Читать книгу It Takes Two - Joanne Michael - Страница 9

“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.

“Who says I am?” Marc shot back, then softened his tone. “Sorry, Mom, it’s just been a rough couple of days.”

Make that a rough couple of years, he thought ruefully. Was his mother right? Was he blaming himself for Thérèse’s death? Why would he? He wasn’t the one behind the wheel of the SUV that crossed the centerline, hitting Thérèse’s compact head-on and demolishing it. No, if anyone was to blame, it was the teenagers in the SUV, pumped up on Lord-knows-what, out celebrating the first day of summer vacation.

So why do I feel so guilty? he wondered.

Because she hadn’t wanted to take the damn car in the first place, but I talked her into it, Marc reminded himself. He’d wanted her to drive that day instead of taking the bus so she could drop the Toyota off for an oil change, sparing him the trip.

One fateful decision that had changed his life forever.

Françoise was saying something. “I’m sorry, Mom, what was that?”

“I said Madame Simard wants to talk to you about Sylvie.”

“Right, okay, I can go tomorrow.”

Françoise looked at him a moment. “How did things go in Rimouski?”

Marc laughed bitterly. “Struck out,” he said. “The marina’s not hiring any new boatmen this year. McDonnell told me he can’t even honor half of the rehires from the winter layoffs.”

“And Matane?”

“O for two,” Marc said. “I went to talk to Bruce Charbonneau—his company’s the one doing all the construction work on the road up to Blanc Sablon, but the Tremblay boys have that whole market sewn up.”

“You mean the Tremblays got the entire contract for ferrying supplies from Godbout to Blanc Sablon?” Françoise said.

“Yeah, it’s all in who you know—right?”

The Tremblays were one of the North Shores’ oldest, largest and most influential families, with a fleet of sleek, late-model cargo boats. Most supplies ferried up and down the shore made the trip on Tremblay craft.

“Where does that leave you, now?” Françoise asked.

Marc shrugged. “Back to the plan of chartering day trips for tourists for the summer,” he said with little enthusiasm.

“It’s honest work.”

“I suppose. Maybe it was a mistake. Moving back here. At least in Toronto I had a job.”

“Yes, but that’s all you had,” Françoise reminded him. “A job that kept you away from your daughter. No, you’re both better off here, for the time being anyway, with family.”

“Yeah, and speaking of that,” Marc said, “I was thinking on the drive down of renting the house out for the summer. We could sure use the money.”

Marc and Sylvie were living in a house on one of the knolls overlooking the bay. He and Thérèse had lived there for two years before the lure of higher wages led them to Toronto. The view from the porch alone would make it an easy place to rent to one of the summer families.

“Where would you stay?” Françoise asked.

“I was thinking about the boat,” Marc ventured.

“The boat! That’s no place for Sylvie to live,” Françoise said.

“I know. Maybe she could have my old room?” Marc let the question hang in the air. “I mean, it would only be for the summer and you said yourself she’s a real help in the kitchen—”

“Stop it,” Françoise said. “You don’t have to convince me of the joys of having my granddaughter staying with me. I love having her here.”

“Thanks, Mom. I mean it.” Marc stood and pushed his chair back beneath the table. “Now, I think I’ll go check on how our princess is doing.”

MARC FOUND SYLVIE lying facedown on the living-room sofa, drawing on a pad of paper. So intent was she on her work, she had not heard him come into the room. It gave Marc a chance to watch his daughter a moment and, as it always did at the sight of the freckle-faced youngster, his heart swelled with love.

In those horrible days and weeks immediately following Thérèse’s death, Marc knew it was Sylvie alone who had kept him going. Dealing with her endless questions and simple needs had given him a reason to get up every morning. Otherwise, he very well could have curled up and died himself.

But Sylvie was his joy and had been from the moment she was born. Watching her now, he remembered what Thérèse had said the night Sylvie came into the world.

She’s the best parts of both of us. How right his wife had been.

