The sound of a sliding door opening pulls me from my thoughts. I walk out into the arrivals area of the airport and scan the small crowd for my friends.
I hear them before I see them, hollering my name. Alba, clad in a black sleeveless jumpsuit and wearing her sunglasses inside, her chin-length dark hair razor sharp, is holding up a large sign. It has a picture of me from university, drunk out of my mind and looking insane, with the caption: Welcome to Cape Breton, Villain Violet.
I’m mortified and I stop abruptly, somehow slamming into my own suitcase.
But Florence is already running towards me, her long red hair flying everywhere as she pulls me into a hug. She smells of sandalwood and something spiced—the same perfume she’s worn for years—and the smell of it brings up so many memories. Dancing beside her at clubs in New York, sitting together in silence on the balcony of my Toronto apartment, shoved together and studying in a cramped kitchen at school.
While studying in New York, Florence had taken baking and pastry arts, and Alba had done hospitality management. I’d intended to become a chef, but as much as I loved the atmosphere of restaurants and being around food and kitchen staff, I didn’t exactly love to cook.
And that was a problem.
But I was organized, and I understood the industry. I thought I’d found my dream job in Toronto, but then that had gone sideways, too.
Florence now runs a bakery here in Cape Breton, the storefront set up right beside her cousin’s thriving bed and breakfast business. Alba moved back to Cape Breton not long after our dark Covid year, the three of us living in a tiny apartment in Toronto. Alba started her B&B in the place she and her cousin grew up, a small oceanside community called Christmas Island.
Alba told me that if I wanted to come here before the wedding, I could have an entire cabin to myself. The thought of a place of my own, some time to regroup and some space from my somewhat suffocating family in Victoria, and from the jobless existence that has been weighing heavily on me, had sounded like exactly what I needed.
I’m so happy you’re here, Vi, Florence says as I pull away from her. She is beaming and looks better than I’ve ever seen her look—even before her mom died in our final year of school. An event that so permanently altered both of my friends. After graduation, they’d fled their pre-New York lives, working on cruise ships and seeing the world. While I, on the other hand, had gone back home to Vancouver Island, dazed and unsure what to do next.
Alba walks up beside Florence, and smirks at me before pulling me into a hug as well.
I hate your stupid sign, I whisper in her ear and her laugh rumbles against me.
You love it, she says still laughing, before adding loudly, Hey remember that time you almost got arrested?
That’s not funny, I wail at her, so embarrassed I want to crawl out of my own skin.
Florence pipes up, adding just as loudly, And I’m marrying a cop, Violet, so you’ll have to watch yourself. She winks at me.
Oh my god, that wasn’t me, remember? That was my alter ego and she’s long, long gone now. Forever.
Alba smirks at me, looking almost feline with delight. We’ll see about that, won’t we, Vi? I groan as she wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes again, before taking my suitcase and dragging me through the airport.
WE DRIVE FOR ABOUT HALF an hour, bypassing Sydney entirely, but my friends promise to bring me back in the coming weeks. Florence and Alba tell me they’ve made a playlist for my visit, Violet’s Cape Breton Summer, which is loaded with songs from our time in New York, current radio hits and others I’ve never heard before. They laugh, telling me it’s part of my East Coast initiation, and assure me I’ll know all these songs by heart soon enough.
I only snort in reply, feeling excited and somewhat relieved to be somewhere new.
When we finally pull off the main highway, Alba tells me there’s another half an hour before we get to Christmas Island, but promises I’ll enjoy this part of the drive a lot more.
It’s a beautiful August day, not a cloud in the sky. A thick brush of trees runs along the side of the highway, driveways emerging to break the tree line every now and then. I notice the signs for each place name we pass are written in English and in Gaelic underneath.
That, Alba says, motioning towards the sparkling blue water on our right, is part of the Bras d’Or lakes. It’s salt water.
A saltwater lake? I ask, dubiously. She only nods.
Florence adds, It’s not fully cut off from the ocean, and it’s tidal, too. So we do see some big waves in there when it’s really rough out. Today there’s only a gentle breeze and the water looks cool and inviting. I’m reminded of the thick layer of airport sweat all over me and shudder.
And the first thing we’re going to do is get you in for a swim, Alba promises.
Thank god, I tell her. I need to be cleansed. From my hours of travel. From the stress of my family. From being fired from my dream job.
From my entire life, really.
Alba only nods solemnly in response.
I turn to Florence now, who is sitting in the back of Alba’s truck after she forced me into the front passenger seat for a better view. So what’s on the agenda for this summer, then? Besides your lavish wedding, of course.
Florence laughs, throwing her head back. It’s hardly lavish, but my friend’s eyes twinkle with amusement. A quaint little church for the ceremony, an outdoor reception, nothing crazy.
