open enough that if I wanted to, I could still do it. It’s entirely my choice.
I don’t dare open my mouth to say anything, so I only nod at him, feeling awash with gratitude. Something about my uncle wanting me to step into my mother’s role hits a nerve. I’m still not ready to acknowledge that she’ll never sit down to another Christmas dinner.
Some have meat and cannot eat, some cannot eat that want it, Alistair has bowed his head slightly and everyone else seems to have followed suit. I can’t bring myself to look away from him. But we have meat and we can eat, so let the lord be thanked.
He looks up at me when he finishes, his face serene—and so much rolls between us in that look.
I mouth two words, Thank you. His grin only widens.
And it occurs to me that Alistair fits in here, sitting with my family like this is completely normal.
It reminds me of finding the right ingredient when I’m baking something new: like it was meant to be there all along.
I just had to find it.