“Whatcha working on, ma fille?” Marc asked.

Sylvie jumped a bit. “Dad, you’re not supposed to sneak up on people,” she scolded. “It’s not nice.” She swiveled her legs around so her father could sit next to her.

“You’re right. I stand corrected. Now, what have we here.” He looked at the drawing Sylvie had been working on and was easily able to identify it as a portrait in pencil of Figgy. He shook his head in admiration. The drawing was on the simplistic side, but it was also quite realistic.

“This is very good,” Marc said.

“Thanks. I’m going to give it to Miss Miller.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you.” Marc put his arm around the girl and held her close a moment. “You had a good time playing with that dog, didn’t you?”

“I sure did!” Sylvie said.

“How would you like it if you were here every day to play with her?”

Sylvie’s brow wrinkled. “But I am here every day, Dad, while you work.”

“Yes, yes you are. But how would you like to live here for the summer?”

“Really? Live with Gran? All three of us?”

“Well, that would be a bit much to ask of Gran,” Marc said. “How about we try it just you girls for the time being?”

“Where will you live?” Sylvie asked.

“On the boat. Just for the summer season.”

“Why can’t we live in our house?” Sylvie asked.

“I was thinking, our house is so nice and we’re so lucky to have Gran’s house to stay at and the boat, well it’s kind of selfish. So maybe we could let some other people use our house for the summer. What do you think of that?” Marc held his breath.

Sylvie was giving the matter ample thought. “I guess it’s okay,” she said slowly. “But they have to pay us lots of money!”

Marc stared at his daughter a moment, then burst out laughing. Never underestimate the ability of a child to get right to the heart of the matter. He gave her another hug.

“Now, is your homework done?” Marc said.

“I guess…”

“You don’t sound convinced. Why don’t you let me see it?”

Looking like she’d rather do anything but that, Sylvie reached down to the floor and picked up a spelling workbook and handed it to him. “This is what we were doing today,” she said and went back to her drawing of Figgy.

Marc opened the workbook to the most recent assignment.

“You left half the answers blank,” he said gently.

Sylvie shrugged and kept her eyes on the drawing.

“Sylvie?”

She slowly set the pencil down and looked at him. “I was supposed to finish it tonight.”

“Finish?”

Sylvie nodded, looking down at her hands. “Madame Simard made us work in groups today. We were supposed to read the questions and answer them. But, I—I couldn’t and the other kids laughed and—”

Whatever else she was going to say was lost as Sylvie broke into tears. Quickly, Marc slid closer to her and put an arm around his daughter’s shoulders.

“Shhhh,” he said softly. “It’s okay.”

Sylvie gave a mighty sniff and pulled away. “I hate it when the other kids laugh at me,” she said, wiping her nose with her sleeve.

“No one likes to be laughed at, ma fille.” Marc pulled his arm back. “What did Madame Simard say?”

“Nothing,” Sylvie said sullenly. “She didn’t hear them. She just told me to finish my book at home. But Dad,” she looked up at Marc, “I think she wants to talk to you.”

Marc nodded. “Uh-huh, she does. Your grandmother told me.”

“She thinks I’m stupid, doesn’t she?” Sylvie’s voice trembled a bit.

Marc felt his jaw tighten. “Did Madame Simard say that?”

Sylvie shrugged.

“Sylvie, did Madame Simard say you were stupid?”

“She thinks I need a special teacher and two girls in class said only stupid people go to the special teacher.” Sylvie gave a loud sniff. “I’m sorry I’m stupid, Dad.”

“Oh, Sylvie.” He hugged her to him and stroked her hair. “You’re not stupid. You just have your own way of learning things and you know what?”

“What?” Her voice was muffled against his chest.

“That makes you more interesting than any of the other girls in that school.”

She looked up at him. “Really?”

“Really,” Marc said. “Now, why don’t you go see if Gran wants to go have supper? I think I’m going to take my two favorite ladies out tonight. We’ll work on your homework before you go to bed. And, Sylvie,” he added before she could hop down and scamper off, “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Dad,” she said.

