Читать книгу Meg Harris Mysteries 7-Book Bundle - R.J. Harlick - Страница 57

So worried had I been over the young boy, that I’d completely forgotten about Sergei. I could only hope that he had either stayed at the shack or had managed to find his way home. But to my amazement, he’d managed to follow me the few kilometres to the Health Centre and was waiting patiently outside, albeit with the encouragement of numerous pats from passersby. After giving him a rewarding hug, I returned with him to the Fishing Camp to pick up my skis, where we were able to hitch a ride back to Three Deer Point.

A black Mercedes awaited me in the drive. I tensed as the fashionably clothed figure of Yvette’s brother stepped out of the car. What did he want?

Yves approached with the confident stride of a businessman. His camelhair coat slapped against what looked to be a plastic grocery bag swinging from his hand. Sergei, who’d been distracted by a squirrel, ran barking towards him. Yves froze, then stepped back as the dog approached.

“He won’t hurt you,” I said, but I knew from the terrified look in the man’s eyes that this was more than a simple dislike of dogs, so I took Sergei by the collar and coaxed the unwilling animal into the house, where he continued to bark behind the closed door.

“Merci,” Yves said simply when I returned, then continued in a voice that held none of the clipped rudeness I’d heard when he’d kicked me out of his sister’s room the other day. “I apologize for this surprise visit. Perhaps a phone call would be sufficient, but I prefer to speak to you in person.”

His words only served to make me more wary. “Yvette’s okay, isn’t she?”

At first, he appeared confused, then smiled one of the most inviting smiles I’d yet encountered. “Sorry. I don’t mean to frighten you. My sister is much better. No, I have come to tell you that my father will permit your ski marathon to cross over his land. Good news, non?”

“Very good news.” I smiled back, wondering how Eric had managed to convince the old man.

“We want to thank you for saving Yvette. If you had not found her, I might have lost my dear sister.” He paused, then continued. “But we ask that you keep within the boundaries you have marked. My father intends to log the surrounding forest and does not want the mature trees damaged.”

“No problem. And if a mature tree is in the way, we’ll adjust the trail, rather than chop it down. Please thank your father for me.”

“I wish to tell you it is only for you that he does this. He does not like these Indians. They hunt on his land. And they try to take some of it away by saying it is an ancient burial ground.”

So perhaps the real reason for Papa Gagnon’s kicking us off his land had more to do with a little matter of a land feud that Eric had failed to mention than Yvette. Which probably meant Eric had lied about having the old man’s agreement.

I thanked Yves again and waited for him to leave.

He didn’t. “I would like also to apologize for my rude behaviour.”

I guessed I must have looked even more startled, for another inviting smile spread across his face. “Please, you are a good friend to my sister, non? I do not want my bad manners to harm this friendship. So please, accept this small gift.”

He held up the bag, which turned out to be no trivial grocery bag, but one stamped with Gucci across the top.

Embarrassed, I hesitated to take it. He smiled again. “Please, I insist.” So I took it and hoped it wasn’t really from Gucci. Although it weighed considerably more than a small gift, he managed to quell my fears by saying, “From my cellar.” So I opened the bag expecting to discover a nice but mediumpriced bottle of wine. Instead, I pulled out a 1990 bottle of Château Mouton de Rothschild.

Flabbergasted, for I knew the king of wine when I saw it, I handed the bottle back, telling him gifts were not needed for my continued friendship with Yvette. But he persisted, so I invited him into the house to share it. Not only would this be a way of thanking him for his valuable gift, but it would also ensure that I wouldn’t be tempted to drink its entire contents.

With Sergei locked in the kitchen, I changed out of my sweaty ski clothes into something more presentable, while Yves made a fire to warm up the living room. When he’d offered, I had been reluctant to agree, since the sight of the twill pants and cashmere sweater had shouted “urban man”. But he assured me that he’d been making fires since he was a boy growing up on the family farm.

I needn’t have worried. By the time I returned, feeling a little less like a country hick in the only city clothes I could still squeeze into, a designer pair of slacks and matching silk shirt, Yves had a fire roaring up the chimney of the ceilinghigh stone fireplace. He turned at the sound of my step and gave me one of those appreciative looks that only Frenchmen seem able to give, which made me equally glad that I’d refreshed my hair colouring the night before.

I went to the dining room to retrieve two of Aunt Aggie’s best crystal goblets and a crystal decanter; for nothing less would do for this wine. Yves drew the cork out of the bottle with a distinctive airtight pop that promised perfection and poured it into the decanter.

While the wine breathed, I went to the kitchen to find some fitting food to go with it and remembered the tasty pâté of venison with dried blackberries Eric had concocted after one of his recent hunts. Thinking it would serve him right, I dismissed any qualms I might have about feeding this to another man.

But I couldn’t quite get rid of the sense of guilt I felt over breaking my promise to Eric not to drink. Still, it would be rude not to sample Yves’s gift. Besides I wouldn’t be drinking the entire bottle by myself, which would have been standard procedure two years ago.

I returned to find Yves wandering around the large pinepanelled room with its ten foot ceiling, the Great Hall Aunt Aggie used to call it. He, however, betrayed his urban leanings. Rather than centreing his interest on the expansive view of Echo Lake through the room’s wall of windows, he directed his attention to Aunt Aggie’s prize antiques. Although they weren’t quite as fine as some of the pieces in Yves’s father’s house, nor as old, they would still be considered real finds by any reputable antique dealer.

