Joanne Michael - It Takes Two

“Thanks,” Marc said, finishing the scone in three more bites and reaching for a muffin.

“How do you know our tenant? She’s only been in town a few hours.” Françoise’s back was to him as she rinsed the dishes in the sink.

“We met on the ferry this morning.” Marc recounted the episode with Abby and the ferry worker and their subsequent conversation on deck. He left out his own abrupt departure.

When Françoise returned to the table and sat back down, Marc waited until she finished making her own cup of tea before asking again about Sylvie’s day.

“She said she had a good day when I picked her up,” Françoise said. “But Madame Simard wanted to speak to me.”

“Sylvie’s teacher? What did she say?”

“That Sylvie’s a bright, energetic, kindhearted girl who is showing no signs of improvement in either her reading or her writing.”

“Dammit,” Marc muttered. “How much longer will she be like this? It’s been three years.”

“How much longer are you going to blame yourself?” Françoise asked softly.

“Who says I am?” Marc shot back, then softened his tone. “Sorry, Mom, it’s just been a rough couple of days.”

Make that a rough couple of years, he thought ruefully. Was his mother right? Was he blaming himself for Thérèse’s death? Why would he? He wasn’t the one behind the wheel of the SUV that crossed the centerline, hitting Thérèse’s compact head-on and demolishing it. No, if anyone was to blame, it was the teenagers in the SUV, pumped up on Lord-knows-what, out celebrating the first day of summer vacation.

So why do I feel so guilty? he wondered.

Because she hadn’t wanted to take the damn car in the first place, but I talked her into it, Marc reminded himself. He’d wanted her to drive that day instead of taking the bus so she could drop the Toyota off for an oil change, sparing him the trip.

One fateful decision that had changed his life forever.

Françoise was saying something. “I’m sorry, Mom, what was that?”

“I said Madame Simard wants to talk to you about Sylvie.”

“Right, okay, I can go tomorrow.”

Françoise looked at him a moment. “How did things go in Rimouski?”

Marc laughed bitterly. “Struck out,” he said. “The marina’s not hiring any new boatmen this year. McDonnell told me he can’t even honor half of the rehires from the winter layoffs.”

“And Matane?”

“O for two,” Marc said. “I went to talk to Bruce Charbonneau—his company’s the one doing all the construction work on the road up to Blanc Sablon, but the Tremblay boys have that whole market sewn up.”

“You mean the Tremblays got the entire contract for ferrying supplies from Godbout to Blanc Sablon?” Françoise said.

“Yeah, it’s all in who you know—right?”

The Tremblays were one of the North Shores’ oldest, largest and most influential families, with a fleet of sleek, late-model cargo boats. Most supplies ferried up and down the shore made the trip on Tremblay craft.

“Where does that leave you, now?” Françoise asked.

Marc shrugged. “Back to the plan of chartering day trips for tourists for the summer,” he said with little enthusiasm.

“It’s honest work.”

“I suppose. Maybe it was a mistake. Moving back here. At least in Toronto I had a job.”

“Yes, but that’s all you had,” Françoise reminded him. “A job that kept you away from your daughter. No, you’re both better off here, for the time being anyway, with family.”

“Yeah, and speaking of that,” Marc said, “I was thinking on the drive down of renting the house out for the summer. We could sure use the money.”

Marc and Sylvie were living in a house on one of the knolls overlooking the bay. He and Thérèse had lived there for two years before the lure of higher wages led them to Toronto. The view from the porch alone would make it an easy place to rent to one of the summer families.

“Where would you stay?” Françoise asked.

“I was thinking about the boat,” Marc ventured.

“The boat! That’s no place for Sylvie to live,” Françoise said.

“I know. Maybe she could have my old room?” Marc let the question hang in the air. “I mean, it would only be for the summer and you said yourself she’s a real help in the kitchen—”

“Stop it,” Françoise said. “You don’t have to convince me of the joys of having my granddaughter staying with me. I love having her here.”

“Thanks, Mom. I mean it.” Marc stood and pushed his chair back beneath the table. “Now, I think I’ll go check on how our princess is doing.”

MARC FOUND SYLVIE lying facedown on the living-room sofa, drawing on a pad of paper. So intent was she on her work, she had not heard him come into the room. It gave Marc a chance to watch his daughter a moment and, as it always did at the sight of the freckle-faced youngster, his heart swelled with love.

In those horrible days and weeks immediately following Thérèse’s death, Marc knew it was Sylvie alone who had kept him going. Dealing with her endless questions and simple needs had given him a reason to get up every morning. Otherwise, he very well could have curled up and died himself.

But Sylvie was his joy and had been from the moment she was born. Watching her now, he remembered what Thérèse had said the night Sylvie came into the world.

She’s the best parts of both of us. How right his wife had been.

“Whatcha working on, ma fille?” Marc asked.

Sylvie jumped a bit. “Dad, you’re not supposed to sneak up on people,” she scolded. “It’s not nice.” She swiveled her legs around so her father could sit next to her.

“You’re right. I stand corrected. Now, what have we here.” He looked at the drawing Sylvie had been working on and was easily able to identify it as a portrait in pencil of Figgy. He shook his head in admiration. The drawing was on the simplistic side, but it was also quite realistic.

“This is very good,” Marc said.

“Thanks. I’m going to give it to Miss Miller.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you.” Marc put his arm around the girl and held her close a moment. “You had a good time playing with that dog, didn’t you?”

“I sure did!” Sylvie said.

“How would you like it if you were here every day to play with her?”

Sylvie’s brow wrinkled. “But I am here every day, Dad, while you work.”

“Yes, yes you are. But how would you like to live here for the summer?”

“Really? Live with Gran? All three of us?”

“Well, that would be a bit much to ask of Gran,” Marc said. “How about we try it just you girls for the time being?”

“Where will you live?” Sylvie asked.

“On the boat. Just for the summer season.”

“Why can’t we live in our house?” Sylvie asked.

“I was thinking, our house is so nice and we’re so lucky to have Gran’s house to stay at and the boat, well it’s kind of selfish. So maybe we could let some other people use our house for the summer. What do you think of that?” Marc held his breath.

Sylvie was giving the matter ample thought. “I guess it’s okay,” she said slowly. “But they have to pay us lots of money!”

Marc stared at his daughter a moment, then burst out laughing. Never underestimate the ability of a child to get right to the heart of the matter. He gave her another hug.

“Now, is your homework done?” Marc said.

“I guess…”

“You don’t sound convinced. Why don’t you let me see it?”

Looking like she’d rather do anything but that, Sylvie reached down to the floor and picked up a spelling workbook and handed it to him. “This is what we were doing today,” she said and went back to her drawing of Figgy.