Читать книгу It Takes Two - Joanne Michael - Страница 8

NO ONE HAD SAID ANYTHING about needing reservations. If they had, Abby Miller knew she wouldn’t be sitting here now, near the end of a long line of cars waiting for the few remaining slots on the Matane-Baie-Comeau ferry.

“Who’d have thought so many people wanted to get across the Saint Lawrence Seaway this time of year?” she said. In the back seat, Figgy pricked up her ears and made a low chuffing sound. “Go back to sleep, girl,” Abby said. “There’s no reason we should both be up at this ungodly hour.” The small brown dog obligingly put her head back down on her front paws, sighed mightily and closed her eyes.

Abby glanced at her watch. Five-thirty. According to the brochure of ferry schedules open on the passenger seat next to her, the Felipe was due to depart the docks at six-ten. Abby had arrived at the terminal fifteen minutes earlier, thinking that would give her more than enough time to purchase a ticket and board the ferry for the two-hour crossing.

No such luck. She leaned back against the headrest and watched enviously as Québec Maritime terminal staff directed the rapidly dwindling line of cars in the Passengers with Reservations Only lane. The Felipe had a capacity of six hundred cars, and Abby had tried to count the vehicles as they drove into the cavernous opening. But so many had boarded before she arrived that she soon gave up, knowing it was an exercise in futility.

Next to the ferry brochure was her much read and well-creased road map, the route from her apartment in Andover, Massachusetts, to Tadoussac, Québec, highlighted in bright red. The helpful agent at AAA had assured Abby the drive would be a scenic one, albeit long, and had been telling the truth. Abby had made a right turn out of her driveway early the previous morning and had driven north in a straight line ever since. About halfway through the trip, late yesterday afternoon, she had left the interstate for the more rural highways of northern Maine. By evening, she had cleared Canadian customs and crossed the border into New Brunswick, Canada, picked up the Trans-Canada Highway and entered the province of Québec around midnight.

So near and yet so far, Abby thought, looking out her windshield at the choppy waters of the Saint Lawrence.

She sat up straighter as the last of the cars eased over the ramp between the dock and ferry. Abby could barely make out the ferry’s darkened interior, but it looked like there could be enough room for all the cars in her lane. Her optimism, however, was premature.

Just as she was keying her ignition back on, she watched in horror as the terminal workers switched their attention to the scores of big rigs, panel trucks and large flatbeds that had been idling in the lane to her left.

When the last the of the trucks had been allowed on board, Abby saw the brake lights on the lead car in her lane flash. As if that were the signal, all the remaining cars roared to life and the line slowly inched forward. A terminal worker approached each car, handed the driver a slip of paper and then waved the vehicle on. The closer Abby got, the more convinced she became that she would have to make a reservation on the next available ferry—eight hours later or drive miles and hours out of her way to Québec City and the bridge.

She was now so close to the ferry, it blocked out the sky. She watched as the car in front of her—a late-model Saab with two mountain bikes lashed to the back bumper—was waved aboard. The attendant approached her car, the coveted white boarding slips in his hand. Rolling down the window, Abby offered him what she hoped was her most engaging smile, as if charm alone could magically create a space for her.

“Good morning,” she said brightly to the young man, his Québec Maritime Windbreaker zipped to his chin, the hood pulled low over his eyes against the raw wind whipping off the Saint Lawrence. “Gosh, there are so many cars and I know I should have called ahead, but I really need to get across this morning and—” Abby knew she was babbling but couldn’t help it.

The young man glanced in the car, saw Abby was the only passenger, mumbled something indecipherable, scribbled on the paper and handed it to her with one hand, pointing to the ferry with the other.

Abby accepted the slip with a genuine “thank you,” clutching it in one hand even as she steered onto the ramp.

Once on the ferry, another Québec Maritime worker directed her to a spot behind the Saab and against the boat’s port side hull. “We made it,” she said exuberantly to Figgy, who was now sitting up and looking around, the noises of the ferry’s interior—parking cars, slamming doors, metal clanging and the steady throb of the boat’s engine—having wakened her.

