Joanne Michael - It Takes Two

“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.

“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?”