It Takes Two. Joanne Michael

your research into the effects of noise pollution and related human contact activities on the social behavior of beluga…

      “Hey, you still with me?” Marc asked.

      “Sorry,” she said. “I was just thinking of how lucky I am. I’m going to be a visiting scholar based at the research center for marine mammals. Do you know it?”

      When Marc didn’t answer right away, Abby added, “It’s right in Tadoussac.”

      “I know where it is.” Marc’s tone had lost some of its earlier warmth. “So, what, you’re a scientist or something?”

      “Actually, yes.” No doubt about it, his attitude toward her had cooled several degrees.

      “Great,” he said, “Just what we need.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “Never mind,” Marc said, standing. “I’d better get back inside. Enjoy the rest of the crossing.”

      Abby felt confused by his sudden leave taking. “Okay, I will. Thanks again for all your help and for being so nice to Figgy.”

      “Sure,” he said, stepping over the dog. “See ya.” And he was gone through the hatch.

      A SCIENTIST, Marc thought in disgust, sitting behind the wheel of his Jeep as he watched Abby and her dog get into her car and wait with the rest of the passengers for the ferry to dock at Baie-Comeau. It figures. Would he have stepped in like that to plead her case to the ferry worker had he known? Her brake lights flashed as she keyed the car to life. He sighed. Probably. Wasn’t often he’d seen a woman that pretty on the Matane to Baie-Comeau run. Check that, he’d never seen a woman that pretty on the ferry.

      Up on deck, in the bright light of the morning, she’d looked even lovelier than she had in the ship’s gloomy interior. Complete natural beauty, he had thought, without a bit of makeup on her. He’d gotten a good look at those eyes before she had pulled on her sunglasses and saw they were an attractive shade of hazel, a perfect match to the coppery brown hair that framed her face.

      Oh well, Marc thought, as he followed her off the ship and into the terminal lot. It had been worth a try. He knew he must have appeared terribly rude when he had made his abrupt departure, but he’d been afraid he’d have said something he’d regret had he remained.

      It was stupid and irrational; Marc knew that. The woman had nothing to do with the situation in which he now found himself. It wasn’t her fault that several years ago some politician had listened to some scientist who had sounded the alarm about the state of the province’s fish populations. With the help of some highly paid lobbyists, the government had crafted the laws and regulations that had put Marc’s father and many of his friends out of the fishing business for good.

      Those laws had come down as decrees from on high, with no opportunity for the fishermen to plead their cases. No, Marc recalled bitterly, one day their businesses were solid and the next they were told the quotas for the following season had been slashed, with some species put off limits completely. It had devastated the North Shore fleet and, Marc was certain, contributed to the heart attack that had claimed his father not long after.

      Where were those scientists now? Now that unemployment was at an all time high. Where were their studies, their results and reports? No doubt they were off saving some other species at the expense of jobs and families.

      Looking at his watch, he saw that he had a half hour to kill before his delivery was due at the marine supply warehouse. Making a right out of the lot, he drove toward the twenty-four-hour Tim Hortons doughnut shop just up the road. Good a place as any to pick up on some local gossip. It’s a shame, though, he thought as he again pictured Abby in his mind. Too bad someone that good looking has to be a scientist.

      ABBY HAD ONCE READ that the route along Québec’s North Shore between Baie-Comeau and Québec City was one of the prettiest in Canada. As her car crested a hill that offered a panoramic view of the Saint Lawrence Seaway, she could easily see why. To the south, the Seaway was a wide, brilliantly blue plane as far as the eye could see. Each small town or village through which she passed was more quaint, more charming, more picturesque than the previous one. The distant mountains to the north were covered in dense spruce and fir and the closer rolling vistas of farmland and rocky knolls were almost enough to push all thoughts of the mysterious Marc from her mind.

      Almost.

      After his hasty departure, Abby had remained on her bench, puzzling over his strange behavior until, like Figgy, she had succumbed to the ferry’s steady rocking motion and fallen asleep. She had only awakened when the announcement—made first in French and then English—came over the loudspeakers that the ferry would dock at Baie-Comeau in fifteen minutes and all passengers should make their way to their vehicles.

      Remembering the stares from her fellow shipmates when she appeared with Figgy, Abby hung back until most of the travelers had already gone below. She had not seen Marc inside, nor anywhere below as she wove her way between the hundreds of cars, trucks, campers, vans and motorcycles that twice daily turned the Felipe into a giant floating parking lot. Once in her own car, she had glanced back at the Wagoneer, but in the glare of the halogen lights couldn’t tell if anyone was inside.

      Since she had been among the last to board back in Matane, Abby had had to wait while hundreds of vehicles in front were directed off the ship. When her turn came, she eased the car along, giving a small wave to the crewman who had almost prevented Figgy from going up on deck. He returned her wave, but with a suspicious look. She’d been so intent on navigating her way out of the lot, she had not paid any attention to where Marc was heading. By the time she remembered to look in her rearview mirror for his Jeep, it was nowhere to be seen.

      And as she cruised down the road to Tadoussac, she was too excited to obsess about the moody stranger.

      Twelve months, she thought happily. Woods Hole had not only approved her research grant, but had left the door wide open for a three-year extension pending the results of that first year. She had the full use of the lab facilities at the center and visiting-researcher status at the Centre d’interpretation des mammifères marins. The grant was not a huge one, but it was more than enough to get started. The amount would fund the research and provide a modest living stipend. The Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute had even arranged for a one-year lease on a small apartment in Tadoussac within walking distance of the research center.

      It was near lunchtime when Abby pulled her car over to the shoulder on the steep rise above Tadoussac. “It’s perfect,” she whispered, looking out the windshield at the view before her. Figgy, who once again had fallen asleep on the back seat, opened her eyes and sat up.

      The tiny village of Tadoussac hugged a flat piece of land nestled within a bay of the same name. To the west, north and east, the rocky cliffs of the Saguenay River Fjord stood out stark and gray against the blue sky. The river itself emptied into the bay at the base of the hill directly below where Abby now parked. There, the road ended and from this height, Abby could see a short line of cars waiting to board the small ferry that made the fifteen-minute crossing to the other side, where the road continued on to Québec City and points west. In the bay, tiny boats bobbed up and down and she could just make out people strolling along the beach. Abby took another long satisfied look, then checked for traffic and pulled back onto the highway.

      “Let’s find our new home,” she said, as Figgy stuck her head out the window and took her first good whiff of Tadoussac.

      After taking the next exit off the highway, Abby drove slowly down the town’s narrow streets, following the written directions that had been forwarded to her. To her delight, each turn brought her closer to the bay’s waters. Finally, she pulled up to a modest green bungalow in a row of similarly styled houses, located across the road from the beach she had seen from atop the hill.

      This must be it, she thought, looking at the name and number on the mailbox at the curb.

      Abby rolled the car’s windows partway down before stepping out onto the street and shutting the door behind her. “Wait here,” she