It Takes Two

Up on deck, in the bright light of the morning, she’d looked even lovelier than she had in the ship’s gloomy interior. Complete natural beauty, he had thought, without a bit of makeup on her. He’d gotten a good look at those eyes before she had pulled on her sunglasses and saw they were an attractive shade of hazel, a perfect match to the coppery brown hair that framed her face.

Oh well, Marc thought, as he followed her off the ship and into the terminal lot. It had been worth a try. He knew he must have appeared terribly rude when he had made his abrupt departure, but he’d been afraid he’d have said something he’d regret had he remained.

It was stupid and irrational; Marc knew that. The woman had nothing to do with the situation in which he now found himself. It wasn’t her fault that several years ago some politician had listened to some scientist who had sounded the alarm about the state of the province’s fish populations. With the help of some highly paid lobbyists, the government had crafted the laws and regulations that had put Marc’s father and many of his friends out of the fishing business for good.

Those laws had come down as decrees from on high, with no opportunity for the fishermen to plead their cases. No, Marc recalled bitterly, one day their businesses were solid and the next they were told the quotas for the following season had been slashed, with some species put off limits completely. It had devastated the North Shore fleet and, Marc was certain, contributed to the heart attack that had claimed his father not long after.

Where were those scientists now? Now that unemployment was at an all time high. Where were their studies, their results and reports? No doubt they were off saving some other species at the expense of jobs and families.

Looking at his watch, he saw that he had a half hour to kill before his delivery was due at the marine supply warehouse. Making a right out of the lot, he drove toward the twenty-four-hour Tim Hortons doughnut shop just up the road. Good a place as any to pick up on some local gossip. It’s a shame, though, he thought as he again pictured Abby in his mind. Too bad someone that good looking has to be a scientist.

ABBY HAD ONCE READ that the route along Québec’s North Shore between Baie-Comeau and Québec City was one of the prettiest in Canada. As her car crested a hill that offered a panoramic view of the Saint Lawrence Seaway, she could easily see why. To the south, the Seaway was a wide, brilliantly blue plane as far as the eye could see. Each small town or village through which she passed was more quaint, more charming, more picturesque than the previous one. The distant mountains to the north were covered in dense spruce and fir and the closer rolling vistas of farmland and rocky knolls were almost enough to push all thoughts of the mysterious Marc from her mind.

Almost.

After his hasty departure, Abby had remained on her bench, puzzling over his strange behavior until, like Figgy, she had succumbed to the ferry’s steady rocking motion and fallen asleep. She had only awakened when the announcement—made first in French and then English—came over the loudspeakers that the ferry would dock at Baie-Comeau in fifteen minutes and all passengers should make their way to their vehicles.

Remembering the stares from her fellow shipmates when she appeared with Figgy, Abby hung back until most of the travelers had already gone below. She had not seen Marc inside, nor anywhere below as she wove her way between the hundreds of cars, trucks, campers, vans and motorcycles that twice daily turned the Felipe into a giant floating parking lot. Once in her own car, she had glanced back at the Wagoneer, but in the glare of the halogen lights couldn’t tell if anyone was inside.

Since she had been among the last to board back in Matane, Abby had had to wait while hundreds of vehicles in front were directed off the ship. When her turn came, she eased the car along, giving a small wave to the crewman who had almost prevented Figgy from going up on deck. He returned her wave, but with a suspicious look. She’d been so intent on navigating her way out of the lot, she had not paid any attention to where Marc was heading. By the time she remembered to look in her rearview mirror for his Jeep, it was nowhere to be seen.

And as she cruised down the road to Tadoussac, she was too excited to obsess about the moody stranger.

Twelve months, she thought happily. Woods Hole had not only approved her research grant, but had left the door wide open for a three-year extension pending the results of that first year. She had the full use of the lab facilities at the center and visiting-researcher status at the Centre d’interpretation des mammifères marins. The grant was not a huge one, but it was more than enough to get started. The amount would fund the research and provide a modest living stipend. The Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute had even arranged for a one-year lease on a small apartment in Tadoussac within walking distance of the research center.