After Sylvie left, Marc again picked up the drawing. It really was remarkable how well she had captured the likeness of the little dog.

“DAD, LOOK.” Sylvie was tugging at Marc’s sleeve and pointing. He glanced over to see Abby shutting the gate behind her and walking toward them.

“Oh, hello,” she said.

“We’re going to get hamburgers,” Sylvie said. “Want to come?”

“Sylvie, I’m sure Miss Miller has other plans,” Marc said in a cautionary tone.

“Other plans?” Françoise repeated. “The poor thing just got here, she hasn’t had time to make any plans. I’ll bet you’re on your way to find a restaurant.”

“Actually, yes,” Abby said.

“Then why don’t you come with us?” Françoise suggested.

“No, I don’t want to impose,” Abby said. “If you’ll just point me in the direction of a place that’s open, that would be great.”

Françoise shook her head. “The only spot open right now is Pierrette’s and that’s where we’re going. Please join us, we’d welcome your company. Wouldn’t we, Marc?” She looked pointedly at her son.

“Sure, why not?” Marc said.

“All right,” Abby agreed, “but under one condition.”

“What’s that?” Françoise asked.

“That you all start calling me Abby.”

“Deal,” Sylvie said. “Can we go now? I’m starving!”

“Okay, ma fille,” Marc agreed. “Remember to hold your grandmother’s hand when we cross the road.”

Abby looked up and down the street and raised an eyebrow at Marc.

“I know, it looks deserted now,” he said to Abby as Sylvie and Françoise walked ahead of them. “But, once the tourist season cranks up, it’s going to be pretty busy. I want Sylvie to get in the habit now of never crossing unless there’s an adult with her.”

“Good idea.” Abby fell into step next to him. “Listen, I really hope I’m not imposing, crashing your dinner like this.”

Marc shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I have to say, you were the last person I expected to see today, much less at my landlady’s house.”

“Yeah, about that,” Marc stopped and put a hand on Abby’s arm, holding her in place. “I think I owe you an apology, I was kind of rude back there on the ferry this morning, rushing off like that.”

“Were you?” Abby asked mildly. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Right,” Marc said. “I just wanted you to know it had nothing to do with you.”

“Well, isn’t that a relief.” Marc could hear the sarcasm in her voice. “It’s just, oh, never mind.” He started to walk down the street.

“No, wait,” Abby said. “I’m sorry, now I’m the one being rude. What were you going to say?”

“Well, when you told me you’re a scientist, it just kind of hit me the wrong way and I wanted to beat it out of there before I said something really stupid.”

Abby looked skeptical. “Because I’m a scientist? You’re kidding, right? What does my being a scientist have to do with anything?”

Marc sighed. “It’s complicated. I’m not sure I can explain it.”

“Give it a try,” Abby said. “Remember, I’m a scientist, I’m pretty clever.”

Her tone might be teasing, but Marc knew his words had rankled. “Okay, look out there and tell me what you see.”

“Out where?”

“There, in the bay.”

Abby was quiet a moment. “I see boats, some people kayaking, a couple of buoys—that’s about it.”

“And farther out? In the Saint Lawrence?”

“Not much. Maybe…” She squinted into the distance. “Is that a container ship way out there?”

Marc nodded, “Time was, you’d have looked out there and seen a dozen, maybe two dozen trawlers and fishing boats anchored in that bay. The rest of the fleet would be farther out, heading for home.”

He turned to look directly at her. “There were more than sixteen hundred licensed fishermen along the North Shore in the early nineteen-nineties—on the north shore alone. Must have been another four thousand going up to Gaspé and the Magdalen Islands. That meant almost three thousand boats going after snow crab, cod, eel, redfish, shrimp and lobster and almost five thousand processing jobs back on shore. Now look at it. It’s deserted out there.”

“What happened?” Abby asked.

