It Takes Two. Joanne Michael

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?”

      “Have you finished your homework?” Françoise asked.

      “Yeah, well, almost. I’ll do the rest after supper, I promise. Please?”

      Françoise laughed and threw up her hands. “All right, I guess an hour of playing outside won’t hurt. But, then you finish your homework before supper. Okay?”

      “Okay,” Sylvie said happily, dashing back inside. “Be right back,” she called over her shoulder.

      Abby and Françoise looked at each other, bemused, and moments later, Sylvie reappeared holding a worn soccer ball. Tossing the ball out into the middle of the yard, she clapped in delight as Figgy bounded after it and all three of them laughed as the little dog tried unsuccessfully to get its mouth around it.

      “Her name is Figgy,” Abby said to Sylvie.

      “That’s a weird name,” Sylvie said.

      “Sylvie!” Françoise said firmly. “Remember what we talked about—not everything you think has to come out of your mouth.”

      “Sorry,” Sylvie muttered.

      “That’s okay,” Abby said, smiling. “I guess it is kind of a weird name.”

      “One hour,” Françoise said in a warning tone as Sylvie jumped down the steps and started kicking the ball for Figgy to chase. The two women watched a moment, then Françoise motioned for Abby to come inside.

      “We just got back from delivering up to the hotel.” With a nod of her head, Françoise indicated that Abby should take a seat at the kitchen table. “Can I offer you a cup of tea and something to eat?”

      “Oh, no. I don’t want to bother you. I was just hoping you could tell me a good place in town to grab a bite.”

      “We have a lot of good places,” Françoise said. “Problem is, none are open at this hour. It’s too late for lunch and too early for supper.”

      “I see.” Disappointed, Abby realized she’d have to shop after all. “Well, if you could tell me how to get to the grocery store—”

      “I can,” Françoise said. “But right now you are going to have a cup of tea and some of these muffins I made today.”

      “No, I can’t,” Abby protested, standing.

      “You can and you will,” Françoise insisted. “Please, sit down. Make an old woman happy,” she added in mock severity.

      Abby sat down while Françoise put the teakettle on the burner to heat, then took out cups, saucers, spoons, plates and forks from various cupboards and drawers and laid out two place settings. Then came a wooden box. When Françoise opened the lid, Abby discovered a generous selection of tea bags. Finally, Françoise set down a basket holding a half-dozen muffins and several scones wrapped in a white cloth.

      “Help yourself,’ she said, indicating the basket.

      Abby reached out and carefully selected one of the muffins. “Mmm…still warm.”

      “I always bake a few extra,” Françoise said. “Come by any afternoon at this time and join me.”

      Right, Abby thought. If I make a habit out of this, someone’s liable to mistake me for a beluga.

      Out loud she said, “Is your granddaughter visiting?”

      “Sylvie?” Françoise said. “No, she lives here in Tadoussac. I’m watching her while her father’s away.”

      “She’s adorable.”

      “She’s that,” Françoise agreed. “But give her the opportunity and she’ll talk your ear off—in French and in English!”

      “Is her mother away also?” Abby said, realizing a bit too late that her question sounded like snooping. When Françoise’s eyes clouded, Abby instantly regretted asking.

      “I’m sorry, that’s none of my business. I’m not normally so nosy.”

      Françoise waved a hand at her. “No, it’s all right. Sylvie’s mother died three years ago in Toronto. That’s when my son moved back here with my granddaughter.”

      “I’m so sorry,” Abby said, unsure of what else to say. The silence hung heavy in the room as both women listened to the happy squeals of the little girl and Figgy’s excited barking.

      Casting about for something to say, Abby finally asked, “When does school let out up here?”

      “Let out?” Françoise asked, shutting off the stove’s burner and bringing the kettle to the table. She set it down atop a trivet and then took the seat opposite Abby.

      “For the summer. When does her summer vacation start?”

      “Oh, I see. At the end of June but Sylvie’s been having problems with her reading and writing, so my son might have to enroll her in a summer program. Three hours every morning.” Françoise poured hot water into Abby’s cup.

      “Thank you,” Abby said, taking the cup and selecting a tea bag from the box. “What does your son do?”

      Before Françoise could answer, they both heard a car door slam. The older woman grinned. “That would be him now. I swear, he can smell my blueberry muffins from a mile away.”

      Having just polished off one herself, Abby wasn’t sure about being able to smell the muffins from that far off, but she’d certainly consider walking a mile for one.

      Footsteps sounded up the walk and the front door opened and shut.

      “Mom?” a deep male voice said.

      “In the kitchen.” Françoise called out.

      “I couldn’t get your organic twelve-grain flour, so I got double the whole grain. And they said they won’t have any more fresh honey until this fall, so I picked up what they had left…” The voice came to a stop as its owner stepped into the kitchen and stared at Abby. Recognizing the man from the ferry, she returned his look of surprise.

      “Marc, this is Abby,” Françoise said. “She’s the one renting the apartment for the year. Abby, this is my son Marc—Sylvie’s father.”

      “We’ve met,” Abby and Marc said in unison. Françoise looked confused.

      “Met, but where?”

      Before either could answer, the screen door slammed and Sylvie was in the room, running at her father, who scooped her into a hug.

      “Hello mon petit chou,” he said.

      “I’m not a cabbage,” Sylvie said with all the dignity befitting her eight years. “That’s Abby, I mean, Miss Miller.” She wriggled out of Marc’s embrace. “She has a dog! And her name is Figgy and she likes to chase soccer balls. Want to come watch us, Dad?”

      Marc laughed and ruffled his daughter’s hair. “Not right now. I need to talk to your grandmother for a bit.”

      “And you, young lady, have some homework to finish, remember?” Françoise