It was near lunchtime when Abby pulled her car over to the shoulder on the steep rise above Tadoussac. “It’s perfect,” she whispered, looking out the windshield at the view before her. Figgy, who once again had fallen asleep on the back seat, opened her eyes and sat up.

The tiny village of Tadoussac hugged a flat piece of land nestled within a bay of the same name. To the west, north and east, the rocky cliffs of the Saguenay River Fjord stood out stark and gray against the blue sky. The river itself emptied into the bay at the base of the hill directly below where Abby now parked. There, the road ended and from this height, Abby could see a short line of cars waiting to board the small ferry that made the fifteen-minute crossing to the other side, where the road continued on to Québec City and points west. In the bay, tiny boats bobbed up and down and she could just make out people strolling along the beach. Abby took another long satisfied look, then checked for traffic and pulled back onto the highway.

“Let’s find our new home,” she said, as Figgy stuck her head out the window and took her first good whiff of Tadoussac.

After taking the next exit off the highway, Abby drove slowly down the town’s narrow streets, following the written directions that had been forwarded to her. To her delight, each turn brought her closer to the bay’s waters. Finally, she pulled up to a modest green bungalow in a row of similarly styled houses, located across the road from the beach she had seen from atop the hill.

This must be it, she thought, looking at the name and number on the mailbox at the curb.

Abby rolled the car’s windows partway down before stepping out onto the street and shutting the door behind her. “Wait here,” she said to Figgy and walked up the stone pathway and the three steps to the front porch. Looking around a moment before ringing the bell, Abby saw rows of plant hangers suspended from the porch roof. Empty now, she imagined they would soon be full of flowers.

Pressing the buzzer, she heard the faint sound of chimes from within the house. Moments later, the door opened and Abby was looking into the warmest, greenest eyes she had ever seen.

“Mrs. Doucette?” Abby said.

“Françoise Doucette,” the older woman said. “And you must be our Abby.” It was a statement, not a question. “Come in. Welcome!”

The door opened wide and she ushered Abby inside.

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” Françoise said.

“And I, you,” Abby said, studying the woman. Standing a good head taller than Abby, Françoise was much sturdier, but Abby could not discern an ounce of fat on the woman’s body. Her gray hair was pulled back in a tight bun and the front of her shirt appeared to be dusted in flour.

“How was the drive?” Françoise asked.

“Long,” Abby said. “I left Andover at six yesterday morning and drove pretty much straight through.”

“Then you must be exhausted. I bet you’d like to see your apartment.”

“That would be really nice.” Now that she had actually reached her destination, weariness was taking a firm hold.

“Follow me,” Françoise said, heading down a hallway to what appeared to be the back of the house. “Your place has its own walkway and entrance from the front yard, but this is quicker now that you’re inside.”

As Abby followed behind, Françoise said, “It’s small, but it’s private and furnished. The marine center’s just down the road, you can walk there in five minutes. We don’t have a lot of shops and such here in town, but there is a general store and I go into Baie-Sainte-Catherine every Monday if you need anything.”

She pushed open the screen door leading out to a fenced-in backyard and held it for Abby.

“There’s a washer and dryer in the basement of the house, and you’re welcome to use them anytime, it’s included in the rent.” They crossed the yard to a small, separate building. “Well, here we are.” Françoise dug in her pocket and pulled out a key. She unlocked the door and pushed it open, then stepped aside so Abby could walk in.

“This used to be the garage,” Françoise explained, following her inside. “We converted it to living space about ten years ago.”

Abby stepped into the middle of the single room and looked around. Must have been a small car, she thought. There was just enough room to accommodate a sofa against one wall, an end table on one side and coffee table in front. A well-worn braided rug covered most of the floor and a simple wooden writing desk sat against the wall across from the sofa. Immediately to the right of the front door was a compact kitchen—the stove, refrigerator and sink all apartment-size. Much to Abby’s satisfaction, bookshelves lined most of the available wall space, but it was the windows that truly delighted her.

Rather than walling up the space where the garage door had been, the Doucettes had installed floor-to-ceiling windows. The room was bathed in warm, natural light and would be, Abby could tell, for most of the daylight hours.

