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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.”
