It Takes Two. Joanne Michael

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      “I’ll have the Caesar salad with grilled chicken and a cup of French onion soup, please,” Abby said, when the woman, who introduced herself as Claudine, turned to her, pen poised over her order pad.

      “To drink?” Claudine asked.

      “Iced tea?”

      “That sounds really good,” Françoise said when it was her turn. “I’ll have the same, please.”

      “Et tu?” Claudine said to Sylvie.

      “Can I have a hamburger and chocolate milkshake, please?” the little girl said, looking at Marc.

      “That’ll be a hamburger and a glass of white milk,” Marc amended. “I’ll have the roast chicken, please, and a cup of coffee.”

      “Bon.” Claudine said and left, returning minutes later with their drinks.

      Abby took a sip of her iced tea and looked around. Aside from their small party, the only other diners were a couple of teenagers in a booth and three young men sharing a pitcher of beer at a table by the window.

      “Quiet place,” she said.

      “Sure, right now it is,” Marc agreed. “But like everything else in this town, try getting in after the end of June.”

      “What do people do here during the winter?” Abby asked.

      Marc grinned. “Wait for spring.”

      Claudine reappeared and set a steaming plate down in the middle of the table.

      Abby had never seen anything quite like it. “Did we order this?”

      “That’s the poutine,” Sylvie said happily, stabbing at the middle of the plate with her fork.

      “Sylvie,” Marc said in a warning tone, “wait your turn, ma fille.”

      “Sorry, Dad.” She withdrew the fork and looked at Abby.

      “I thought you said poutine was French fries,” Abby said.

      “The French fries are under the gravy,” Marc explained.

      “And those little white—nuggets?” Abby knew she sounded skeptical.

      “Cheese curds,” Françoise said.

      Marc reached for her plate. “I guess you could call this a true Québecois delicacy.”

      “Really.” Abby watched Marc scoop out a large portion of golden fries smothered in the brown gravy and ripe cheese curds onto her plate and set it down in front of her. “Funny, when I thought of Québecois delicacies, I pictured croissants, crepes and soufflés,” Abby said, looking suspiciously at the mound of poutine.

      “Common mistake.” Marc passed a serving of the poutine to his mother and took Sylvie’s plate.

      “We have all those things, of course,” Françoise said. “But poutine, it’s one of our own creations.”

      Abby poked her fork tentatively at the gooey mass on her plate, unsure of when she had ever seen anything that looked so unappetizing. Not wanting to appear rude, she took a small bite. Her eyes widened and she smiled.

      “It’s delicious,” she said, taking another, larger, forkful.

      “Another convert,” Marc said triumphantly as Claudine brought the rest of the meal.

      The remainder of the evening passed with the small talk of people getting to know each other. Abby deliberately avoided the touchy subject of her impending research, and Marc didn’t refer to it, either.

      When the checks came, Marc snatched up Abby’s as well, before she could take it.

      “No, I insist,” he said when she started to protest. “Your first meal out in Tadoussac is on me.”

      “All right,” Abby said with a smile. “Thank you. But the next one’s on me.”

      “Fair enough.”

      IT WAS FULL DARK when the foursome walked out of the restaurant and the period streetlights lining the town’s main street were glowing in the light mist drifting in off the bay.

      “I want to thank you again for supper,” Abby said to Marc as they made their way toward the Doucette home.

      “My pleasure.” Marc knew he had to explain his earlier intensity, though he wasn’t about to apologize. “And look, I didn’t mean to offend you about the fishing regulations and all. It’s just, well, it’s something I feel pretty strongly about.”

      “No kidding,” Abby said. “And I hope you understand that I feel pretty strongly about what I do. And I’m certainly not here to put anyone out of work.”

      Marc nodded. They never are, he thought to himself.

      CHAPTER THREE

      THE FOG from the night before was just burning off when Abby shut the gate behind her the next morning. She looked back over the fence and saw Figgy contentedly chewing on a bone next to the apartment door. Confident the small dog would be fine until lunch, Abby turned, hitched her bag up onto her shoulder and walked down the road in the direction of the marine center.

      The facility itself was housed in a large, three-story building on the banks of the Saguenay River. A sloping driveway led down to the structure through a parking lot and past a spacious dry dock.

      During the five minutes it took for Abby to walk from her apartment to the center, she didn’t pass a single person on the sidewalk. Off to her left, she could see some activity around a few of the boats tied to the town dock, but that was it. Farther out, past the bay, the mist still hung over the Saint Lawrence.

      Glancing at her watch, Abby saw she was twenty minutes early for her introductory appointment with the center’s director, so she forced herself to walk around the building for ten minutes before entering the double glass doors to the main lobby and visitors’ center.

      A pretty young woman at the front desk smiled at her. “May I help you?”

      Abby walked over to the desk, reading the name tag on the woman’s vest. “Yes, thank you, Marie. I have an eight-thirty appointment with Dr. Bouchard.”

      “Of course,” Marie said, picking up the handset on her desk phone. “May I have your name, please?”

      “Abby Miller. Dr. Abby Miller.”

      While Marie spoke softly into the phone, Abby looked around the lobby. The entire interior—walls, ceiling, carpeting—was blue. To the left of Marie’s desk was a gift shop, its shelves crammed with stuffed plush whales, whale books, CDs of whale songs, posters of sea life, and the usual coffee mugs, glasses, T-shirts, hats, tote bags and key chains all with the whale theme.

      “Dr. Miller?” Abby turned at the deep baritone voice to see a smiling, bearded man she judged to be in his late thirties.

      “Dr. СКАЧАТЬ