Crazy apologetic canadia.., p.1
Crazy Apologetic Canadians, page 1
Crazy Apologetic Canadians
Cathryn Fox
Contents
Copyright
Canadian terminology.
1. Colin
2. Violet
3. Colin
4. Violet
5. Colin
6. Violet
7. Colin
8. Violet
9. Colin
10. Violet
11. Colin
12. Violet
13. Colin
14. Violet
15. Colin
16. Violet
17. Colin
18. Violet
19. Colin
20. Violet
21. Colin
22. Violet
23. Colin
24. Violet
25. Colin
26. Violet
27. Colin
28. Violet
29. Colin
30. Violet
31. Colin
Epilogue
Also by Cathryn Fox
About Cathryn
Copyright
Crazy Apologetic Canadians
Copyright 2023 by Cathryn Fox
Published by Cathryn Fox
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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ISBN: 978-1-989374-78-8
ISBN Print: 978-1-989374-77-1
Canadian terminology.
Beaver: Sovereign animal and also a term for lady parts.
Yeah, no: No.
Yeah, no, for sure: Yes.
Yeah, no, for sure we’re not doing that: Not doing that.
Oh, yeah, no for sure you do: Yes, you do.
Zamboni: Vehicle that smooth and cleans ice in a rink.
Scooch. Squeeze by you an inch.
Sorry: Sorry.
Toonie: Two-dollar coin.
Loony: One-dollar coin.
Canadian Bacon: Back bacon. (In Canada, we just call it bacon.)
Beaver Tail: Delicious pastry.
Eh?: Express solidarity, reassurance, or confirmation.
Oot and aboot: Out and about.
Tim Horton’s: Our fast food donuts and coffee.
Toque: Wool knit cap.
Out for a rip: Going for a drive, snowmobile or any excursion.
1
Colin
Canada.
Poutine and politeness. Back bacon and beavers. Loonies and toonies.
Bloody hell, a toonie is a two-dollar coin, and they can’t even spell it properly? It should be twonie, not toonie. Don’t even get me started on the country’s obsession with hockey. The only game worth playing is football. Every good Brit knows that.
But you’re not in Britain anymore, are you, Colin?
A laugh—more like a groan—crawls out of my throat as I glance around the airport, at the crowd of people walking around in slow-motion. Who leisurely strolls through an airport? Canadians, that’s who. Don’t they have a plane to catch? Somewhere to be?
As I maneuver around them, it suddenly occurs to me I’m the brainless muppet amongst this relaxed lot—the loony twoonie—no matter how one chooses to spell it. I’m definitely out of my mind, considering I agreed to fly across the pond, leaving my castle behind—sure, it’s big and damp, but it’s the only home I’ve ever known—to spend a few days in rural Nova Scotia, aka the armpit of the western world.
I hurry down the terminal, my thoughts distracted, and collide with some woman speed-walking past me. She drops whatever it is she had in her arms, and latches onto the sleeve of my suit jacket. The grasp pulls me off balance, and I stagger backward, breaking the tight hold. I dip my head and find a petite woman staring up at me, her blue eyes wide as she holds her hands up palms out.
“Sorry,” she says quickly.
Wait, wasn’t I the one who bumped into her? “What are you sorry for?”
She angles her head, her gaze moving over my face. “You’re British.”
I frown. “You’re sorry I’m British?”
“No, no!” Her long dark hair bounces on her shoulders as she repeatedly shakes her head. “For colliding with you, and…tugging on your jacket. It was a knee jerk reaction.”
“Touching strangers in airports is a knee jerk reaction for you, is it now?” I glance out the rotating doors leading outside and take in the streaks of purple and pink bruising the night sky above the large concrete parking garage. “Do you only grope in airports, or can I expect to be accosted once I step outside, as well?”
She frowns at me, and I get it. I’m grumpy as hell. It’s been a long day, and I missed my connecting flight, and now I’ve arrived at my destination much later than planned. My driver would have given up on me hours ago. Rightfully so. No one in their right mind would continue to wait for a no-show. I’m not about to call Bryant now, the guy who owns the bed and breakfast where I’ll be staying, and have him come back to the city at this point. From what I understand, it’s a good three-hour drive.
“I thought you were going to fall. Sorry I touched you,” she apologizes again as she picks up a sign she’d dropped and scampers off. Alrighty then. Her legs aren’t overly long, but she moves like lightning, the only person in the airport in any kind of hurry. She must not be a local, and I should probably tear my gaze from her cute arse, which happens to be nicely framed into a pair of frayed shorts, and put her out of my mind.
