Epilogue
ONE YEAR LATER
COME ON, COUSIN, I’VE GOT better things to do today besides carting your ass around! Alba yells at me from her truck, laying on the horn.
I add the last piece of holly to a three-tiered fruitcake I’ve made for Christmas Day tomorrow. I’ve been using my work kitchen at MacLeod’s Bakery to do all of my holiday baking this year. I love being in here so much that I can’t help but use it—even in the off season.
Last spring, we renovated the kitchen in the main lodge of the B&B into a bigger space and put on an addition right next to it.
We of course means Alba and Alistair did most of the heavy lifting on that project.
I wanted a shop for the warmer months: a place where people could stop in and peer through the glass panes of a display case, deciding then and there what they were craving.
I set up an area to decorate any specialty baked goods in the other half of the little store, so I’m always close by if customers or neighbours decide to pop in.
I run out to Alba’s truck. She’s picking me up since my car is in the garage this week getting its winter tires put on—a thing I totally forgot about during the years I lived away.
We chat for the whole drive as Alba brings me home. Since word got out after the wedding that the cottages are winterized, many people nearby have been renting them for family visiting over the holidays. Nice to have a little space, you know?
She stops in front of the lake house.
The pang of loss I used to feel when I saw the house is gone now. I’ve spent the last twelve months trying really, really hard to talk about my mom, and to let go of all of the shame and guilt around the years afterwards. Therapy helps, too.
The month before the anniversary of my mom’s death, Alistair and Alba sat me down—they make a formidable team, the Keep Florence From Going Off The Deep End Again Squad—and suggested, gently, that it might be a good idea to talk to someone.
They’d found someone in Halifax who came highly recommended and did virtual sessions, so no fear of my therapy appointments making the rounds through Cape Breton.
I was a little annoyed, but I knew they were right. It was time.
After my first session, I felt pretty fucking raw. Alistair had suggested I join the call from the lake house while he was at work. When he came home, he didn’t pry. Only told me he was proud of me and that he loved me.
It was a pretty good motivator to keep going.
Alba puts the truck into park and turns to face me, but she doesn’t meet my eye. Her eyes are screaming something, but I can’t read the expression on her face.
What? I ask her, feeling taken aback, but she just shakes her head.
If I open my mouth right now, Alba says, looking anywhere but at me. I’ll say too much.
Alba, what—
Get out! She hollers, laughing. Get out of my truck!
I can’t believe you’re ditching me on Christmas Eve! I know she’s not really ditching me—I’ll see her in a few hours when she and Rose come over to watch I’ll Be Home for Christmas.
Hey, remember when you tried to ditch me last year, on New Year’s Day, the day after my wedding?
Alba says. She was royally pissed about me leaving, and it took a few weeks to convince her that I wouldn’t leave again.
Things were tense between us for a little while, but we can finally joke about it now.
She leans over to pinch my cheek. But I knew you weren’t really leaving, Flora. I had faith.
How did you know that? I say, incredulously. I didn’t even know.
Because, Alba says matter-of-factly. That’s the wish I made over hot chocolate last year. That you would move home for good. She smacks me on the arm. Now get out!
I stumble out of her car and into our house. Our house.
I moved back into the lake house in August, eight months after I returned to Christmas Island.
Things with Alistair had been going really, really well, so I didn’t want to rush into anything.
But it was getting a little ridiculous, I was spending every day and night here after all.
We were sitting out on the patio when I finally plucked up the courage to bring it up: Hey Al, when are you going to ask me to move in with you?
He’s been a good example for me of how to be direct and ask for what I want.
Alistair didn’t laugh when I asked, only looked at me, his face serious. Florence, are you finally ready to move home? Home had choked me up, but I was ready. And he’d been ready too—waiting, patient as always, for me to be the one to ask.
The day I officially moved back here, I had cried. Alba had cried, Alistair had cried, and I swear I even saw Uncle Albie tearing up a little.
Two months after that, as the fall bled into winter and the last of the autumn leaves fell off the trees, I got a little spooked.
It was like seeing the passage of time made me want to bolt.
But this time, I talked to Alistair about it.
He thought maybe a trip would help. So, two weeks later we were laying on a beach in Portugal—and for once, it didn’t feel like running.
I wasn’t alone, after all. There are still so many people in my corner.
When we got back from that trip, I knew something had shifted. I finally felt settled. I moved the last of my things from storage back into the lake house where they belonged. Where I belonged.
Alba had been right: I could have everything I wanted, and more.
All of the Christmas lights on the tree are on when I walk through the door of the lake house. It reminds me of that day we went walking on the path behind the B&B cottages. I can’t help but smile at the memory.
Alistair is wearing a dark grey, silver-lined suit I’ve never seen before that’s almost sparkling.
He looks so good I feel struck dumb—and I wish I could say that was happening less frequently these days, but it wasn’t.
Sometimes I looked at him and was filled with such a profound, overwhelming joy that it hurt to breathe. Hurt to blink.
I didn’t want to miss a second of it.
What, you didn’t get my letter? I’ll have to talk to Santa’s elves about their issues with mail delivery. He asks, eyes twinkling. We were supposed to match tonight, Flora.
I don’t have anything silver! I cry out, honestly kind of devastated that I’m wearing jeans right now. I make a mental note to order a shimmery, silver dress immediately.
Hmm, he says, pulling something out of his pocket and getting down on one knee. I guess we’ll have to do something about that.
The diamond ring glitters in the glow of the Christmas lights. It’s on a silver band, one that perfectly matches his suit.
Before he even asks, a single word tumbles out of my mouth. The answer comes instantly, easily—Yes!