“That’scool. My mom was a historian, of sorts. More like a collector, Iguess. She was obsessed with collecting and archiving everythingshe could get her hands on that had even the slightest thing to dowith the history ofthe area. I’m going home now to sort through it all, actually. I’llkeep an eye out for any pirate stuff.”
I laughedthen, but I was serious. I really would. As a kid, I rememberadoring my mother’s things, her precious possessions that shecoveted so much. Things like scrolls and books, ancient fishingtools and really old swords. They littered our home, hanging onwalls and filling glass cabinets, but the chests were my favorite.I always imagined they were pirates’ chests, full of cursedtreasure.
“Youspeak about your mother in the past tense. Is her death theunfortunate reason you’re coming home?”
I chewedthe inside of my cheek, my go-to nervous bad habit when I feltanxious or stressed. Over the last decade, these few words were themost I’d spoken of mymother out loud. “Um, no. She passed away when I was a teenager.It’s my dad. He died yesterday.”
More handsqueezing.
“I’m sosorry for all your loss. Too young. You’re far too young to be leftalone in this world, m’love,” he said, comforting me with a term ofendearment I hadn’t heard in years.
“It’sokay,” I assured him and pointed my gaze out the window. “I’m usedto it. I’ve been alone for a long time.”
Thefamiliar bing came across the intercom once more.“This is your captain speaking. We’velanded in Deer Lake at the Deer Lake Regional Airport at about aquarter past five. The temperature is currently eleven degreesCelsius on this warm August morning and is expected to rise tothe mid-twenties by late afternoon. Forthose who are visiting Newfoundland for the first time, welcome,and thank you for flying with West Jet. For those who are residentsof the province… welcome home.”
I inhaleddeeply. Yes, welcome home, indeed.
Chapter Two
I sent John a quick I’mhere text before I made my way through the crowdexiting the plane and headed toward the tiny area of the minusculeDeer Lake airport where I knew my aunt would be waiting for me. Iworried that I wouldn’t recognize her, or vice versa. It had beenwell over a decade after all.
But thenthose thoughts quickly dissipated when my eyes scanned the crowdand landed on a quirky woman with crazy grey, curly hair that wasslopped atop of her head in a haphazard messy bun. Long strandsfell loose around her shoulders and even touched the back ofher rainbow-coloredknit sweater. Her welcome smile eased my nerves and I fell,awkwardly, into her open arms. She smelled like homemade bread andan open fire.
“Mygirl.” She grabbed me by the upper arms and pushed me away from herbody. “Let me get a look at ch’ya.” Aunt Mary scanned me up and down with afierce and proud grin. “Just as I thought. Too beautiful for yourown good. I see you finally figured out how to tame those damncurls.
“It’sgood to see you, Aunt Mary, you haven’t changed a bit.”
We both stoodand smiled at one another until she looped her arm in mine. “Comeon then, let’s get you fed.”
“Didyou, by chance, bake bread?” I asked, my mouth filling with salivaat the thought of my favorite childhood food.
AuntMary would bake a batch of loaves every Sunday and I could smell itfrom down the gravel road we all lived on. I’d go running to herhouse on those days, and she’d have a special loaf, just for me,set aside. A small, one-bun, loaf and I’d take it down by the ocean side to siton a rock and eat it. The whole dang thing.
She gave me asideways look. “Of course. Company comin’.”
I wrapped mysweater tight across my chest as we exited the airport and themoist East Coast air blanketed me. I grinned as we kept our paceacross the small parking lot toward her car. “Did you, by anychance, save some of the dough?”
“Stilllove your toutans, doya?” Mary chuckled. “I did. Hope you’re hungry.”
I was. Butthat wouldn’t have mattered. Newfoundland hospitality meant youwere going to be forced to eat more than you could handle, whetheryou liked it or not. Luckily for Aunt Mary, I loved it. Growing uparound so much comfort food was the reason I became a chef. I wouldhave become a baker, like my parents, but then I would have beenguilted even more about moving back home.
Thehour-long drive back to my childhood home was lengthy andnerve-wracking. Glorious,long-forgotten shades of the green landscape filled my vision andbrought memories to the surface; both happy and sad. The closer wegot, the more my brain spun with thoughts of seeing myfamily.
The questions,the odd looks, the shared memories of Dad that I won’t understandbecause I hadn’t been there in years. A fact that they all know andwill surely use to pile on the guilt. They’ll be talking about him,sharing stories, and I’ll just sit there, unknowing, on theoutside. Mary seemed to sense my unease and let a comfortablesilence fill the car. I took a deep breath and tried to rememberJohn’s wise words.
You don’t oweanyone anything.
It helped. Alittle. He just didn’t understand the history of my life. Thecraziness that was my childhood; growing up with a mother whoseemed to be from another world with her outrageous stories ofmagic and wonder, and a father who was as much a realist as the skyis blue.
Theywere such an odd couplebut loved each other fiercely. It was a love I admired mywhole life, a love I aspired to have someday. Things were gettingthere with John. For me, anyway. He was like a lone wolf that I tamed and broughthome. And I constantly worried that he’d one day realize the doorwas left open.
But,yeah, my parents. Mom was like the glue that kept us together. Andnot just us, but the whole community. She ran that bakery and madeeverything with love. Kids got free cookies every Sunday, shedonated freshly bakedbread to less fortunate families, and she even used some oldrecipes that were passed down through generations in herfamily.
Braided breadcontraptions too pretty to eat, stone-fired buns