Curious about the fate of the drivers behind her, Abby looked in her rearview mirror to see just how close she had come to being left behind. With the limited space behind her, it was obvious that, while she was not the last to board, not much of a cushion had remained. Her view was blocked as an older Jeep Wagoneer pulled up behind her, so close its grill filled the mirror.

“Okay,” she said. “What say we get our stuff and head above decks?”

Thanks to her proximity to the inner hull, Abby had to squeeze out of the car. She then walked around to the passenger side, opened the door and began gathering her purse, some bottled water, the previous day’s newspaper and Figgy’s leash. Snapping the leash to the dog’s collar, she stood and pulled gently for Figgy to follow her. Startled, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

A crew member was standing just behind her, saying something in French.

“Pardon?” she said.

The crewman, with obvious impatience, repeated himself, and Abby did her best to follow his rapid speech.

Dammit, she thought, why didn’t I pay better attention in high school French?

She said, “I’m sorry, please slow down, I don’t understand.”

Glowering at her, the man pointed at Figgy and then jerked a thumb over his shoulder at a sign on the far wall. Looking past him, Abby felt her heart drop when she saw the illustration of a dog on a leash with a fat red line through it. She didn’t have to be fluent in any language to know that symbol meant dogs were not welcome, allowed or wanted on the Felipe’s upper decks.

“You mean I have to leave her here? In the car? What if something happens and I have to get to her?” Abby was horrified. Figgy had been her companion for the past five years, and there was no way she could leave her beloved pet alone in the dark musty hold.

Then she realized there was another option. “Never mind,” she said to the crewman, not caring if he understood her or not. “I can ride down here. I can even take a nap.”

She bent to put her things back in the car and again felt a tap on her shoulder.

The crewman had obviously been through this before with countless other passengers and their pets. Shaking his head, he pointed to another sign, this one with instructions in several different languages, including English. Passengers are forbidden to stay with their cars.

“Listen,” she said, “I can’t leave her down here. Can’t you make an exception? Please?”

The crewman was looking at her impassively and Abby had the distinct feeling she’d have a better chance pleading her case to the nearby bulkhead.

She closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. She knew she was being foolish, that Figgy would be fine down here for a couple of hours. But she couldn’t get the image of some kind of maritime disaster out of her head. Abby knew she was tired; worn out from the stress of an all-night drive and then the uncertainty of getting on the damned ferry. All she wanted was to get up to the main deck, pay her fare, buy a large cup of coffee and find a sunny place to sit and enjoy the scenery for the next two hours.

She opened her mouth, unsure of what was going to come out, when a masculine voice to her right said, “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to be eavesdropping, but can I help?”

Turning, she saw it was the driver of the Jeep Wagoneer. Given the tight quarters on the car deck, he had been unable to get past Abby’s car since she and the ferry worker were blocking the narrow aisle.

“What?” she said.

The man smiled and, without a word to Abby, turned to the crewman and spoke in French. Abby couldn’t keep up, but she could have sworn she heard him say something about a doctor.

After a further exchange, during which the worker cast several questioning looks at Abby, the driver of the Wagoneer extended his hand for the crewman to shake. Smiling briefly, the man shook hands and looked at Abby again, then left.

Was that fear in his eyes? she wondered. No, she was just tired and seeing things.

“Okay,” the driver said. “You’re all set.”

“What do you mean all set?”

“You and your dog. You can take him up with you.”

“Her,” Abby said, stunned at the change in fortune.

“What?”

“He’s a her. That is, my dog, she’s a female.”

“Fine, you can take her up with you.”

He turned to walk away and Abby called out to him. “Wait a minute! How did you—what did you, I don’t understand. Dogs aren’t allowed.”

The man laughed. “I just told the guy I’m your doctor and you are under treatment for an emotional disorder. That’s your therapy dog and I can’t be responsible for what might happen if he separated you two.”

“You told him what?” Abby asked, incredulous.

“Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”

“And he believed you?”

He grinned. “Guys like that never want to hear more than they have to about emotional problems when it comes to women.”

Abby got the feeling he was viewing the entire thing as one big joke. Whether it was on her, the ferry line or both, she couldn’t tell. But she found herself smiling back at him. “I’m not sure if I should be insulted or grateful. But thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, again moving off. “I always like to start my day by saving a damsel in distress.” He stopped. “But listen, just in case. Try to keep a low profile up there, okay?”