“The bathroom’s through that door in the corner and the bedroom is right up there,” Françoise said.

Looking in the direction the older woman was pointing, Abby saw a narrow gangway-style ladder against the far wall that led up to a loft space above the living room.

“What do you think?” Françoise asked.

“I think it’s ideal,” Abby said.

“It’s not very big.”

“It’s fine. Besides, I’ll be spending most of my time at the marine center or in the field.”

“Now, you mentioned in your letter having a dog?” Françoise asked.

“Yes, but you said you allowed pets.” Abby felt herself tense.

“Not a problem,” Françoise said and Abby relaxed. “The yard’s fenced in and there’s even a doghouse out there from the days we had our own dog.”

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that,” Abby said. “I’ll take it.”

Françoise nodded. “All right, then. I’ll leave you to unpack your things and get settled. I have to get back to work. You can drive your car right up the side of the house and park it there.”

Abby followed the woman back outside.

“The front gate is never locked so you can come and go through there. And here are your keys.”

Abby accepted the small ring of keys and was about to ask Françoise how she would like the rent schedule set when her attention was diverted by the enticing aroma of fresh bread.

Taking a deep breath, Abby said, “What is that amazing smell?”

Françoise laughed. “It’s either sourdough rolls or honey-oatmeal bread. I have them both going.”

“You have time to bake and work?” Abby asked.

“Baking is my work,” Françoise said. “I supply the breakfast and tea breads for the Hôtel Tadoussac and sell to a few regular customers directly.”

That explains the flour on her shirt, Abby thought. “The Hôtel Tadoussac, is that the big white building with the red roof I passed on the way in?”

“The very one,” Françoise confirmed. “It’s pretty quiet up there now—the tourist season’s not in high gear yet. But by mid-June, things really pick up. Now, I’d better get back inside before anything burns. Will you be all set?”

“I’ll be fine,” Abby assured her. “I don’t have much to move in, but I want to get it done and have a look around. Thank you.”

Abby stood at the gate and watched as Françoise went back into the house. The Tadoussac Bay was spread out directly in front of Abby, and the view caused her to catch her breath. The rocky arms of the hills surrounding the town wrapped themselves around the waters of the bay, creating a calm harbor. A sand beach hugged the shoreline in a white crescent dotted with rafts of driftwood and massive boulders. Sailboats, large pleasure craft and older, working boats were anchored close to shore, while farther out seabirds—gulls, terns and cormorants—wheeled and dove into the water in search of a meal. The view was prettier than anything she’d seen on a postcard and Abby knew that even in a year she would not grow tired of admiring it.

CHAPTER TWO

“THAT’S THE LAST OF IT,” Abby said, seven trips to the car later. She kicked the screen door shut behind her, set the final box on the floor and flopped down on the couch. Figgy instantly hopped up beside her.

Abby stretched her legs out, leaned her head back and sighed in contentment. New job, new town, new apartment—she couldn’t remember the last time she had been this excited—or this nervous. Turning her head to the right, she could see the blue of the Saint Lawrence beyond the bay. She made a mental promise to take Figgy for a walk down on the beach after supper.

Thinking of supper reminded Abby she hadn’t eaten since the doughnut on the ferry that morning. Having neither the desire nor the energy to go looking for the town’s general store, she decided to postpone her first grocery-shopping expedition and ask Françoise for a restaurant recommendation.

Standing, she looked down at Figgy and said, “How about you go scope out your new yard?”

The dog jumped off the couch and followed her outside. As Abby continued on to the back door of the main house, Figgy busied herself dashing about the lawn and sniffing at the rose bushes lining the fence.

Abby walked up the back steps and knocked on the door. Expecting Françoise, she was surprised when a young girl appeared on the other side of the screen.

“Um, is Françoise here?” Abby asked uncertainly.

“You mean Gran?” the girl said and, before Abby could answer, she continued on. “Are you the lady that’s going to live in the garage? My name’s Sylvie. I’m eight, well, eight and a half, really. Do you like boats? I like boats. My dad said he’d take me on a boat ride this weekend. Is that your dog?”

Figgy had trotted over to the bottom of the porch steps and was looking up at them.

