It Takes Two. Joanne Michael

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      “Her,” Abby said, stunned at the change in fortune.

      “What?”

      “He’s a her. That is, my dog, she’s a female.”

      “Fine, you can take her up with you.”

      He turned to walk away and Abby called out to him. “Wait a minute! How did you—what did you, I don’t understand. Dogs aren’t allowed.”

      The man laughed. “I just told the guy I’m your doctor and you are under treatment for an emotional disorder. That’s your therapy dog and I can’t be responsible for what might happen if he separated you two.”

      “You told him what?” Abby asked, incredulous.

      “Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”

      “And he believed you?”

      He grinned. “Guys like that never want to hear more than they have to about emotional problems when it comes to women.”

      Abby got the feeling he was viewing the entire thing as one big joke. Whether it was on her, the ferry line or both, she couldn’t tell. But she found herself smiling back at him. “I’m not sure if I should be insulted or grateful. But thanks.”

      “Don’t mention it,” he said, again moving off. “I always like to start my day by saving a damsel in distress.” He stopped. “But listen, just in case. Try to keep a low profile up there, okay?”

      “I will,” Abby said, “And thanks again, I mean it.”

      THE SUN radiating off the brilliantly whitewashed outer hull of the Felipe was a deliciously warm counterbalance to the chilly morning air. Abby clasped her cup of coffee in one hand, breathed in its strong aroma and finally felt herself begin to relax. Figgy lay at her feet, tucked under the wooden bench on which Abby sat. The little dog was fast asleep, lulled by the ferry’s steady vibration as it plowed through the waves toward the industrial city of Baie-Comeau on the far shore. Despite the clear weather, the cool temperatures meant most of the ship’s other passengers were indoors, enjoying breakfast in one of the ferry’s two restaurants or sitting in one of the lounges. As a result, Abby had the stern-side deck to herself.

      They had been underway for more than thirty minutes and the hills around Matane had slipped from view below the southern horizon. With no land visible, it was easy for Abby to imagine they were in the middle of the Atlantic, not crossing one of North America’s mightiest rivers.

      More than one passenger had done a double take when Abby had stepped up to pay her fare, Figgy obediently at heel. But no one had said anything. She had been prepared for another go around with the ferry’s personnel about the no-dogs-on-deck policy, but they must have figured that if she’d made it past the sentinels down below, there was an official reason for this particular canine to be with a passenger.

      Her only regret was not getting her benefactor’s name. But by the time she had gathered her things and convinced Figgy to jump out of the car, Mr. Wagoneer, as she had dubbed him, had vanished.

      Taking another sip of coffee, she gazed out at the sparkling blue waters topped by a confusion of whitecaps. Breezy, yes, but not a strong enough wind to explain the water’s turbulence. No, she figured the intense wave action had more to do with their proximity to the Gulf of Saint Lawrence, where the river met the Atlantic. It was an area of strong crosscurrents, which she suspected made for a tricky passage at the best of time for the ferry captains.

      The sun was rising higher and the glare off the water made Abby squint. She was digging into her purse for her sunglasses when she heard the hatch next to her bench open and close and someone step out onto the deck.

      “When I said to keep a low profile, I didn’t mean you had to sit out here and freeze to death,” a familiar masculine voice said.

      Abby shaded her eyes against the sun and recognized Mr. Wagoneer smiling down at her.

      “Mind if I share your bench?” he asked.

      “No, not at all.”

      Stepping around her and turning the collar of his brown canvas coat up against the chill, he sat down on the bench, stretching his legs out until his booted feet almost touched the rail.

      “So, I take it you had no trouble getting your small passenger on deck?”

      “No,” Abby said. “The hardest part was getting past the guy downstairs—and you did that for me.”

      He smiled, and held out a hand. “I’m Marc, by the way.”

      Abby shook his hand. “Abby. Abby Miller, it’s very nice to meet you.” How could she not have noticed down below just how handsome he was? Curly brown hair edged the navy-blue watch cap he was wearing and the corners of his clear-blue eyes crinkled with lines that come from a lifetime of laughing or working in the outdoors or both.

      “And your friend?” Marc nodded toward the sleeping Figgy.

      “That’s Figgy Piggy,” Abby said, laughing self-consciously.

      “Figgy Piggy?” Marc’s eyebrows rose.

      At the mention of her name, Figgy got up, stretched, walked out from under the bench and sat staring at the man and woman.

      “It’s a long story,” Abby explained.

      “Well, it’s a long crossing,” Marc said. “Hey, are you hungry?” He leaned away from her and dug in the large outer pocket of his jacket. Pulling out a slightly crumpled white paper bag, he held it out to her. “I picked these up just before I got to the dock.”

      Abby peered inside to see a half-dozen glazed doughnuts. As the smell reached her nose, she suddenly remembered she hadn’t eaten since the previous day’s rushed supper on the road. She heard her stomach rumble and hoped Marc didn’t catch it over the sound of the ferry’s engines.

      “Wow, thanks, yes, I’d love—Figgy! No!”

      To Abby’s horror, Figgy jumped up, put both front paws on Marc’s chest and tried to stick her head into the bag.

      “Whoa girl, down.” Marc held the bag out of reach with his right hand and used his left to gently take Figgy’s paws from his chest and push her back to the deck.

      “I’m sorry,” Abby said. “She’s really such a good dog but she’s a shameless beggar.”

      As if to prove the point, Figgy cocked her ears, put her head on Marc’s lap and looked up at him with pleading brown eyes.

      “She does have it down to a fine art,” Marc said. “When’s the last time you fed her?”

      “This morning when we got to the dock. Figgy, come here.” Abby tugged firmly on the dog’s leash.

      Instead of complying, the dog cast Abby a disdainful look, put her head back down on Marc’s leg and drooled slightly.

      “Okay, that’s it—get over here,” Abby ordered.

      With great reluctance, Figgy began to back off, but Marc СКАЧАТЬ