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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.”
