8. Tess
Tess
T he wooden sign above the door spells out MACK’S BISTRO in thick block capitals. There’s a flickering neon open sign in the window, along with a faded menu taped to the glass.
The bar is a stark contrast to most of the establishments on Rue Principale, La Cloche’s main street.
There’s no trace of hippie health products or small batch artisanal concoctions.
The menu has a section for vegan burgers, but besides that, the place looks like somewhere you’d pop in after a fishing trip or on your way to go raise a barn.
It’s also packed. Even standing on the sidewalk, I can hear the thrum of voices inside.
I glance up and down the street for any sign of Jacinthe.
I’m five minutes early. Dusk has fallen, and there’s a bite in the air that reminds me we’re hurtling towards the end of September.
The days have remained warm enough to feel like summer, but I can smell autumn creeping in tonight: wood smoke, rustling leaves, and cold, still water.
“ Salut . You made it.”
I spin around, and there she is, striding up the sidewalk. She’s wearing the same dark jeans from the grand opening, but she’s swapped her blazer and button-down for a hoodie.
Meanwhile, I’ve gone from being the underdressed one in my muddy farrier clothes to overcompensating with a loose pair of slacks and a polo shirt under my jacket.
“You look nice,” Jacinthe says, before I can start wondering why the hell I thought slacks were the right choice for a small town dive bar.
“Oh.” I pause for a moment to make sure I heard her correctly. “Um, thanks.”
She looks way more chipper than I’ve ever seen her. She’s grinning and bobbing her head to the music bumping inside the bar. If it weren’t for the car keys dangling from her hand, I’d swear she’d already gotten started on drinking.
“Here.”
She thrusts the contents of her other hand out at me. I didn’t even notice the plastic bag hooked around her fingers until now.
“For you!” she says. “It’s leftovers.”
“Um…thank you?”
She barks a laugh. “Don’t worry. It’s not meat loaf. It’s just some little cakes and things left over from the inn. I thought maybe Shel and your mom would be happy if you came home with dessert.”
She rustles the bag, and I reach out to grab the handles.
“That’s very thoughtful,” I say.
She takes a step back, shoving her fists into the front pocket of her hoodie.
“Ah, you know. We’re very neighbourly around here. It’s no big deal.” She nods over at the door into the bar. “Ready to head in?”
I shift the bag onto my forearm. “Sure. Let’s do it.”
The voices and music inside spill out into the dim street like a crashing wave as soon as she opens the door. She grimaces.
“Sorry it’s so busy. I should have known everyone would head here after the grand opening.” She pulls the door all the way open and steps aside so I’ll have room to pass. “ Après vous , of course.”
She’s still got that goofy smile on her face, the corners of her mouth stretched just a little too far to look natural.
A tingling sensation bristles on the back of my neck. I almost feel like I’m about to get pranked. There’s no way the woman I met storming around the farmyard swearing at the top of her lungs is now chirping at me like a bubbly Disney princess and offering me little cakes, but I still head inside.
The interior of Mack’s Bistro is a little less divey than the outside would imply.
A few strings of blinking fairy lights on the ceiling cast a warm glow over the wood-paneled walls, brown vinyl booths, and lacquered tables.
The tang of beer and fryer oil hits my nose while the chorus of a Rolling Stones song fills my ears.
Most of the patrons are sporting hoodies and jeans like Jacinthe, but there are a few sundresses and button-downs left over from the open house to assure me I’m only marginally the most dressed up person in the room.
“What are you having?” Jacinthe asks as we elbow our way up to the bar.
The room is so loud she has to lean in closer for me to hear. A few locks of her bob slip into her face, and she blows them out of the way with a huff.
I rip my gaze away before I end up staring at her pursed lips. My heart is pounding almost as loud as the throbbing bass notes of the song.
I thought maybe I’d exaggerated my epiphany from earlier today, that I’d just gotten caught up in the excitement of a big event where she was the star of the show, but no.
I really am attracted to her.
“Uh…” I scan the selection of taps and end up pointing at random. “That one.”
She gives me another one of those Uncanny Valley smiles. “Good choice. You must have good taste in beer.”
Thankfully, her creepy smiles and overall saccharine demeanor are enough to keep me from making a complete idiot of myself. It’s like getting a bucket of cold water splashed in my face every time she pulls out that toothy grin.
We make it up to the edge of the bar, where the dark wood has been polished to a slick sheen by generations of La Cloche residents resting their elbows. A shaggy-haired kid who’s got to be fresh out of high school pours our pints.
