Roxanne Bouchard - The Coral Bride

She blushed, but Moralès didn’t notice. His gaze was wandering, searching in vain for an answer that might miraculously have latched itself on to something in this silent room.

‘Maybe it’s a different person. My Sébastien wouldn’t have driven all the way from Montreal without telling me…’

‘My friend sent me a photo.’

Joannie Robichaud reached for her phone, scrolled until she found the photo and turned the screen to Moralès.

‘Is this him?’

‘Not really.’ His son was barely recognisable. It was partly the unruly beard, lazy moustache and tousled hair, but mostly the drunken air of bravado, voracious smile and wicked glint in his eye. Still, he nodded. ‘If you say so.’

Joannie couldn’t help biting her lip as she ogled the image on her phone. In Moralès’s son she saw all the sex appeal of a moneyed rogue. ‘That’s why I came,’ she said. ‘I thought … I might drive there with you. He’s still too drunk to drive, and my friend wants him out of there before the day shift takes over. Otherwise, her boss is going to rap her knuckles and say it’s a police station, not a hotel. You know what a pain bosses can be, when you…’

She stopped short and blushed again, but Moralès said nothing. Joannie and her friend in New Richmond had done him a favour this morning, and there was no need to crack the whip on a Sunday. Strutting around like that, she’d scare the living daylights out of anyone, but he couldn’t bring himself to make her change into civvies before they went to collect Sébastien. Besides, he figured she must be keen to show off the allure and authority of her new uniform to her colleague in New Richmond. So Moralès let it slide, but he insisted they take his car. Driving would take his mind off the embarrassment.

‘I mean, it’s not a big deal to have one drink too many, but your son shouldn’t have been driving,’ Joannie said.

Moralès turned to his left and gazed at the sun rising over the sea, before getting in the car and driving away. He couldn’t help but wonder what Sébastien was doing here on the Gaspé Peninsula.

‘If this is a problem, you’ll have to get him one of those devices to test his blood alcohol level before he gets behind the wheel,’ said Joannie.

Why didn’t Sébastien call to say he was coming? And what about Maude? Was he here without her?

‘My uncle’s in Alcoholics Anonymous, so he can help. I’ll have a word if you like,’ the young constable rattled on.

What about his work?

‘But sometimes only a proper detox will do, you know. Because often it’s not just the drink. Maybe it’s drugs too.’

Moralès lost any patience he still had.

‘Constable Robichaud, my son does not have a drinking problem.’

‘You’re his father. Obviously, he’s not going to tell you everything.’

‘We’re very open with one another.’

‘Not to contradict you, but you didn’t even know he was here in the Gaspé…’

‘He’s a decent man. This must be some kind of misunderstanding.’

Joannie nodded, somewhat disheartened. So much for Sébastien Moralès being a lovable rogue. To think she’d kept her uniform on so he’d see what an irresistible figure of authority she was. If she’d known he was a ‘decent man’, he’d be forking out for a taxi ride instead. ‘That’s all right. If he needs help, he’ll know I’m here, Mr Moralès. He can count on me.’

Moralès sighed. Right now, he’d rather be working a crime scene.

He steered into the car park at the New Richmond police station without a word. As his colleague took the lead, Moralès stood for a moment looking at Sébastien’s car, which was straddling two spaces. Joannie held the front door of the station open for a few seconds, cast a disapproving look at Moralès, who didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry to see his son, and crossed the threshold alone.

Joaquin’s heart skipped a beat when he saw the disaster area inside his son’s car. It was full of boxes, bags, suitcases, clothes, and pots and pans, all thrown in as if during a hasty getaway. A life turned upside down; a relationship gone up in smoke. Sébastien had to be in distress, he thought. That would explain the drunkenness. And who else would he turn to, when it all hit the fan, other than his father? Moralès drew a deep breath to ready himself for the drama ahead, and entered the station.

There was no one on the front desk. He knocked on the reinforced door, heard something behind it. Something loud. He couldn’t quite make out what it was. Eventually, the duty officer threw the door open. The music surged over Joaquin like a tidal wave. ‘La Vida Es Un Carnaval’, by Celia Cruz. Sébastien used to play this song to death in his younger years.

The duty officer motioned for Moralès to come inside.

Yes, this was his son all right. Sébastien was down on one knee, reading the future written in the palm of Joannie’s hand. ‘I see you on a looong and wiiiinding rrrroad by the sea, with a teepsy Mexican vagabond at your side,’ he slurred. ‘And, I see your beauuuty.’

Joannie was lapping this up.

‘Papà!’ In a brusque yet no less graceful manner, Sébastien Moralès let go of the young officer’s hand and strutted over to his father. ‘ Como estas? Señor , you’re my saviour!’

Wrapping his arms around his father and pulling him close, he turned to Joannie and her colleague, both of them rosy-cheeked. ‘Con las señorrrritas…’

Time for a word in his son’s ear, Joaquin thought. ‘What are you doing here? And drop the cheesy Don Juan accent, will you?’ He made sure to keep his voice lower than the music, which was blaring from a tinny Bluetooth speaker he assumed belonged to Sébastien. It was a wonder it hadn’t been confiscated.

Sébastien flashed him an inebriated smile. ‘I’ve come to see you!’ he gushed, planting a kiss on Joaquin’s lips. ‘Shall we go?’

Out in the car park, Sébastien tossed the rookie his keys. ‘I’ll ride with Señorita .’

‘Only if you behave yourself, Sébastien,’ she said, averting her eyes from her boss’s.

‘Oh, I promise, you’ll have nothing to complain about…’ He got into the passenger seat and Celia Cruz started singing through his portable speaker again. At the top of her voice.

That was how Moralès found himself on Highway 132, following his son’s car, with Joannie Robichaud driving – if that’s what you could call speeding up, slowing down and swerving from one side of the lane to the other. Even blind drunk, it’d be hard for anyone to drive more dangerously. As soon as they got to Caplan, the car veered to the right without warning, towards the public beach. Following on autopilot, Moralès pulled up behind as the youngsters bounded out of the car and onto the beach.

Sébastien had cranked the music high and left his door open. Moralès stood in disbelief as his son took the rookie constable by the hand and twirled her around on sand packed firm by the outgoing tide. She’d ditched her gun and her baton, left her belt full of model officer’s gear in the car. What the hell was his son doing, courting his father’s subordinate right under his nose? Moralès was fuming at his son’s shamelessness, and was torn between paternal love and the value he placed on fidelity in relationships. He himself had been married to Sarah for more than thirty years and…

And what?

Out beyond the dancers, the sea was dumping its waves on the sand. Three months ago, a woman tied his heart in knots. Catherine. Then she sailed off into the sunrise, and Joaquin hadn’t heard a word about her since.