I straighten my shoulders, in need of a pint before I figure how and where I’m going to find another driver at this hour. I walk through the airport terminal looking for a pub, but a small store with gobs of Halifax, Nova Scotia merchandise catches my eye and reminds me I’m supposed to bring something back for my cousin’s daughter. Might as well get it over with, because the sooner I’m out of this place, the better.
I drag my suitcase along and adjust my leather bag over my shoulder as I step into Hudson News. With no idea what to buy an eight-year-old girl, I walk up to a rack full of plush toys. As I debate between a beaver and a moose, someone crouches down in front of me, her body brushing mine, right around the vicinity of my…dangly bits.
“Can I just scooch…”
I glance down, and realize it’s the groper again as she bends and reaches for something off the bottom shelf.
‘“Scooch?”
She straightens, a plush lamb in her hand, and her smile falters when her gaze lands on me. “Oh, you again.”
“Nice to see you, too,” I respond.
One manicured brow lifts, as the strap on her tank top slips a bit, exposing a hint of a lacy bra. “Is it?”
“Is it what?” I ask as I snatch up a beaver.
“Nice to see me again?”
Okay, I get it, she’s being cheeky. “How could it not be? It’s been what…all of five minutes.” I step around her, my body between hers and the checkout. “If you could just scooch,” I say using her slang. “I’d like to pay for my beaver.”
She makes a sound, and I turn back to catch a grin flirting with the corners of her mouth. While I’m trying to be less grumpy, considering she’s the one who apologized when I bumped into her, I get the sense that whatever it was I said, she’s finding a different kind of humor in it. “Something funny?”
She steps back and waves her hand. “Nope. You go right ahead of me. I would never stand in the way of a man trying to pay for his beaver.”
I clutch the toy in my hand as I stand over her and glower. Does she really think I play with beavers? “It’s not for me.”
She holds her hands up, palms out again. “No explanation needed, my friend.” I eye her, and she nibbles her bottom lip. What is the matter with her and why is it killing her to keep a straight face? “What a man does with his beaver is none of my business.” She frowns, taps her chin and scans the store. I follow her gaze until it lands back on me. “Got wood?” I angle my head, note the way her body is almost quaking. “Beavers like wood, you know.”
The girl behind the counter lowers her head and snickers, and that’s when I realize I’m the butt of some joke. I just don’t know what it is. Here I thought Canadians were nice folk, but really, they're just a bunch of wankers. I won’t
I toss my beaver onto the counter. “It’s not for me, and it’s not a real beaver,” I state. “It doesn’t need wood.”
“No, of course not.” Another snicker before she pulls herself together. “Who’s it for?”
Why has this conversation not ended already? Canadians talk too much. Or maybe it’s just this girl who likes to blabber on. “If you must know, it’s for my cousin’s daughter.”
“She’s going to love it. My friend’s daughter collects lambs. They moved to Toronto a while back.” She frowns like she’s missing them and then shakes the lamb in her hand. “What do you think we should call this one?”
“Lamb,” I say and check my watch.
“Aren’t you going to name your beaver?”
“No.” I grab my luggage ready to leave, but turn back to her. “Does this place have a pub?”
“There’s a lounge right over there,” she answers in a piss poor British accent as she extends her arm to point down the long hallway. “You’ll be able to find yourself a right and proper pint.”
I stare at her and she grins at me. “Thanks, eh,” I respond, using Canadian slang I heard on the plane, and hoping I’m using it in the right context, although from her grin, I’m guessing I’m not. I take a step toward the exit, but pause. “And I’m sorry for bumping into you earlier.” Cripes, I’ve been in Canada for all of ten minutes and I’ve already started apologizing. Before I can stop myself, I ask, “What’s your name?” I’m not sure why I suddenly have the urge to know. It’s not like I’m going to broadcast this comedy of errors all over social media. That’s my younger brother Nate’s specialty.
“Violet. Yours?”
Violet, pretty and delicate, just like her. Although I’m not so sure she’s all that delicate. I think in this case, looks can be deceiving.
“Colin.”
“Colon? Like…” She cringes as she points her finger over her shoulder, and down toward her bum.
What is she getting on about? “Colin,” I repeat.
“Oh, okay.” She exchanges a look with the clerk, and they both stifle a laugh. Wait, does she think I’m saying colon, as in my bum parts? She’s the one with the ridiculous accent, not me.
Before I can ask, she turns back to the clerk, and I let it go. I’m far too tired for this and if she thinks my name is Colon, then so be it. It’s not like I’m ever going to see her again. I glance at my watch. She’s right about one thing, though. I am going to need a right and proper pint before I try to make alternate arrangements.