“I’ll get it,” Jacinthe says, waving a credit card at him.
I shove my hand into my pocket and dig out my wallet. “Oh, no, let me. I’m the one who asked to talk.”
Jacinthe shakes her head. “And I’m the one who said we should do it at Mack’s. Call it a thank you for driving my mom today.”
Her too-sweet tone slips for a moment, deepening with genuine gratitude just like it did at the open house. Her eyes lock with mine.
Those damn eyes.
For a second, I forget all about pulling my card out. Before I have a chance to protest, Jacinthe is tapping hers to the machine the bartender holds out.
We turn to face the crowd once we’ve got our drinks in hand. The room is warm enough that condensation is already beading on the sides of my pint glass, tiny rivulets dripping onto my knuckles while I clutch the glass way too tight.
“Ah, parfait ,” Jacinthe says, nodding over at where an elderly couple is getting up from one of the booths. “Monsieur and Madame LaRoche are leaving.”
She leads the way over to their spot, and the three of them have a conversation in French too rapid for me to follow.
From all the back slapping and hand shaking, it’s clear they’re congratulating her on the inn.
I fumble my way through some introductions and an announcement that I’m the new local farrier before Jacinthe and I finally get a chance to sit down.
“So you’re some kind of La Cloche celebrity, huh?” I ask.
She shrugs. “It’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody here.”
It’s not just that. I can already tell Jacinthe and her friends are a big part of La Cloche. People light up around them, like they’re a surge of electricity in the grid that keeps the community running.
Jacinthe belongs here, and the more I see it, the more I can’t help wondering what it would feel like to belong somewhere like this too.
“Cheers,” Jacinthe says, tipping her beer at me. “To you. For saving the day. Maman can’t stop talking about what a saint you are.”
I shake my head. “It was no big deal.
“Still,” she says, tipping her glass at me, “to you, and to the start of your happy new life in Québec.”
She sing-songs the last few words in what I think is meant to be a cheery tone. I can’t tell if I want to laugh or cower in fear over how odd she’s being.
“Thank you,” I say instead, hoisting my pint in acknowledgement.
We both take a sip and then set our glasses back down.
A moment of silence passes.
Then another.
I suck in a breath.
“So…” I begin.
“So…” she echoes.
She plasters on another too-wide grin and smiles as she bobs her head in time with the music. She reminds me of videos of people waking up all loopy from surgery. I raise my fist to my mouth and pretend to cough to cover up a snort.
“Are you…good?” I blurt.
She freezes, blinking at me for a moment before she resumes her head-bobbing at double speed.
“Of course! Very good. It’s good to be here. It’s good to talk.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, fighting to keep myself from squinting at her.
“You did a really good job on the horses, you know.”
I tilt my head in surprise, but she plows right on through the subject change.
“All their feet are great. I called Léon tonight and told him he picked a good replacement.”
“Oh,” I mumble. “Thank you. That was really kind of you.”
Jacinthe shrugs. Her fingers are tapping a frantic rhythm on the table. “It’s the truth. I don’t lie about my horses.”
I nod. “Of course.”
This time, I don’t bother trying not to squint. I peer straight at her face as all the pieces start to fall into place.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah,” she says, her voice just a little too bright. “Whatever you want. I am here to help.”
“Are you…buttering me up?”
She balks, her shoulders stiffening against the back of the booth. “Buttering?”
“Like, flattering me? Is this”—I hoist up the bag of treats and nod my head at the pints she paid for—“about the lease, or something?”
Her eyes widen, the whites of them flashing like a panicked horse, and that’s all the confirmation I need.
“What?” she yelps. She’s feigning indignation now, but it’s too late. “No! I just want you to, you know, feel good, so you?—”
“So I’ll sign the lease.”
That’s what the cake and the drinks and the bizarre facial expressions are about. I was starting to wonder if maybe she’d smoked a huge joint on the way over here, and all along, she’s just been trying to be nice.
The fact that this is what Jacinthe’s interpretation of ‘nice’ looks like is too much to resist.
I burst out laughing.
“No, no, no!” Jacinthe protests.
Her face is somewhere between annoyed and crestfallen, which just makes me laugh even more.
“I just wanted to make you feel welcome in town,” she babbles. “You know, because you’re new, and because you thought I hated you, and because?—”
“Because you think I might not take the property?” I cut in. “That’s why you’re doing the creepy smile thing, right?”