Page 8 of Later Bloom

“And I’ll still be here, no matter what. You know that.”

“Mm. That’s debatable, depending on how well reunion planning goes.”

“Oh, god. Don’t remind me.”

They snicker, noses buried in the crisp aroma of their gin and tonics, and midnight rolls around an hour later to the cheers and shouts of the packed crowd. Aubrey hugs Maggie to her chest and they wish each other good luck, health, and love in the new year. Then they reach for their phones to write to their respective families. Aubrey’s parents have already sent their well wishes and rows of champagne emojis, which she echoes in kind. The lulling comfort of family dulls the hollowness of her folks’ sentiment.

Maggie disappears over the next few weeks, which turn into months. She drowns in puff pieces, the race for the next editor position at work, and catering and invite planning for the reunion, all while dating and exercising and probably, somewhere in there, breathing.

Aubrey doesn’t quit her job. She goes on three first dates. She reorganizes her living room.

In late May, Louise writes to her again and reiterates her offer, with pictures of Lunenburg that Aubrey’s already seen a dozen times and a list of things to do around town that should somehow entice a twenty-seven-year-old woman to leave her life behind. Not that there’s much to leave behind, anyway.

Twelve hours after the reunion, Aubrey’s on a plane to Nova Scotia.

Chapter Three

A quiet “fuck” slips out when Aubrey sets foot on the sidewalk and takes in the towering white house before her. Followed by a laugh of disbelief.

“Don’t let her fool you,” Louise warns behind her. She’s pulling out their suitcases from the trunk and setting them down by the curb in a neat row. There’s a smile in her voice. Aubrey can’t pull her eyes away from the house. “It’s ridiculous,” she whispers.

The front door is a deep shade of red and the shutters a dark forest green, with little clover cutouts in their centres. Two identical maple trees sway over Aubrey and frame the brick path that leads up to the porch. The bricks are crooked and cracked in places, overtaken by weeds even this early in the summer. On the left side of the house, a second door, white, leads to a long, narrow sunroom. It feels surreal to stand there, like Aubrey’s not meant to be in a place like this, so big and old like it’s been there for fifty lifetimes. She feels out of place. Her oversized shirt clashes.She should’ve bought a new suitcase.

“1937,” Louise announces, the answer to a question Aubrey hasn’t had time to ask yet.

“Classic revival?”

Louise shrugs and ventures, “I don’t see why not.”

Aubrey swears again, under her breath, and thinks she must remember to take pictures of the house to send to Maggie. Her breath wavers already when she thinks of her friend. It’s done now. She’s here.

She can’t believe Louise hadn’t thought to include this view in her sales pitch. Then again, Louise has never been the best at selling much of anything, herself or otherwise. She doesn’t tend to wonder what could appeal to eyes other than her own.

“You can go in if you’d like,” Louise says as she slams the trunk shut. “I’ve got the luggage.”

Aubrey’s aunt motions not at the house before them but at a different one next door, to the left. It’s half the size of the inn and charming in a different way, with deep red panelling, dormer windows, and unkempt landscaping slowly overtaking its facade. It sits in the shadows of its taller neighbour a little further away from the street, like an afterthought. Aubrey has so many questions.

“First, we take our things inside,” Louise explains, hauling the suitcases over the curb. “Then, we get to the fun stuff.”

The interior of the little red house is as light and breezy as the Lunenburg air, soaked in warm afternoon light and the familiar scent of a house left unoccupied for the past couple weeks—dust, a hint of humidity, sea air seeping in from the harbour. Picture frames crowd the entry table and the walls: photos of Louise through the years with Aubrey’s mother and uncle Jeff, a smiling baby here and there that Aubrey recognizes as herself, and her brother, Ben. It’s a surprise to see him there. As far as Aubrey knows, he and Louise have never been very close. Ben is closest to their mother, the youngest baby Marie could never really say no to.

“Welcome,” Louise announces, more to the house than anyone else. “Kitchen’s back there, washroom under the stairs. Up on the second floor your bedroom will be the one at the back left, next to the bathroom. Baby blue walls.”

The layout is in full sight from the second you step into the house—a simple square with the staircase at its heart, the living room right off the entrance, then the kitchen, dining room in the right corner, and a library or office of sorts immediately to Aubrey’s right.

Aubrey’s attention returns to the picture frames, the memories of her own life reflected in this house so far removed from her reality. She can’t believe now that she’s never set foot here before. “Thank you,” she says to Louise, who’s already well on her way to the kitchen.

“What for?” her aunt calls in return. Already Louise vanishes behind the stairs like a ghost in her own home.

“Just, you know, this. Inviting me here and all.”

“Ah. You’re not forgetting I’m making you work for it, yeah?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Louise reappears with a towel in hand. “I think this’ll be good,” she says, in that sort of wise, knowledgeable tone adults take when they seem to know something you don’t.

“Yeah.”