Roxanne Bouchard - The Coral Bride

Simone made her entrance, Érik brought more beers over and Sébastien emerged from the kitchen. For a fleeting moment, Joaquin’s thoughts flashed to Sarah.

Angel had known her husband was up to something. Moralès was sure of it. Because after a certain amount of time with someone, you come to sense what’s hidden in their silence. You can sense when love becomes nothing more than an illusion that scatters and dissolves like the shimmering sequins of the moon on the water. You can sense when your life partner isn’t going to come out and join you, not on the Gaspé Peninsula and not anywhere else. You know when there’s no sense in spinning yarns to one another anymore. You know when the condo isn’t just a pied-à-terre in the city. You know when the time has come to sign the divorce papers.

Moralès moved the case file to the window sill to make room for the others to gather around his table.

‘Hey, Simone. One of the guys at the wharf told me you’d got a transfer to the Magdalen Islands. Is it true?’ Lefebvre asked.

Moralès felt his jaw drop to the floor.

‘Yes. For the winter.’

‘Oh, are you going to join the seal hunt?’

She threw him a look of horror. ‘I hope not…’

‘Ah, but you’re not sure.’

Suddenly, a phone rang. Lefebvre gave a start, thinking it was his. ‘I thought it might be my doctor. I asked her for an urgent medical consultation. You can’t take any chances. What if the star pitcher for the Sainte-Thérèse Mariners suffered a serious injury in his act of daring heroism?’

He sulked while Sébastien went to pick up the cordless phone at the reception desk.

‘Mr Sébastien? Let me tell you, this is Renaud Boissonneau on the line.’ The waiter from the bistro in Caplan could barely contain his excitement.

‘Renaud? How did you know I was here?’

‘You told me yourself, you’d be at the Auberge Le Noroît. Now let me tell you, I’ve got big news for you.’

Sébastien took the phone into the kitchen to see if the water was close to boiling.

‘I’m all ears, Renaud.’

‘Well, Cyrille Bernard’s sister went to see the notary, and it looks like it’s Inspector Moralès who gets to inherit his boat!’

Sébastien was flabbergasted. He turned to look at his father through the porthole in the kitchen door. Joaquin saw him staring at him, saw the look on his face, and went into the kitchen to see what was going on.

‘Ah, and let me tell you, I’ve got an idea. If you like, the three of us could run it as a floating snack bar – the inspector at the helm, you in the kitchen, and me taking people’s orders. What do you think?’

‘But where would we find the customers, Renaud? Would we just pluck them out of the water?’

‘Ah, yes. I didn’t think about that.’

Sébastien heard the phone being muffled and Renaud’s voice addressing the people around him in the bistro. ‘Where would we find the customers?’ Laughter erupted in the background on the other end of the line.

‘Renaud, if it sets your mind at ease, I’ll come by the bistro next week to give you a dance class, all right?’

‘Ah, well let me tell you just one thing, now that’s a good idea.’

As he heard Renaud announcing the good news to the others in the background, Sébastien hung up. His father was standing by his side, in the kitchen.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

‘Yes. I called Maude. I told her I wasn’t going back. She thinks it’s better that way too.’

He let a moment of silence float by.

‘Listen, I have to tell you something about Mum…’

Joaquin shook his head.

‘She’s not coming to the Gaspé.’

‘I know.’

‘Are you getting a divorce?’

The water was starting to boil. Sébastien moved closer to the pot.

‘If it’s all right with you, I’d like to stay at yours for a while … Corine says her boyfriend might have a job for me at the microbrewery.’

‘You’re always welcome, chiquito .’

Sébastien picked up the lobsters and dropped them into the boiling water.

‘That was Renaud Boissonneau on the phone. He was calling about Cyrille Bernard … He said you’ve inherited his boat.’

Joaquin blinked away a tear.

Sébastien turned away, feeling uncomfortable. ‘When I went to see your friend, I tried to describe the sea, like you asked me. I told him I’d seen two container ships…’

‘Did he say you were watching the sea like an accountant?’

Sébastien gave his father a look of relief. ‘He said the same thing to you, didn’t he?’

Joaquin laughed and pulled his son close. Sébastien leaned into the hug, letting his father’s arms envelop him the way they used to when he was a boy. As he held his son tight, Joaquin saw Lefebvre through the porthole in the door, stretching his right arm with a windmill-like motion, and his eye was drawn to the graceful little vertebra of Simone’s that teased at her skin as she leaned over the table to look at something on her phone. A sad smile melted Joaquin’s lips.

Beyond the windows, the sea scattered incalculable shards of moonlight, their illusory fragments of silver shimmering on the surface as the horizon stretched into the night.

Thank you to my friend O’Neil Poirier, and to Gaétane Cloutier, Jimmy Lepage, Leroy Roberts, Réginald and Dan Cotton for all the fishing stories.

Thank you to Simon Bujold for the images, to Annie Arsenault for taking me fishing for striped bass, and to Michaël Lecours for his detectiving advice.

Thank you to Ghislain Taschereau for providing Sébastien Moralès’s soundtrack.

Thank you to Annie Landreville, whose keen reading eye cast doubt on the suspects, and to Dominique Corneillier for putting Moralès on a diet.

Thank you to Marianne and Fred Pellerin for the ice fishing and our chilling conversations about crime fiction.

Special thanks to my English publisher, Karen Sullivan, who opened the door for me to write this crime series. It’s a privilege to be a part of Team Orenda. Thanks to West Camel for the editing, and to Mark Swan (kid-ethic) for the cover art. And thank you to David Warriner, for his translation and friendship.

Thank you to my one and only Pierre Luc, who makes the tortillas, turns up the music, breaks out the dance moves and pours the rum when I’m writing. Je t’aime .

And thank you, dear readers, again and always. You can reach me at roxannebouchard.com. I’m always happy to hear from you.

Ten years or so ago, Roxanne Bouchard decided it was time she found her sea legs. So she learned to sail, first on the St Lawrence River, before taking to the open waters off the Gaspé Peninsula. The local fishermen soon invited her aboard to reel in their lobster nets, and Roxanne saw for herself that the sunrise over Bonaventure never lies. Her fifth novel (her first to be translated into English) We Were the Salt of the Sea was published in 2018 to resounding critical acclaim. She lives in Quebec. Follow Roxanne on Twitter @RBouchard72 and on her website: roxannebouchard.com.

David Warriner grew up in deepest Yorkshire, has lived in France and Quebec, and now calls British Columbia home. He translated Johanna Gustawsson’s Blood Song for Orenda Books, and his translation of Roxanne Bouchard’s We Were the Salt of the Sea was runner-up for the 2019 Scott Moncrieff Prize for French-English translation. Follow David on Twitter @givemeawave and on his website: wtranslation.ca.

Orenda Books