Jason cuts the engine and rolls his Yamaha into the driveway. The cottage is in darkness, but the glow from the neighbour's nativity lights up the driveway like a late night game at BAA. He hasn't figured on this, so he quickly pulls the bike under the poinsettia tree and ducks low until he passes the windows and reaches the shadow of the garage door. There's no reason to wake his grandfather. His vavô won't mind if he borrows the car. Jason's been 18 for a month now, and he's taken lessons. Besides, it isn't like his grandfather can drive. Jason's grandmother had been the sole driver of the car, his grandfather's chauffeur, and since she died almost a year ago, the car has been corralled in the garage like a wild stallion (okay, maybe a pony) but tonight Jason intends to set it free. Jason's promised Brittany he'll pick her up from her Christmas Eve candlelight service, and this time he intends to deliver.Shooing a couple of tree frogs off the security pad, Jason punches the code and waits for the garage door to open. He straightens his tie, tucks in his shirt and spins for a second on one heel. There's no reason anyone will suspect he never actually made it to mass. Saint Patrick's is always crazy on Christmas Eve and no one will miss him. Even if his mother asks, he'll just say he got there late and had to stand in the back. That wouldn't be too far from the truth. Sort of. He'll pick up the car now, and get to Wesley in time to meet Brittany at the front of the church no problem at all.As the door shimmies open, Jason slips in and waits a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He'll grab the keys from the hook near the side door and be back in no time. His grandfather will never even know the car has taken a little spin; not that he'd even mind. Jason has pretty much convinced himself of this.He isn't sure if it's the whoosh, the cold bullet of moving air, or pure instinct, but Jason suddenly drops to his knees. A cast-iron skillet swings above his head and hits the cement wall, showering Jason with pieces of plaster and stone like winter hail on the causeway.“Get the hell out.” He can hear his grandfather's voice boom.Jason covers his head and peers up. His vavô's bare legs and ankle socks look like spindles in his moccasins, but there's no mistaking that he's a formidable foe. He might be eighty, but after fifty years of manual labour the man's still fit.Jason opens his mouth to speak, but it's like he's in a bad dream and everything has morphed into slow motion. Nothing comes out.“Get out of my house.” His grandfather gears up to swing again.“Vavô. It's me.” Jason finally finds his voice and offers some broken Portuguese, praying his grandfather will realise his mistake before it's too late.“Jason?” The spindles inch forward.“ Vavô!” Jason shouts again.“My God.” His grandfather drops the pan and lunges towards him. “I thought you were someone breaking in.” His voice shakes and he props one arm against the car to steady himself. “No bike, no speak. Nothing. Just footsteps.” His vavô switches from Portuguese to English as if it were one language.Jason drags himself up and wraps his arms around his vavô. They're both still shaking, but the strength of his grandfather's thick hands around his shoulders steadies Jason's breath. What was he thinking sneaking into his grandparent's house like a thief? What if that skillet had hit him? His grandfather would have never forgiven himself. What if he had frightened his grandfather enough to give him a heart attack? All of this for a girl? Out of nowhere he starts to sob.“No cry,” Vavô says. He cups his grandson's face in his hands and looks into his eyes. “Come inside. Let's eat. I have messa your mother brought yesterday. Come.”Jason brushes the dust off his church clothes and follows his grandfather into the kitchen. It's dark inside and the unfamiliar glow coming from the living room as well as the pungent smell of cedar immediately slaps him in the face.“What's that?” Jason asks, wiping his tears with the back of his sleeve.“A fire.” His grandfather says this as if it were an everyday occurrence. He slices four thick slices of bread and walks towards the living room with the plate of food.“A fire?” Jason kicks off his shoes and scurries after him. “You're burning the logs?” Ever since Jason was old enough to remember, his grandmother had kept five beautifully varnished cedar logs in their hand-painted fireplace. There had never been an actual fire in the living room; in fact, there were rarely ever people in the living room. Jason thought of it more of a museum, a place where visitors tiptoed through to admire the furniture, tapestries and family photos. He's pretty sure no one has ever sat in there, let alone sitting, eating and watching a fire.His grandfather sits on the sofa and pats the spot next to him. Jason gazes out the picture window looking down at the Christmas lights that dot the Devonshire neighbourhood below. The white painted rooftops look snow-covered in the moonlight, capturing the Bermuda magic that makes Christmas here so special.“Come. Sit.” His grandfather motions again.Jason turns to join him and feels his cell phone vibrate in his pocket. It must be Brittany, checking to see if he's coming, but he doesn't reply. There's still time. Jason watches his grandfather who's munching on the messa and staring into the fire. The glow from the flames highlight his age, but in a good way. Even though he's dressed in only an undershirt and boxers, there's an air of dignity about him. He may not be educated, but he navigates the world like captain. Although he can't read or write a word of English, he's made sure his children and their children have had choices, in fact, he values education more than Jason would like. Sometimes Jason feels as if he lives in a pressure cooker with someone else in control of the value.“Sit. Eat,” his grandfather repeats.Jason loosens his tie and drops down on the sofa. “Why are you burning the logs?”“It's time,” his grandfather says. “I wanted to see what it would be like.” He picks up a picture of his wife from the side table and rubs his weathered thumb around her face. “Your vavó would be mad at me, but she's gone now. Nothing is the same.”Jason puts one hand on his grandfather's knee. It's not often his grandfather speaks of his wife, not because he doesn't miss her, but because it's simply too hard. He doesn't say that, but Jason knows. They were quite the couple. Inseparable. Even though it had been over ten years since they bought the Peugeot, Jason always thinks of them in their little green Austin navigating Bermuda's twisting roads; Vavó at the helm, and Vavô at her side, him waving to people on the street as if he were Sir John Swan.“Why did you come?” Vavô asks, putting the picture gently back on the table. “I almost killed you.”Jason takes a huge bite of the bread to buy himself time. He could say he's come to visit or that he's forgotten something here, but he's finished with lying. “I was going to take the car.” He glances down and curls his toes into the shag carpet.“The car? You have your license now?” His grandfather's eyes grow round and wide. “You passed?”Jason hesitates. “Almost.”His vavô's face drops. “But you were going to take the car?”“I wanted to pick up Brittany. My girlfriend.” Jason swallows. “At her church.”His grandfather nods and pokes the embers with a hoe he's hauled inside. The flames retreat and the room darkens, highlighting the reflection of the full moon in the mirror above the mantle.Jason can see the disappointment in his grandfather's face, but there's no lecture, only silence, deepening Jason's regret.Vavô stands up and saunters to the window. “I haven't been in the car since your grandmother died. I haven't done a lot of things since your grandmother died. Do you remember her Christmas dinners? The cassava? The pies?”Before Jason can answer, his grandfather leaves the living room, but comes back moment's later fully dressed.“Let's go.” In his hands are the keys to the Peugeot. “Is she as beautiful as your vavó?”Jason nods.Moving the car slowly out of the garage, Jason's hands are planted firmly on the wheel. Vavô's hand sits on Jason's knee, as the white cedar smoke circles and follows them towards the lights of town.