“Sylvie! I thought I asked you to—oh, Miss Miller, I’m sorry. Is Sylvie bothering you?” Françoise came up behind the little girl, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

“No, not at all,” Abby said hastily. “She was just introducing herself to me.”

Sylvie opened the screen door all the way and stepped out to get a better look at Figgy.

“Do you like dogs?” Abby asked her.

Sylvie nodded.

“Would you like to play with her?”

The girl’s eyes widened and she turned to look back at Françoise. “Gran? Can I? Please?”

“Have you finished your homework?” Françoise asked.

“Yeah, well, almost. I’ll do the rest after supper, I promise. Please?”

Françoise laughed and threw up her hands. “All right, I guess an hour of playing outside won’t hurt. But, then you finish your homework before supper. Okay?”

“Okay,” Sylvie said happily, dashing back inside. “Be right back,” she called over her shoulder.

Abby and Françoise looked at each other, bemused, and moments later, Sylvie reappeared holding a worn soccer ball. Tossing the ball out into the middle of the yard, she clapped in delight as Figgy bounded after it and all three of them laughed as the little dog tried unsuccessfully to get its mouth around it.

“Her name is Figgy,” Abby said to Sylvie.

“That’s a weird name,” Sylvie said.

“Sylvie!” Françoise said firmly. “Remember what we talked about—not everything you think has to come out of your mouth.”

“Sorry,” Sylvie muttered.

“That’s okay,” Abby said, smiling. “I guess it is kind of a weird name.”

“One hour,” Françoise said in a warning tone as Sylvie jumped down the steps and started kicking the ball for Figgy to chase. The two women watched a moment, then Françoise motioned for Abby to come inside.

“We just got back from delivering up to the hotel.” With a nod of her head, Françoise indicated that Abby should take a seat at the kitchen table. “Can I offer you a cup of tea and something to eat?”

“Oh, no. I don’t want to bother you. I was just hoping you could tell me a good place in town to grab a bite.”

“We have a lot of good places,” Françoise said. “Problem is, none are open at this hour. It’s too late for lunch and too early for supper.”

“I see.” Disappointed, Abby realized she’d have to shop after all. “Well, if you could tell me how to get to the grocery store—”

“I can,” Françoise said. “But right now you are going to have a cup of tea and some of these muffins I made today.”

“No, I can’t,” Abby protested, standing.

“You can and you will,” Françoise insisted. “Please, sit down. Make an old woman happy,” she added in mock severity.

Abby sat down while Françoise put the teakettle on the burner to heat, then took out cups, saucers, spoons, plates and forks from various cupboards and drawers and laid out two place settings. Then came a wooden box. When Françoise opened the lid, Abby discovered a generous selection of tea bags. Finally, Françoise set down a basket holding a half-dozen muffins and several scones wrapped in a white cloth.

“Help yourself,’ she said, indicating the basket.

Abby reached out and carefully selected one of the muffins. “Mmm…still warm.”

“I always bake a few extra,” Françoise said. “Come by any afternoon at this time and join me.”

Right, Abby thought. If I make a habit out of this, someone’s liable to mistake me for a beluga.

Out loud she said, “Is your granddaughter visiting?”

“Sylvie?” Françoise said. “No, she lives here in Tadoussac. I’m watching her while her father’s away.”

“She’s adorable.”

“She’s that,” Françoise agreed. “But give her the opportunity and she’ll talk your ear off—in French and in English!”

“Is her mother away also?” Abby said, realizing a bit too late that her question sounded like snooping. When Françoise’s eyes clouded, Abby instantly regretted asking.

“I’m sorry, that’s none of my business. I’m not normally so nosy.”

Françoise waved a hand at her. “No, it’s all right. Sylvie’s mother died three years ago in Toronto. That’s when my son moved back here with my granddaughter.”

“I’m so sorry,” Abby said, unsure of what else to say. The silence hung heavy in the room as both women listened to the happy squeals of the little girl and Figgy’s excited barking.

Casting about for something to say, Abby finally asked, “When does school let out up here?”

“Let out?” Françoise asked, shutting off the stove’s burner and bringing the kettle to the table. She set it down atop a trivet and then took the seat opposite Abby.