“Scientists happened. Scientists and their studies and reports and quotas.” Marc fairly spat the last word out. “Used to be a man could make a good living, support his family from the water. Not anymore. Got to be the size of the permitted catches didn’t even pay the costs of going out. So, over the years, the fishing industry pretty much died.”

“You can’t seriously be blaming the researchers for that? They don’t set the policies or make the laws.”

“You’re right, they don’t,” Marc agreed. “But they sure as hell have a lot of influence over the people in Ottawa who do. All I know is, every time someone shows up to do another damned study, we see a whole new batch of regulations telling us what we can and can’t do.”

Abby tried to reason with him. “But those regulations are necessary to preserve the species,” she said. “Over-fishing, pollution, destruction of habitat—those are the real reasons drastic actions had to be taken.”

Marc could feel the familiar anger rising in him, but he knew he had to speak. “I understand about all that. In fact, if anyone took the time to ask them, they’d find out most fishermen do, too. They know more about these waters than any college kid ever will. What they don’t understand is why, when they’re not the ones to blame for the problems, they’re the ones paying for them.”

“Meaning?”

“Ever see a Russian factory ship?” Marc asked, and Abby shook her head. “Giant monster of a ship. One of those babies will haul in more fish in a week than the old Tadoussac fleet took in a season. As for the pollution and habitat destruction, take a look at your own government. But I guess it’s just easier to go after the little guys.”

“There’s a lot more to it than all that,” Abby said.

“You’re right. Because now this generation of fishermen and sailors have their own regs to deal with. Those boats out there? Most of them are charters for Saguenay River tours or whale watching. But thanks to a bunch of scientists, they’re about to be regulated out of business.”

“How so?” Abby asked.

“Our season’s a short one up here. The nine hundred of us living in Tadoussac have four months—June to October—to make enough money to last the year. But the rules for the guys running the boat tours have made it damn hard for them. Only so many are allowed per square hectare, and they can only get so close to a whale. That sort of thing.”

“So what’s your answer?”

“Leave us alone to take care of our river and bay,” Marc said, more loudly than he’d intended. Up ahead, Sylvie and Françoise stopped and turned around.

Marc took a deep breath, well aware he had no right to wage this verbal attack against Abby. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just tired of people who don’t even live here telling us how to run our lives.”

“I can see that.”

“Da-ad!” Sylvie called. “Hurry up!”

“We’re coming,” he said, and started walking with Abby. “Look, I know you have a job to do and I respect that, but if you can stand it, here’s a piece of free advice.”

Abby smiled. “I’m all ears.”

“While you’re here, take some time to get to know the people. Who knows? You might learn something.”

ABBY DIDN’T KNOW how to react to Marc’s attack on her profession. Fortunately, she was spared having to say anything thanks to Sylvie. Overjoyed to have an audience, the little girl kept up a constant stream of chatter during the rest of the ten-minute walk to the restaurant.

As Sylvie pointed out the various homes and businesses and where different side streets led, Abby mulled over Marc’s words. In her undergraduate work in marine biology and doctoral program in bioacoustics, she had come across numerous accounts of the decline of the Saint Lawrence fisheries, but she had to admit that Marc’s was the first version she had heard from the fishermen’s perspective.

Should she respond to his accusations? It was probably better to remain silent. She probably wouldn’t be seeing him much this summer anyway.

Sylvie announced they had reached Pierrette’s and led the way up the stairs.

Marc held the door for the women and Sylvie made a beeline for a table in the corner. “Can I get some poutine, Dad?” she asked before the adults had a chance to take their seats.

“How about we get a large order and share?” Marc said, sitting down next to his daughter. “You want to get in on this?” he asked Abby, who was seated opposite him.

“Sure, okay. What’s poutine?”

“What’s poutine?” Sylvie repeated in astonishment. “Everyone knows what poutine is!”

“Sylvie!” Marc and Françoise said in unison.

Sylvie picked up a menu and held it in front of her face. “I know, I know. Think it but don’t say it.”

