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It Takes Two
Joanne Michael


Abby Miller has everything she wants…Abby' s come to this small town in northern Quebec to research beluga whales. And her dog, Figgy, is all the company she' s interested in. But then she meets widowed captain Marc Doucette and his brokenhearted daughter. Turns out they may be exactly what she needs.Too bad Marc' s dead set against everything Abby and her job represent. But can he keep up his stand once he sees how good Abby–and Figgy–are for his daughter? And can he deny that there might be other–more personal–reasons to change his mind?SINGLE FATHERSometimes he gets things right. Sometimes he needs a little help.









“I have rules of my own.”


“Oh?” Abby raised an eyebrow.

“Once we’re on board, I’m the captain and what I say goes. If I think the situations warrant it, your plans may have to change. I won’t put us or this boat in danger. Can you live with that?”

“I think so,” Abby said. “I have to ask, though… Well, you know I’m here to do research, and you’ve already made your feeling on that score pretty clear. Why are you agreeing to my chartering your boat?”

Marc shrugged. “Simple economics. You need a boat and I have a boat. Besides—” he grinned “—what’s the old saying? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?”

Abby smiled back, and he was suddenly struck by how beautiful she was.

“True,” she said, “but are you sure you want to strike a deal with the devil?”

“As long as the devil’s paying, you bet.”




Dear Reader,

There is something magical about the village of Tadoussac, Quebec. Maybe it’s the bay that’s ranked as one of the thirty most beautiful in the world. The town is on the North Shore where the Saguenay River fjord meets the St. Lawrence River. That’s certainly the draw for the resident pods of beluga, minke and even the occasional blue and fin whales who call the area home. Then again, it could be the miles of trails and paths crisscrossing the wooded hills, or the scores of artisans, musicians and gourmet chefs who contribute so much to the local flavor.

I fell under the spell the first time I rode the ferry across the Saguenay River. As if on cue, a small pod of brilliant white beluga appeared. Since then, I’ve been back several times and the beluga are always there to greet me.

I have tried to remain true to the village’s unique character. There really is a marine interpretive center and I encourage you to visit the Centre d’Interprétation des Mammifères Marins (the Marine Mammal Interpretive Center) if you go. There, the staff with the Group for Research and Education on Marine Mammals is doing some excellent and important work. Check it out at www.gremm.org.

One of those people is Lucia DiIorio, a scientist researching the impacts of man-made sound on the beluga. Lucia’s willingness to share information was of great help. Likewise was the rest of the staff and I hope they forgive the architectural license I took.

But that’s the thing about Tadoussac; it’s full of welcoming people eager to share their special knowledge and talents. People like Bruno at Mer et Monde Ecotours who patiently guided me on my very first sea kayak excursion (www.mer-et-monde.qc.ca).

As for the allure of Tadoussac, don’t just take my word for it. The folks at www.tourism@tadoussac.com are ready to help you plan your adventure, and whether you’re into nature, whales, music, art, history, food or all of the above, get ready to make some wonderful memories. Oh, and be sure to say hi to the beluga for me.

Joanne Michael




It Takes Two

Joanne Michael





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Joanne Michael would be the first to say making the jump from print and photojournalist to romance writer was neither the easiest nor most expected turn her life has taken. But four years ago, jump she did. After spending nearly twenty years reporting on everything from crime to politics to local festivals and personalities, Joanne got her introduction to the world of romance writing from fellow Harlequin author Nadia Nichols. (Nadia is also the one who got Joanne into dogsledding, but that’s another story.) Together they coauthored Her Sister’s Keeper under the name Julia Penney.

Now Joanne writes books full-time, but still manages to keep her fingers in the world of news as a freelancer. When not writing, Joanne can be found on the trails with a team of huskies, or exploring the roads of northern Maine by bicycle (depending on the time of year, of course). She lives at the top of Maine with her husband and best friend Patrick, her father, Mike, a small kennel of sled dogs, one very spoiled house dog, two cats and a variety of forest critters that wander through.

Joanne Michael can be reached at joannemchl@yahoo.com.


For Lowell




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE




CHAPTER ONE


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.




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.

“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.




CHAPTER THREE


THE FOG from the night before was just burning off when Abby shut the gate behind her the next morning. She looked back over the fence and saw Figgy contentedly chewing on a bone next to the apartment door. Confident the small dog would be fine until lunch, Abby turned, hitched her bag up onto her shoulder and walked down the road in the direction of the marine center.

The facility itself was housed in a large, three-story building on the banks of the Saguenay River. A sloping driveway led down to the structure through a parking lot and past a spacious dry dock.