“I will,” Abby said, “And thanks again, I mean it.”

THE SUN radiating off the brilliantly whitewashed outer hull of the Felipe was a deliciously warm counterbalance to the chilly morning air. Abby clasped her cup of coffee in one hand, breathed in its strong aroma and finally felt herself begin to relax. Figgy lay at her feet, tucked under the wooden bench on which Abby sat. The little dog was fast asleep, lulled by the ferry’s steady vibration as it plowed through the waves toward the industrial city of Baie-Comeau on the far shore. Despite the clear weather, the cool temperatures meant most of the ship’s other passengers were indoors, enjoying breakfast in one of the ferry’s two restaurants or sitting in one of the lounges. As a result, Abby had the stern-side deck to herself.

They had been underway for more than thirty minutes and the hills around Matane had slipped from view below the southern horizon. With no land visible, it was easy for Abby to imagine they were in the middle of the Atlantic, not crossing one of North America’s mightiest rivers.

More than one passenger had done a double take when Abby had stepped up to pay her fare, Figgy obediently at heel. But no one had said anything. She had been prepared for another go around with the ferry’s personnel about the no-dogs-on-deck policy, but they must have figured that if she’d made it past the sentinels down below, there was an official reason for this particular canine to be with a passenger.

Her only regret was not getting her benefactor’s name. But by the time she had gathered her things and convinced Figgy to jump out of the car, Mr. Wagoneer, as she had dubbed him, had vanished.

Taking another sip of coffee, she gazed out at the sparkling blue waters topped by a confusion of whitecaps. Breezy, yes, but not a strong enough wind to explain the water’s turbulence. No, she figured the intense wave action had more to do with their proximity to the Gulf of Saint Lawrence, where the river met the Atlantic. It was an area of strong crosscurrents, which she suspected made for a tricky passage at the best of time for the ferry captains.

The sun was rising higher and the glare off the water made Abby squint. She was digging into her purse for her sunglasses when she heard the hatch next to her bench open and close and someone step out onto the deck.

“When I said to keep a low profile, I didn’t mean you had to sit out here and freeze to death,” a familiar masculine voice said.

Abby shaded her eyes against the sun and recognized Mr. Wagoneer smiling down at her.

“Mind if I share your bench?” he asked.

“No, not at all.”

Stepping around her and turning the collar of his brown canvas coat up against the chill, he sat down on the bench, stretching his legs out until his booted feet almost touched the rail.

“So, I take it you had no trouble getting your small passenger on deck?”

“No,” Abby said. “The hardest part was getting past the guy downstairs—and you did that for me.”

He smiled, and held out a hand. “I’m Marc, by the way.”

Abby shook his hand. “Abby. Abby Miller, it’s very nice to meet you.” How could she not have noticed down below just how handsome he was? Curly brown hair edged the navy-blue watch cap he was wearing and the corners of his clear-blue eyes crinkled with lines that come from a lifetime of laughing or working in the outdoors or both.

“And your friend?” Marc nodded toward the sleeping Figgy.

“That’s Figgy Piggy,” Abby said, laughing self-consciously.

“Figgy Piggy?” Marc’s eyebrows rose.

At the mention of her name, Figgy got up, stretched, walked out from under the bench and sat staring at the man and woman.

“It’s a long story,” Abby explained.

“Well, it’s a long crossing,” Marc said. “Hey, are you hungry?” He leaned away from her and dug in the large outer pocket of his jacket. Pulling out a slightly crumpled white paper bag, he held it out to her. “I picked these up just before I got to the dock.”

Abby peered inside to see a half-dozen glazed doughnuts. As the smell reached her nose, she suddenly remembered she hadn’t eaten since the previous day’s rushed supper on the road. She heard her stomach rumble and hoped Marc didn’t catch it over the sound of the ferry’s engines.

“Wow, thanks, yes, I’d love—Figgy! No!”

To Abby’s horror, Figgy jumped up, put both front paws on Marc’s chest and tried to stick her head into the bag.