“Poutine is a kind of French fries,” Marc said, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I thought French fries were pommes frites,” Abby said.

“In Québec, poutine is our own special kind of fries,” Marc told her.

Abby shrugged. “Sounds good to me.”

She opened her own menu and sent up a silent prayer of thanks that it was printed in French and English. A waitress appeared and it was obvious to Abby she knew the Doucettes.

“I’ll have the Caesar salad with grilled chicken and a cup of French onion soup, please,” Abby said, when the woman, who introduced herself as Claudine, turned to her, pen poised over her order pad.

“To drink?” Claudine asked.

“Iced tea?”

“That sounds really good,” Françoise said when it was her turn. “I’ll have the same, please.”

“Et tu?” Claudine said to Sylvie.

“Can I have a hamburger and chocolate milkshake, please?” the little girl said, looking at Marc.

“That’ll be a hamburger and a glass of white milk,” Marc amended. “I’ll have the roast chicken, please, and a cup of coffee.”

“Bon.” Claudine said and left, returning minutes later with their drinks.

Abby took a sip of her iced tea and looked around. Aside from their small party, the only other diners were a couple of teenagers in a booth and three young men sharing a pitcher of beer at a table by the window.

“Quiet place,” she said.

“Sure, right now it is,” Marc agreed. “But like everything else in this town, try getting in after the end of June.”

“What do people do here during the winter?” Abby asked.

Marc grinned. “Wait for spring.”

Claudine reappeared and set a steaming plate down in the middle of the table.

Abby had never seen anything quite like it. “Did we order this?”

“That’s the poutine,” Sylvie said happily, stabbing at the middle of the plate with her fork.

“Sylvie,” Marc said in a warning tone, “wait your turn, ma fille.”

“Sorry, Dad.” She withdrew the fork and looked at Abby.

“I thought you said poutine was French fries,” Abby said.

“The French fries are under the gravy,” Marc explained.

“And those little white—nuggets?” Abby knew she sounded skeptical.

“Cheese curds,” Françoise said.

Marc reached for her plate. “I guess you could call this a true Québecois delicacy.”

“Really.” Abby watched Marc scoop out a large portion of golden fries smothered in the brown gravy and ripe cheese curds onto her plate and set it down in front of her. “Funny, when I thought of Québecois delicacies, I pictured croissants, crepes and soufflés,” Abby said, looking suspiciously at the mound of poutine.

“Common mistake.” Marc passed a serving of the poutine to his mother and took Sylvie’s plate.

“We have all those things, of course,” Françoise said. “But poutine, it’s one of our own creations.”

Abby poked her fork tentatively at the gooey mass on her plate, unsure of when she had ever seen anything that looked so unappetizing. Not wanting to appear rude, she took a small bite. Her eyes widened and she smiled.

“It’s delicious,” she said, taking another, larger, forkful.

“Another convert,” Marc said triumphantly as Claudine brought the rest of the meal.

The remainder of the evening passed with the small talk of people getting to know each other. Abby deliberately avoided the touchy subject of her impending research, and Marc didn’t refer to it, either.

When the checks came, Marc snatched up Abby’s as well, before she could take it.

“No, I insist,” he said when she started to protest. “Your first meal out in Tadoussac is on me.”

“All right,” Abby said with a smile. “Thank you. But the next one’s on me.”

“Fair enough.”

IT WAS FULL DARK when the foursome walked out of the restaurant and the period streetlights lining the town’s main street were glowing in the light mist drifting in off the bay.

“I want to thank you again for supper,” Abby said to Marc as they made their way toward the Doucette home.

“My pleasure.” Marc knew he had to explain his earlier intensity, though he wasn’t about to apologize. “And look, I didn’t mean to offend you about the fishing regulations and all. It’s just, well, it’s something I feel pretty strongly about.”

“No kidding,” Abby said. “And I hope you understand that I feel pretty strongly about what I do. And I’m certainly not here to put anyone out of work.”

Marc nodded. They never are, he thought to himself.