During the five minutes it took for Abby to walk from her apartment to the center, she didn’t pass a single person on the sidewalk. Off to her left, she could see some activity around a few of the boats tied to the town dock, but that was it. Farther out, past the bay, the mist still hung over the Saint Lawrence.

Glancing at her watch, Abby saw she was twenty minutes early for her introductory appointment with the center’s director, so she forced herself to walk around the building for ten minutes before entering the double glass doors to the main lobby and visitors’ center.

A pretty young woman at the front desk smiled at her. “May I help you?”

Abby walked over to the desk, reading the name tag on the woman’s vest. “Yes, thank you, Marie. I have an eight-thirty appointment with Dr. Bouchard.”

“Of course,” Marie said, picking up the handset on her desk phone. “May I have your name, please?”

“Abby Miller. Dr. Abby Miller.”

While Marie spoke softly into the phone, Abby looked around the lobby. The entire interior—walls, ceiling, carpeting—was blue. To the left of Marie’s desk was a gift shop, its shelves crammed with stuffed plush whales, whale books, CDs of whale songs, posters of sea life, and the usual coffee mugs, glasses, T-shirts, hats, tote bags and key chains all with the whale theme.

“Dr. Miller?” Abby turned at the deep baritone voice to see a smiling, bearded man she judged to be in his late thirties.

“Dr. Bouchard?”

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Peter Bouchard extended a hand. “Welcome, and please, call me Pete. We’re a pretty informal bunch around here, as you’ll quickly see.”

“Thank you.” Abby shook the director’s hand. “It’s great to finally be here.”

“Everyone is looking forward to meeting you. Most of the researches are out for the week, taking some last days off before the summer season begins. But they’ll start trickling back in by the weekend. If you’d like, I can show you around.”

“I’d love it,” Abby said. “If we have time for it now.”

Pete shook his head. “Now’s the perfect time. Besides, I’m very proud of this place and welcome the opportunity to show it off.”

Abby laughed, already liking the man who would supervise her research for the next twelve months. “Then by all means, lead on.”

“This is our public area.” Pete indicated the lobby and gift shop. “You’ve already met Marie?”

“Not formally,” Abby said, shaking the woman’s hand. “Hello.”

“Marie is our director of volunteers,” Pete told her.

“Do you have many volunteers here?” Abby asked.

“We have a volunteer staff of around thirty,” Marie said. “They do everything from run the gift shop to give museum tours.”

“In addition to Marie’s volunteer army, we have ten full-time researchers working out of here with another half-dozen lab assistants,” Pete told Abby. “Plus a full maintenance crew and a small secretarial staff.”

Pete directed Abby into a darkened room to the left of the entryway.

“This is our museum,” Pete said, as they walked down the hallway. “Keep in mind, we’ve still got two weeks before we officially open to the public, so things look a little rough right now. It’s taken longer than we planned to change our exhibit for the year.”

Both sides of the hall were pocketed with enclosed display cases depicting the life cycle of the Saguenay whales. In the museum itself, the first thing Abby saw was a massive skeleton of a fin whale hung from the ceiling, keeping a silent watch on a large-scale model of the Saguenay River Fjord, Tadoussac Bay and the surrounding area.

Along the walls, display cases hung open with an array of smaller marine models, and literature and photographs lay scattered around the floor.

“See what I mean.” Pete touched the corner of a drop cloth with the toe of his shoe. “But we’ll have it ready to go by the time the tourists get here,” he said confidently. “Now, right through here….” He led Abby through a door on the far side of the room marked Employees Only.

“The labs are all on the second floor,” Pete said as they walked up a flight of stairs that opened into a long hallway, doors on either side.

They stopped at the second door and Pete rapped softly on the jamb.

“Chris, you in here?”

“Yo, boss, right here.” A young man in a garish Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts, his long blond hair tied back in a ponytail, bounced up from behind a stack of boxes, clipboard in hand.

“Chris Gervais, meet Dr. Abby Miller. Abby, this is Chris. You’ll want to be very, very nice to him. He oversees the assignment of all laboratory space here and he is only too aware of the power he holds.”

Chris shook Abby’s hand. “Don’t believe a word he says. I can’t be swayed by sweet talk. Now, cash bribes, that’s another matter entirely.”

Abby laughed. “Happy to meet you, Chris. We’ll have to talk about those bribes.”

“Too late,” Chris said with a grin. “Got your assignment right here. Your area’s acoustic imprints, right?”

“That’s right,” Abby said.

“Okay, so I’ve set you up near the auditory lab. Your application didn’t say anything about needing office space, but we have a couple of available rooms on the third floor. They don’t have the best views in the place, but it would be all yours.”