“Merveilleux,” Yves said, running his hand over the inlaid mahogany design of the chess table. “But I think this was not made in Canada.”

“No, I believe my great-grandfather brought some of this furniture over from England when he built this house.” I pointed out the burled walnut book cabinet with its lead glass doors and the fanciful what-not filled with Aunt Aggie’s china figurines.

“Such a joy to have these family treasures, non?” I agreed but didn’t tell him about my annoyance at the amount of care they demanded, particularly since housework wasn’t exactly at the top of my to-do list. I beckoned him to sit in one of the two wing chairs on either side of the fireplace, while I sat in my usual spot on the sofa.

I swirled the dark red wine around in my glass and breathed in the subtle aroma of caramelized spice with a hint of blackberry. Wonderful.

Yves’s slightly almond-shaped eyes smiled the same conclusion across the top of his glass. “Santé,” he said and held his glass up towards mine.

The rich lingering taste was even more wonderful. Setting his wine glass back down on the coffee table, Yves said, “Your name, Meg, is a short name for Margaret, non?” “Yes.”

“Do you mind if I call you by the French name, Marguerite? It also means daisy and suits your sunny brightness much better.”

I felt myself warm to this outrageous compliment. Eric had no time for flattery. He only joked and made fun of my red hair.

I sank back into the deep cushions of the suede sofa I’d bought to replace Aunt Aggie’s unyielding Victorian settee. Much to my surprise, I found myself enjoying Yves’s company, something I wouldn’t have thought possible after our first icy encounter. And though his auburn hair and brown eyes reminded me of Yvette, his mind had matured well beyond the backwoods Québécois boundaries his father had imposed on his sister. Unlike Yvette, he conversed easily in English and seemed to know as much about English Canada as he did his own French-Canadian world.

He was also older than I’d initially thought. Probably fifteen years older than Yvette’s early twenties, which put him closer to my age. The age disparity and the fact he was male probably helped to explain how he’d managed to escape his father’s domination. Although he deftly deflected any questions I asked about his early years, I got the impression that he’d left the family farm sometime in his teens, when Yvette was a small child. But he didn’t say whether he had been on good or bad terms with his father when he’d left. Instead, he implied his time was pretty much taken up with the pressures of work, with little time to spare for his family.

He did, however, finally tell me the name of the investment house he worked for, a small independent brokerage with offices in Montreal and Toronto. At the mention of Toronto, I soon found myself resurrecting the city life I’d left behind when I’d fled my hometown to escape the end of my marriage. Although I had few regrets about leaving my old life, his lively talk brought back fond memories of living in one of Canada’s fastest-growing cities. We shared a liking for quaint Queen Street cafés, Yorkville boutiques and Centre Island, the summer playground of the downtown city dweller.

The Château wine went down so smoothly that before I realized it, Yves was opening another bottle, in fact the last of my cellar. After I’d promised Eric to stop drinking, I’d given away my entire liquor supply, but for a few bottles of good wine to offer people at dinner. This 1996 Chambertin was the last, and at the moment I didn’t see any reason to save it.

I found myself warming to Yves’s charm, preening under his appreciative glances and giggling like a young girl on a first date at everything he said. I couldn’t remember the last time a man had treated me this well. Eric’s usual technique was a pat on the bum and a “I’m ready if you are” sort of wink. Maybe if Eric was making a change, it was time for me to as well.

Although Yves had started out sitting in the wing-backed chair, he soon joined me on the couch. He was giving me one of those looks that suggested a kiss was next when the phone rang.

I almost didn’t answer it, and I must have sounded annoyed when I did, for Eric didn’t bother with the niceties of a hello. Instead he said, “I have obviously caught you at a bad time, so I’ll call back later.”

I felt the heat of embarrassment wash over me. “No, not at all,” I replied hurriedly. I tried not to look at Yves.

“Just calling to let you know that Ajidàmo is going to be okay.”

“Ajidàmo?”

“Squirrel. The little boy you rescued. Remember?”

“Of course I remember him. So the doctor said there’d be no ill effects from the overdose?”

“None at all. Should be home in a day or so, after they’ve done a few more tests.”

“Great news. Do you think his grandmother would mind if I visited him when he gets home?”

“Good idea. I know she’d like to thank you in her own way for saving her grandson. But look, I’m keeping you. Don’t forget about tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Christ, where’s your head, Meg? Remember we agreed to check out the marathon trails tomorrow.”

“Okay, okay. I remember.”

“You’ve not broken your promise about drinking, have you?”

“Of course not,” I lied into the receiver, and with a quick “See you tomorrow,” hung up. Muttering “damn” under my breath, I took a gulp of wine and resumed my seat beside Yves.

But the mood was broken by Eric’s interruption, so after a few strained minutes, Yves rose to his feet. “I should go before I become a bore and you never want to see to me again.”

“I don’t think there’s any danger of that happening,” I said, surprising myself by my boldness.

“I understand now why Yvette considers you a friend. I hope you will allow me to become your friend also?”

The door had no sooner closed behind his elegant frame than I was regretting my ready acceptance. Did I really want to go in this direction?

Remembering that I’d forgotten to tell Eric the good news about the marathon, I called him back but failed to reach him at the Fishing Camp, Band Council Hall or even his home. I left a voice mail saying we had Papa Gagnon’s go ahead, and he should call me for details.

I slumped back down onto the couch and finished the rest of the wine while I waited for Eric to phone back. He never did.