“For the summer. When does her summer vacation start?”

“Oh, I see. At the end of June but Sylvie’s been having problems with her reading and writing, so my son might have to enroll her in a summer program. Three hours every morning.” Françoise poured hot water into Abby’s cup.

“Thank you,” Abby said, taking the cup and selecting a tea bag from the box. “What does your son do?”

Before Françoise could answer, they both heard a car door slam. The older woman grinned. “That would be him now. I swear, he can smell my blueberry muffins from a mile away.”

Having just polished off one herself, Abby wasn’t sure about being able to smell the muffins from that far off, but she’d certainly consider walking a mile for one.

Footsteps sounded up the walk and the front door opened and shut.

“Mom?” a deep male voice said.

“In the kitchen.” Françoise called out.

“I couldn’t get your organic twelve-grain flour, so I got double the whole grain. And they said they won’t have any more fresh honey until this fall, so I picked up what they had left…” The voice came to a stop as its owner stepped into the kitchen and stared at Abby. Recognizing the man from the ferry, she returned his look of surprise.

“Marc, this is Abby,” Françoise said. “She’s the one renting the apartment for the year. Abby, this is my son Marc—Sylvie’s father.”

“We’ve met,” Abby and Marc said in unison. Françoise looked confused.

“Met, but where?”

Before either could answer, the screen door slammed and Sylvie was in the room, running at her father, who scooped her into a hug.

“Hello mon petit chou,” he said.

“I’m not a cabbage,” Sylvie said with all the dignity befitting her eight years. “That’s Abby, I mean, Miss Miller.” She wriggled out of Marc’s embrace. “She has a dog! And her name is Figgy and she likes to chase soccer balls. Want to come watch us, Dad?”

Marc laughed and ruffled his daughter’s hair. “Not right now. I need to talk to your grandmother for a bit.”

“And you, young lady, have some homework to finish, remember?” Françoise chided.

Outnumbered, Sylvie looked from her father to Françoise and back again. “Okay.” Then she looked at Abby and brightened. “Miss Miller, can I play with Figgy again tomorrow?”

“You can play with Figgy every day if you want to,” Abby said, then quickly added, “If it’s okay with your father and grandmother.”

“Can I, Dad, Gran? Please?” Sylvie’s blue eyes were huge and round—and much like her father’s.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Marc said.

“That’s what grownups always say,” Sylvie complained.

“That’s because we are grownups,” Marc said. “Now, homework. Scoot!” He gave her a light tap on her behind with his hand.

“So, how was she today,” Marc asked softly, after Sylvie had left.

Before Françoise could answer, Abby rose to her feet. Not wanting to impose on personal family business, she thanked Françoise for the muffin and excused herself, saying she still had a ton of unpacking to do.

“Nice seeing you again,” Marc said mildly, as Abby brushed past him.

“Yes, you, too,” she said quickly and hastened out.

MARC CLAIMED the chair just vacated by Abby and helped himself to a cranberry scone from the basket.

“At least use a napkin,” Françoise admonished him as Marc put the scone, minus a huge bite, directly on the table.

“Sorry,” he said through his mouthful.

“Here.” Françoise handed him a small plate and began clearing off the dirty dishes from the table.

“Thanks,” Marc said, finishing the scone in three more bites and reaching for a muffin.

“How do you know our tenant? She’s only been in town a few hours.” Françoise’s back was to him as she rinsed the dishes in the sink.

“We met on the ferry this morning.” Marc recounted the episode with Abby and the ferry worker and their subsequent conversation on deck. He left out his own abrupt departure.

When Françoise returned to the table and sat back down, Marc waited until she finished making her own cup of tea before asking again about Sylvie’s day.

“She said she had a good day when I picked her up,” Françoise said. “But Madame Simard wanted to speak to me.”

“Sylvie’s teacher? What did she say?”

“That Sylvie’s a bright, energetic, kindhearted girl who is showing no signs of improvement in either her reading or her writing.”

“Dammit,” Marc muttered. “How much longer will she be like this? It’s been three years.”

“How much longer are you going to blame yourself?” Françoise asked softly.