“Might not be a bad idea to take one,” Pete said. “Just to give yourself a quiet place where you can go and shut the door. Plus, you could have your phone in there.”

Abby nodded. “If there’s space available, sure, that sounds great.”

“Okay, then,” Chris said. “Let’s go back to my office and we’ll get you squared away.”

“Why don’t you go on ahead with Chris,” Pete suggested. “I’ll wait for you in my office.”

Back in Chris’s office, Abby stood while he rummaged in a desk drawer for a moment, finally rising with a cry of triumph. “Aha! Here we go. Put out your hand.”

Abby did as he instructed and he gave her four keys. “This one’s to the front door, to the lab, to the audio lab and this one’s to your office. I have all the duplicates in case you lose or forget one. See me for any lab supplies you need. We should have pretty much everything you could want in stock, but I have my own system for keeping track of it. It’s convoluted, but it works. And since I’m the only one who understands it, it assures a bit of job security.”

Abby laughed and, after getting directions, walked upstairs to the administrative level. Counting down the doorways, she stopped outside Pete’s office. Peeking around the partially open door, she saw the director behind his desk, phone at his ear. He signaled for her to enter.

The director had what must have been the best view in the place. The windows of the corner office looked over the bay on one side and the Saguenay River on the other. As Pete spoke on the phone, Abby watched the ferry coming across the river.

“Okay,” Pete said, hanging up the phone. “What do you think so far?”

“I think it’s wonderful.” Abby meant it.

“Good, very good. I have to tell you, we’re all pretty excited about your research. It shows some real promise for long-term interest. The more we can learn about the effects of man-made noise pollution on beluga, the better we can help formulate policies to protect them.”

“That’s my goal,” Abby agreed.

Pete leaned back, kicked his feet onto his desk and laced his hands behind his head. “I have to say, we were all pretty impressed with your credentials. University of Massachusetts doesn’t exactly give graduate degrees away.”

Abby blushed slightly. “Thank you.”

“So, when did the sea first capture you?”

Abby laughed. “I can’t really say. To be honest, I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t involved in something to do with marine sciences. I grew up in the little town of Wellfleet, on Cape Cod. My parents were both teaching scholars with the Cape Cod National Seashore Park. Mom’s an anthropologist studying the indigenous people’s uses of beached pilot whales, and dad’s made the study of the physiology behind pilot whale beachings his life’s work. Some of my earliest memories are of going out on the boat with them on research trips. When I was old enough, they hired me as their assistant and boat worker.”

“I’ve read their papers—groundbreaking stuff,” Pete said. “And you? Do you hope to follow in their footsteps?”

“You mean the groundbreaking part?” Abby smiled. “Well, that’s every scientist’s dream, isn’t it? No, I’m here to add what I can to the general body of knowledge.”

Abby knew her answer sounded rehearsed. Probably because it was. Growing up as the daughter of Drs. Norman and Lowell Miller had been both a blessing and a curse throughout her life. The shadow her parents cast was a huge one and Abby desperately hoped her own research in Tadoussac would finally enable her to step out of it.

In college and later in graduate school, every time she had met a new professor or scholar, the initial introductions were inevitably followed by comments about knowing the Millers and their work. Intellectually, Abby knew these people were not comparing her to her parents. Still, even now, she was plagued with the uneasy notion that she never quite measured up to her parents.

Belatedly, she realized Pete had said something.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” she asked, feeling a bit foolish.

“I said, we welcome that.” Pete leaned across the desk. “The data you collect this year on the effects of noise pollution—especially from watercraft—will be an invaluable tool to help us recommend regulations controlling the whale-watching industry. There’s still so much we don’t know about the extent the boats impact the whales’ social behavior, breeding, calving, feeding and other life processes.”

“And that’s where I come in,” Abby said.

“Right you are.”

“How many permit-holding whale-watching boats are there around here?” Abby asked.

“A little more than fifty.”

“Sounds like I’ll have plenty of opportunity to study the effects of sound on the beluga.”

“Anxious to get started?”

“Very,” Abby assured him.

“Okay, then.” Pete nodded. Abby had the feeling he was holding something back.

“Is there anything else I should know?” she asked.

Pete sighed and picked up a piece of paper off his desk. “In your acceptance letter, it was mentioned that you’d have regular, scheduled use of a boat.”

“That’s right. I need it to set my sensing equipment in the bay and up the Fjord and then make regular checks on them. In fact, I can’t do much else until those are in.”

