2. Tess #2
I watch her play for a minute. The tip of her tongue pokes out the side of her mouth, a habit she somehow picked up from her dad despite how little time he spends with her.
She’s rolled up the sleeves of her huge black hoodie with the built-in floppy bunny ears, but the cuffs are slowly sliding their way back down to her gangly wrists.
I wait until she gives a frustrated shake of her head and lets the guitar drop in her lap before I rap my knuckles against the glass. Her head jerks up, her hair falling out of her face to reveal the summer freckles splashed across the bridge of her nose.
“New plan for the day,” I say as I yank the door open. “We’re going for a drive.”
She huffs and puffs at first, but it’s clear guitar practice isn’t offering much dopamine today, and we’re piled into the truck ten minutes later.
“What do you say we go check out La Cloche?” I ask while she’s clicking her seatbelt in.
“Is that that place with all the art galleries?”
We saw the town mentioned on some tourism brochures when we came out for a long weekend this summer to meet Léon and get a feel for the area, but we never made it that far up past Saint-Jovite.
“Yeah, that’s the one. They’re supposed to have all kinds of different artists there. We could browse around a few shops. They probably have a bakery or something like that too. We could get…”
Shel does an excited little wriggle in her seat as we both shout, “Treats!”
That settles it. I shift the truck into gear and steer us out to the highway, heading along the same route I took to La Grange Rouge, which is just a few minutes outside La Cloche proper. I let Shel play DJ, and soon, the sounds of her latest K-Pop obsession are drifting through the speakers.
The rapid pop beat is a stark contrast to the slow pace of our surroundings, but I can’t complain when she looks so cute bobbing her head to the rhythm and mouthing the few English words interspersed throughout the lyrics.
We’re just fifteen minutes outside Saint-Jovite, but we’re already the only car on the road. Thick trees stretch up high above our heads, their leaves just starting to glow with the first traces of orange and yellow. The forest is dense, spiky firs and pines adding a shock of dark, shadowy green.
The two-lane highway is cracked and crumbling along its edges, a few potholes adding to the obstacle course effect as we wind along the curves of the rolling mountains.
I tap my fingers on the wheel to the beat of the song, sinking deeper into my seat as some of the tension drains from my shoulders.
More than anything, it was the driving that convinced me I could feel at home here when we visited in the summer.
I spend so many hours on the road for work that some nice scenery is a major bonus, but it’s more than that.
There’s something about rambling through the Laurentian Mountains that just feels easy. Dependable. Still.
They’re the kind of mountains that stretch all your problems out across their gentle peaks until you can see the life you thought was a tangled mess isn’t so knotted up after all.
That’s what I want, for me and for Shel. I want a life that feels solid and smooth, not a string of makeshift decisions snarled with guilt and doubt.
I just want to stop doubting. Just for one second, I want to be sure I’m doing the right thing for my kid.
After another ten minutes, we reach the highway exit with a sign for La Cloche.
We cruise up a mostly straight road, the woods on either side of us thinning to reveal the first few houses and wide, grassy lawns.
The houses get closer and closer together, all of them featuring quaint details like pastel-coloured shutters or a homemade swing hanging from an ancient maple’s branches.
I find us a parking spot just before we hit the main street. Shel skips ahead of me as we walk over, the bunny ears of her hoodie flopping against her back.
It’s no longer high season, but the main street is still bustling with a decent amount of tourists.
Most of their arms are laden with brown paper bags as they weave from shop to shop.
The buildings are a mix of cozy brick facades and clapboard painted in vibrant hues, the window displays bursting with even more colour.
The sidewalks are lined with old-fashioned iron lampposts all draped with fluttering banners.
“This is so cool!” Shel shouts, waving me over to join her where she’s stopped in front of a window showcasing a selection of different crafting kits for kids. “Can we go in?”
“Of course,” I tell her.
