“What kind of a sick bastard puts meat wads and macaroni in Jell-O, and calls it salad?” I whisper. “And what the hell is a ladies’ auxiliary?”

It’s good to hear Allie laugh again.

The dessert table is worse. I’ve clung to many a plate of chocolate dipped profiteroles and fresh fruit in a sea of sushi and fried squid. I’ve been saved by the merciful grace of blueberry grunt and apple pie at lobster and clam chowder affairs. Rescued from previous stints in cold cut hell by heavenly cheesecake bites and ganache-topped brownies and butter tarts. But there is no sweet saviour here. Nothing but squares.

There’s Shower Squares and Church Tea Squares and Funeral Squares and Bake Sale Squares. Everybody’s got a secret family recipe lifted from a church cookbook or the back of a can. Despite the seemingly endless varieties, they are all the same. Gobs of margarine, a mountain of sugar, a handful of some flavour or colour or both, a mess of some kinda crumbs, and probably a can of sweetened condensed milk. Cooked, cooled, cut into rectangles, and spread out on the finest paper plates.

But oh, look, there’s a bar.

Behind the bar stands the Ceilidh Queen herself, Becky Chickenshit, all decked out in a blue tartan skirt and vest with a Capers T-shirt underneath. Pewter earrings shaped like Cape Breton Island peek out from beneath her big yellow sou’wester. The selfie she’s taking will probably be posted to Facebook and tweeted to her five followers with the hashtag #realcapebretonceilidh faster than you can say “Sláinte Má Árse”, or whatever wannabe-Gaelic nonsense it is she shouts every five minutes to make everyone clink and drink.

The urge to smack her rises swiftly and sharply. But there will be no Becky Chickenshit smacking. Not until she’s done feeding me wine for the night. Or at least until Char gets here.

“Crow Fortune! You’re here!” she brays, squinting, blinking. “We didn’t think you’d make it . . . How are you?”

“I’m thirsty, Becky,” I say, flashing my biggest, fattest smile in an effort to divert attention from my number two buzz cut, my fairly fresh surgical scar, and my ever-increasing gauntness. Judging by the way people are looking at me, I don’t think the big star earrings are doing the trick. I smile even bigger, harder. This is a slightly new and improved version of the same big fat smile I’d use when I was concocting stories for Viva Rica! The Essence of Inspiration! team members, convincing them that they could transform their personal energy power to attract more health, wealth, and happiness in the form of steady customers. How they, too, could come across as strong, confident, and inspirational! How to not look like a desperate, overpriced blueberry juice–peddling multi-level marketing moron! It’s all in the carefully crafted smile.

“Gimme a glass of red wine. And don’t be stingy on the pour.”

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” Becky says, wringing her hands and biting the corner of her bottom lip. “We have some club soda. Club soda is nice.”