“I see.” Pete cleared his throat and looked Abby in the eye. “Well, I’m afraid that might be a problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Normally, we operate two research vessels—”

“I know, the Mistral and the Caprice. Either one sounds perfect for what I need,” Abby assured him.

“I’m sure they are,” Pete said. “Trouble is, the Mistral went into dry dock two days ago and I just found out she won’t be seaworthy for at least two months, maybe the whole season.”

This was not good news.

“The thing is,” Pete continued, “the schedules were already set and had to be redone for the one vessel with priority time going to our senior researchers.”

Abby was getting a very bad feeling.

“Unfortunately,” Pete said, “we couldn’t fit you in.”

Abby closed her eyes and took a deep breath. No boat meant no soundings. No soundings meant no data collection and no data meant no research analysis. The disappointment was palpable and she felt near tears.

“I do have an alternative,” Pete said hastily.

“Really?” Abby’s spirits lifted slightly.

“There are a limited number of charter boats available in Tadoussac. If you could find one, I’m sure the center could certify it and then you could use part of your grant to pay for it.”

Abby thought that possibility over. “Do you have a charter you could recommend?” she asked.

Pete shook his head. “We’re not allowed to,” he said. “We get funding from the government and all of our business has to be based on bids. I can, however, give you a list of boats and their captains.” He pulled a sheet of paper from a desk drawer and handed it to Abby.

It was a very short list, Abby thought, scanning it.

“Well, I’m glad I accepted the office,” she said, standing. “Now I know how I’ll spend my first day—calling boat captains.”



THREE HOURS LATER, Abby hung up the phone in her new office, folded her arms on her desk and laid her head down on them.

There had been ten boats, and none of the captains were at the contact number listed next to each name. Abby had spent the morning tracking down the captains and had been referred to, among other places, a marina office, a café, a garage and a warehouse. When she’d finally reached them, one by one, they had said they were too busy or already booked for the entire summer, or else quoted a price that far exceeded the limits of her budget. It was not an auspicious beginning to her summer.

Raising her head, she looked at the clock mounted on the wall and saw it was close to noon. Might as well break for lunch, she thought.

Thinking she’d see if Pete or Chris would like to join her, she walked past the director’s office, but saw the door was shut. Hearing the sound of several voices coming from within, she continued on without knocking. Downstairs in Chris’s office, she saw the lab director was on the phone and decided to leave him undisturbed, as well.

For lack of anything better to do, she decided to walk down to the wharf across from the building and look around. At the foot of the center’s dock, she saw the gleaming blue and red hull of the research vessel Caprice bobbing gently up and down. Abby watched enviously as a team of workers loaded equipment and supplies on board.

Continuing down the path to the docks, she considered her options. Find a boat and find it fast, or revamp her entire project. At the moment, the former seemed impossible, and the latter unacceptable.



MARC LOVED spending time doing routine maintenance on his boat. He found the work immensely satisfying. The engines of the Percé ran superbly, thanks to his regular attentions. He’d just spent the morning draining and replacing the oil and had come up to deck for some fresh air when he spotted a familiar form walking down the dock.

“Well, ahoy there,” he called to Abby. He saw her looking around. “Up here.”

Turning, she spotted Marc on the deck and watched him climb down the ship’s ladder and hop onto the wharf next to her.

“How’s your first day going?” Marc said, wiping his oily hands on a rag.

“I’m not sure.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, really,” she said. “Well, nothing I can’t figure out.”

“Can I help?”

“Not unless you can get the owner of this boat to let me use it for the summer.”

Marc looked at her a moment. “I thought the center had boats for the scientists to use.”

“So did I,” Abby said, sounding bitter. She told Marc about the loss of the Mistral.

“So, what you’re saying is, without a boat, you can’t do what you came here to do?” Marc asked.

“That’s right,” Abby said.

“And your research? What happens to it?”

“I honestly don’t know. My grant is good for one year, and I may be able to get an extension. But it’s more than that. I’ve worked too long and too hard to get here. And now, to think it might all have been for nothing….”

Marc heard her voice catch and swore he saw tears in the corners of her eyes. “I might be able to help you out.”

She looked skeptical. “Really? How?”

“Were you serious about talking to the owner of this boat?” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

“Yes, yes, I was,” Abby said eagerly. “Do you know him? Do you know how I could get a hold of him?”

Marc nodded.

“Today?”

“Right now, if you want.”

“Yes, please.”

She sounded so excited, Marc couldn’t tease her any longer. “Okay then. Allow me to introduce myself— Marc Doucette, captain, owner and first, second and third mate of the Percé.”

“You! You own a boat—this boat?” Abby appeared flabbergasted.

“I do, or rather, she owns me,” Marc explained. “That’s kind of how it goes with boats.”