We spend a couple hours like that: window shopping and browsing around any boutique or gallery that catches Shel’s eye. More and more weight seems to slough off my shoulders as I watch her grin and gasp over the treasures we find.
She’s been quiet since she started at her new school. She’s always been the kind of kid who spends a lot of time on her own, wrapped up in her imagination, but this has been different.
I know an adjustment period is inevitable. The therapist she meets with online to process the move, paid for with the help of my parents, has assured me of that, but still, the relief of seeing her bounding around and giggling like her usual self today is enough to make my knees feel weak.
Then again, that could be due to the fact that it’s almost two in the afternoon and we’ve completely forgotten about lunch.
“What do you say we go find those treats?” I ask as we’re heading out of a textile workers’ collective, our pockets bursting with all the business cards we’ve been grabbing as we browse.
“Treats!” Shel shouts, punching the air.
I laugh and tug on one of her bunny ears while I scan our surroundings for the nearest food-selling establishment. I spot something called Café Cloche across the road, and the chalkboard sign out on the sidewalk advertising fresh cinnamon buns is all it takes to convince us.
Inside, the place is cute and cozy but just a little too warm to be comfortable.
Almost every seat is filled with customers while even more of them form a line snaking up to the counter.
A quick glance at the trays of baked goods under the glass confirms our treat of choice hasn’t sold out yet, so I send Shel to use her nimble child powers to secure us a place to sit while I wait in line.
I end up standing next to a bulletin board covered in local announcements, the pages ranging from professionally printed pamphlets to sticky notes scrawled with looping handwriting.
There’s a call-out for vendors at an upcoming autumn craft market, a dog-walker looking for new clients, and a new bed and breakfast called Balsam Inn that’s hosting a grand opening at the end of the month.
The name rings a bell, and I realize this is the inn Gabrielle told me about while I was shoeing the horses. It’s the business Jacinthe decided to open with a couple of her friends, after one of them inherited a huge house from an elderly relative.
I scan the grand opening details, impressed with how professional everything sounds. My gaze flicks over to the next advertisement, and my pulse kicks up as I forget all about the inn.
There’s a farmhouse for rent.
Well, part of a farmhouse.
My gaze darts over the details typed out under a few black and white photos: the back end of the house has been converted into its own unit, with a bedroom, living room, and small loft space.
It’s got a full bathroom with a shower and tub.
The kitchen is only a mini fridge, microwave, and hot plate, but the ad says renters would also have access to the full kitchen in the main part of the house, along with the laundry room.
My heart pounds even faster when I get to the price.
It’s within my budget—well within my budget, in fact.
I blink a few times to make sure I’m not seeing things. I’ve looked at enough property listings over the past two weeks that I wouldn’t be surprised if my eyes had started playing tricks on me, but the numbers on the page remain the same.
My hand starts gliding towards the strips of paper cut along the page’s edge, all of them printed with the landlord’s phone number. None of them have been torn off yet, but before I can rip one myself, I hear someone make a noise of surprise behind me.
I turn around to find Gabrielle Gauthier from La Grange Rouge has joined the line. She’s wearing an oversized chambray shirt that’s a little frayed around the collar, her mass of grey-streaked hair pulled back into a puffy ponytail.
“Well, hello there, Miss Farrier!” she says, her stunned expression shifting into a twinkling smile. “How nice to see you again!”
I stick my hand out for a shake. “ C’est …um... bon de , um… te revoir , Madame Gauthier.”
My face heats up as I stumble through my sentence. I have enough French to hold a passable conversation, but something about speaking French to actual French speakers gets my tongue tied in a knot and makes me forget half my vocabulary.
Gabrielle somehow manages not to laugh.
“ Très gentil ,” she says. “So, what brings you back to our little town so soon?”
“Oh, um…” I shove my hands in the pockets of my jeans and nod over at where Shel is sitting engrossed in the stack of postcards we got for half price in one of the galleries. “My daughter and I are out exploring.”