“Whoa girl, down.” Marc held the bag out of reach with his right hand and used his left to gently take Figgy’s paws from his chest and push her back to the deck.

“I’m sorry,” Abby said. “She’s really such a good dog but she’s a shameless beggar.”

As if to prove the point, Figgy cocked her ears, put her head on Marc’s lap and looked up at him with pleading brown eyes.

“She does have it down to a fine art,” Marc said. “When’s the last time you fed her?”

“This morning when we got to the dock. Figgy, come here.” Abby tugged firmly on the dog’s leash.

Instead of complying, the dog cast Abby a disdainful look, put her head back down on Marc’s leg and drooled slightly.

“Okay, that’s it—get over here,” Abby ordered.

With great reluctance, Figgy began to back off, but Marc said, “Don’t worry about it. I like dogs. And this one’s a real character.”

“No, I don’t want her to bother you,” Abby insisted.

“It’s no bother. Besides, it’s my own fault for getting her here in the first place. Can I give her a little piece of doughnut?”

“Sure, and if you do, I guarantee you’ll have a friend for life.”

“In that case, here’s one for you, too.” Marc handed Abby a doughnut before he pulled a chunk off his own and handed it to Figgy, who downed the morsel in one gulp.

“One piece is enough for you, okay?” Marc said to the dog.

“Yes, now lie down,” Abby commanded.

Looking from one to the other, Figgy lay down directly at Marc’s feet, keeping a watchful eye for any crumbs.

Satisfied that Figgy was not contemplating another sneak attack on Marc’s bag of doughnuts, Abby sat back and enjoyed the fresh pastry and hot coffee.

“Now I’m doubly in your debt,” she said, licking the last of the glaze from her fingers. “Dog lover and provider of treats.”

“All in a day’s work,” Marc said loftily.

“What a morning. First I wasn’t sure if I was even going to make it onto the ferry and then the whole thing with Figgy—”

“No reservations?”

Abby shook her head. “I guess you didn’t have any either. I mean, you were behind me.”

“Nah, I don’t bother. I can usually pretty well guess my odds and what time I should get in line. Even then, it’s not worth breaking a sweat over. There’s always another one, right?”

Abby laughed. “That’s a healthy attitude.”

“So, where are you headed?” Marc asked.

“Tadoussac. It’s on the north shore, about ninety miles west of Baie-Comeau.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Are you from Québec?”

Marc nodded. “Born and raised. What brings you to Tadoussac? On holiday?”

“No, work.”

“No kidding? Doing what?”

Abby smiled and had to consciously force herself not to feel for the well-worn envelope inside her shirt pocket. She had read the letter so often it was now committed to memory:

Dear Dr. Miller, it is with great pleasure that the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute informs you of the board’s decision to fund for a period of one year your research into the effects of noise pollution and related human contact activities on the social behavior of beluga…

“Hey, you still with me?” Marc asked.

“Sorry,” she said. “I was just thinking of how lucky I am. I’m going to be a visiting scholar based at the research center for marine mammals. Do you know it?”

When Marc didn’t answer right away, Abby added, “It’s right in Tadoussac.”

“I know where it is.” Marc’s tone had lost some of its earlier warmth. “So, what, you’re a scientist or something?”

“Actually, yes.” No doubt about it, his attitude toward her had cooled several degrees.

“Great,” he said, “Just what we need.”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind,” Marc said, standing. “I’d better get back inside. Enjoy the rest of the crossing.”

Abby felt confused by his sudden leave taking. “Okay, I will. Thanks again for all your help and for being so nice to Figgy.”

“Sure,” he said, stepping over the dog. “See ya.” And he was gone through the hatch.

A SCIENTIST, Marc thought in disgust, sitting behind the wheel of his Jeep as he watched Abby and her dog get into her car and wait with the rest of the passengers for the ferry to dock at Baie-Comeau. It figures. Would he have stepped in like that to plead her case to the ferry worker had he known? Her brake lights flashed as she keyed the car to life. He sighed. Probably. Wasn’t often he’d seen a woman that pretty on the Matane to Baie-Comeau run. Check that, he’d never seen a woman that pretty on the ferry.

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.