I’d rent a car and drive myself to the middle of nowhere, but Canadians drive on the wrong side of the road—or rather the right side of the road—which is wrong. I think it’s best to get a driver until I’m used to it. With my luck, I’d probably hit a daft beaver trying to cross the road. I’m pretty sure killing or maiming the country’s sovereign rodent would send my arse straight to jail. Then again, they do eat beavers’ tails. At least that’s what the girl seated beside me on the flight over here told me. You have to try one. Sure, right after I climb the famous lighthouse at Peggy’s Cove and hurl myself into the cold Atlantic. Yes, I’ve been doing my research on this intolerable province. Now I fully understand Mum’s threat to send us to Nova Scotia to live when we misbehaved, although that was more my brother’s specialty than mine.
I head down the long terminal and glance outside as the bruised sky fades to black. The great white north. What was I thinking? I shake my head. It’s not like I had any choice in the matter. Nope. Grandfather tasked me with the job of coming here to secure land for an international boarding school he wants to build. We have perfectly good schools in the UK, built and owned by my grandfather’s great grandfathers. Why he needs another one, or one here, is beyond me. Nevertheless, I couldn’t very well say no. I’m one of the lawyers who oversees land deals and amendments, but the timing couldn’t be worse.
Or maybe it is good timing. I might be missing the cricket match, but at least I won’t have to put up with Mum trying to shove some debutante down my throat. I’ll marry when the time is right—never—and with the right and proper girl of my choosing. She doesn’t exist. Even if she did, I wouldn’t know it. I’m not even sure what love is, or if I have it in me to fall for a woman. I’m pretty sure I don’t. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family, but that’s different. I didn’t—couldn’t figure out how to—love the girl I thought I was going to marry a couple years ago, and when I heard her on the phone having a conversation about me, and our future…I ended things between us then and there.
I take a seat at the bar, and the first thing I do is order a pint. The second thing I do is shoot off a text to Bryant, to let him know I’ve arrived and ask if he knows of any drivers. He texts back quickly.
Bryant: Are you at the airport?
Me: Just grabbing a right and proper pint.
I laugh as I send the text. Violet’s bad accent reverberates in my brain. Is that how she thinks we sound, and why the hell am I thinking about her anyway? The barman brings my drink and I sip the watered-down ale while I wait for Bryant to text back. Three dots appear and then disappear. Maybe he’s pissed that he made the trek to the airport for nothing. The missed flight was out of my hand, but if he’s a man like me, and doesn’t like his time wasted, I can understand him being upset. I stare at my phone a little longer, and shrug when no message comes through. I’m about to ask the barman if he can help a guy out, when my phone pings.
Bryant: I’m here.
Me: At the airport?
Bryant: Look up.
I look up, and stare at the bottles of high-end alcohol behind the bar. My phone pings again, and I check it again.
Bryant: Turn to your right.
I do as he asks and when I spot Violet in the doorway, holding up a sign with Mr. Parker on it, I nearly fall off my stool.
You have got to be bloody joking!
2
Violet
Well, well, well. What are the odds that the grumpy Brit—who I’ve also dubbed as Mr. Brit with a stick up his bum—is the man I was supposed to pick up hours earlier.
“I thought you missed your connection,” I say as he walks toward me, pulling along a designer suitcase that likely costs more than I make in a year. I hold my phone up and shake it, not that he can see his text from earlier, and not that I’m displaying it.
“It’s you…you’re Bryant?” he asks.
“Why didn’t you tell me you caught another flight?”
As we stand there hogging the entranceway, he says, “I thought you were a man.”
A group of women in purple hats head our way and I back up into the terminal, giving them a wide berth. Colin follows and I say, “I was planning to come back first thing tomorrow to get you.”
“I don’t even know why you’re still here waiting.” He stares at me, dumbfounded. “Why would you do that?”
“You really should have texted that you caught another flight.”
We stare at each other, both having our own conversations with one another, and getting nowhere. He finally shakes his head, a deep line in his forehead, and I’m guessing the tumblers just aren’t falling into place.
“You’re Bryant?”
I snort. “You should at least try to hide your enthusiasm.”
“I’m not—”
“I know. I know. You’re shocked and not at all happy about any of this. It’s easy to tell by that throbbing vein in your forehead.”
“I do not have a…” He straightens to his full height and adjusts his dark leather bag over one shoulder, and it’s right then that I notice how broad it is. Kidding. I noticed it the first time he bumped into me—and I groped him. “I’m surprised is all.” Those salted caramel eyes of his narrow in on me. “Why are you still here?”