“That is your daughter? How sweet!” Gabrielle chuckles at Shel’s concentrated face before turning back to me. “Are you getting the cinnamon buns? You need to get the cinnamon buns. I’m bringing some back to la grange for Jacinthe. I am glad the tourists didn’t eat them all yet.”
I laugh as we shuffle up a couple feet with the rest of the line. “Guess I’m guilty, huh?”
She wrinkles her nose and gives my shoulder a playful swat. “Oh, pas du tout . You’re not a tourist. Saint-Jovite isn’t far enough for you to be a tourist.”
“I just meant that I’m still new around here.”
She shrugs. “You’ve already put shoes on all my horses. I think you are well on your way to becoming a local, chérie .”
I turn to the bulletin board to hide how her comment is making something warm well up in my chest.
After Jacinthe went inside to deal with her manure-stained clothes and rest her tailbone, Gabrielle and I ended up spending the rest of yesterday afternoon together while she held the horses for me.
I told her about Shel and the move and my hopes that taking over Léon’s business will all go smoothly.
She was sweet enough about everything that it almost felt like getting the chance to talk to my own mom face to face.
I stare at the board, blinking hard as I wait for the prickling sensation in the corners of my eyes to fade.
“Ah,” Gabrielle says, her gaze following mine. “ Rien encore .”
She traces a finger over the strips of phone numbers along the bottom of the ad for the farmhouse.
My forehead wrinkles as I turn her words over in my head.
Still nothing.
“Has that ad been here a while?” I ask.
She sighs. “ Ouais . We put them up all around town three months ago. We are trying to rent it now that my nephew has moved out to Alberta. He was living with us for a few years. It’s been hard to find someone for a long-term lease in La Cloche.
Most people who move here want to buy, and the renters just want it for summer or ski season. ”
I turn to squint at her instead of the paper.
“This is your house?”
She tilts her head. “Yes?”
I whip my attention back to the ad, and I realize I have seen the house before, up at the top of the gravel drive leading past the bright red barn.
“You’re renting this house out?”
Gabrielle lets out a titter edged with confusion. “Yes, Tess. Is there a problem?”
“It’s just, I’m looking for a house.”
I blurt the words before I can stop myself. Despite our lengthy chat yesterday, I managed to keep from filling Gabrielle in on our housing issues. I figured it would be best not to seem like too much of a disaster in front of a client I’d just met.
“Well, for somewhere to live,” I add, since there’s no backtracking now.
“Somewhere to rent. The place I had set up before we arrived fell through at the last minute. We’re in a short-term let at the moment, and it’s been hell trying to find somewhere else in Saint-Jovite that ticks all our boxes.
Like you said, most of the rental market around here is only seasonal. ”
The creases in Gabrielle’s forehead deepen. “I had no idea you were still trying to find somewhere to live. That sounds stressful.”
I shrug and do my best not to grimace too much. “It, uh, hasn’t been fun.”
Gabrielle looks back and forth between me and the advertisement a few times.
“You’d like a place in Saint-Jovite?” she asks, her tone hesitant, like she’s trying not to get too hopeful.
“I’d like something anywhere, to be honest,” I answer. “Just as long as it’s on a bus route to Shel’s school.”
She waves a hand like she’s batting away a fly from landing on her dessert. “Ah, pas de problème . All the kids here get bussed into Saint-Jovite.”
I shift my weight from foot to foot. “They do?”
She nods.
We stare at each other for so long the couple in line ahead of me moves up a few more paces. I should move too, but my feet are glued to the spot.
“Tess, I hope this is not too much,” she says after a final glance at the poster, “but do you and your daughter want to come see the house sometime?”
Behind Gabrielle, I can see Shel still shuffling through her postcards, admiring the glossy watercolour designs. She said she wants to put them up in her bedroom once we have a permanent place.
I promised her a home out here. I promised her everything would work out.
“Yes,” I tell Gabrielle. “I think we would.”