“And you do charters?”

“Not normally. I’d rather haul freight to remote construction sites. Pays a helluva lot better than charters, but those pickings are pretty slim these days. And I’ve already told you the shape of the fishing industry around here. Want to come aboard and take a look?”

“Sure, I’d love to,” Abby said.

“Okay, take hold of the ladder rung and then pull yourself up, like this.” Marc grabbed a rung and swung himself up from the dock and onto the ladder. He quickly scrambled up, threw one leg over the rail and turned to give Abby a hand.

“Impressive,” he said after she scooted unaided up the ladder and over the rail to stand next to him. “Welcome aboard the Percé.”

“What does Percé mean?” Abby asked, looking around.

“I named her after rocher Percé,” Marc explained. “One of my favorite spots in Québec. It’s this massive stone on the tip of Gaspé Peninsula with a huge natural arch in it. Rocher Percé literally translates to ‘pierced rock.’ If you get a chance, you ought to go check it out sometime.”

“I might just do that,” Abby said, “but right now, I’m more interested in Percé the boat.”

“Forty-four feet from aft to bow, with a twelve-and-a-half foot beam,” Marc said, unable to keep the tinge of pride from his voice. “She sleeps eight, has a full galley, head and plenty of storage space.” He pointed above them. “The bridge is completely enclosed and accessible from deck or inside. She’s outfitted with twin diesels and has all the latest GPS and navigational equipment.” Marc pounded the rail with his fist. “She could use a coat of paint, but she’s solid through and through.”

“I wonder why you weren’t on the list of available charters they gave me,” Abby said.

“Probably because up until last night, I had no intention of doing charter work, so I hadn’t put the word out yet. I’ve been working as a mechanic for some of the other captains. But that work’s slowing down and my other plans kind of fell through.”

“Can I take a look around?” Abby asked.

“Be my guest.” Marc led her through the hatch to the lower decks. A narrow stairway ended in the galley, its appliances gleaming. Marc congratulated himself on keeping everything clean and in order. He knew how important first impressions were to closing a deal. He pointed down a hallway. “At the end there’s the master bedroom and three smaller cabins. Two on the stern side and one on port, next to the head.”

Abby walked down the hall and peeked into the boat’s small bathroom. Next, she opened one of the cabin doors and peered inside. “Would I be able to use one of these bedrooms as lab space?”

Marc nodded. “Sure. In fact, you could pretty much move things around to suit your needs. Only place that’s off limits is the master bedroom.”

Abby raised an eyebrow.

“Home sweet home,” Marc replied to her unasked question. “I’m bunking here for the summer. But that’s not a problem,” he added hastily. “Actually, it’s a good deal, because whatever gear and equipment you bring on board won’t be left unattended at night.”

“I thought you had a place in town,” Abby said, rejoining him in the galley.

“I do. But summer rentals are a premium around here, so I decided to let it out for the season. It’s good money.”

“Will Sylvie live here, too?”

“No, she’s going to stay at my mother’s.”

“Figgy will like that,” Abby said. “Now, you understand I need a boat for the entire summer, every day or at least on call.”

Marc nodded. “Sure.”

“That means no other charters once I bring my stuff on board.”

“I understand. I can live with that.” He could tell Abby was warming to the idea of having a boat for her exclusive use.

“Of course, I have some rules of my own,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Once you’re on board, keep in mind I’m the captain and what I say goes. If I think the conditions or situations warrant it, your plans may have to change. I won’t put us or this boat in danger. Can you live with that?”

“I think so,” Abby said. “I have to ask you, though—”

“Yeah?”

“Well, you know I’m here to do research and you’ve already made your feelings on that score pretty clear. Agreeing to let me charter your boat is a huge favor. Why would you want to do that?”

Marc shrugged. “Simple economics. You need a boat and I have a boat. You have the funding to pay for it and I need the money. Besides—” he grinned “—what’s that old saying? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?”

Abby smiled back at him, and he was suddenly struck by how beautiful she was.

“True,” she said “but are you sure you want to strike a deal with the devil?”

“As long as the devil’s paying, you bet.”

“I can definitely pay.” Abby quoted him the price budgeted in the grant.

The amount was fair, Marc thought, though probably less than what he could make from day or weekend trips. Still, it would be a steady, guaranteed income. “Dr. Miller,” he said, offering her his hand to shake on the deal, “you got yourself a boat.”




CHAPTER FOUR


BACK ON TRACK! Everything was back on track and Abby couldn’t have been happier. She felt like skipping down the dock but managed to resist the temptation. She could not, however, keep the grin off her face.




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