The nor-east breeze wafting across the cove adds a chill to the air. Rachel kicks back, contemplating the panorama from the passenger terminal back into the Quay, with its concrete and glass towers preparing to light up the evening. The sun dips behind the bridge approaches, shadows gradually lengthen.
This is where the cruise ship out of Vancouver terminated, where she pats herself on the back for framing that tough decision, where her father’s admonition rankles still.
‘You’ll be back. Where will you be without family support, to move back in with when the going gets tough?’
Where would she be? Sous-chef at The Quay, sharing a one-bedroom apartment over in Macleay Street, her scarlet Vespa chained to the bollard in the lane. Where would she be? Right here, standing on her own two feet.
She tosses her gunny-sack over her shoulder and strides inside for an exhilarating Saturday evening.