help noticing the neon yellow banners with red letters screaming EN FEU! HOT STUFF! The banners were strung across Rue Principale. Naturally, here in Quebec, the French words had to be twice as big as the English ones. We have rules. Rules or no rules, the signs didn’t mean anything to me in either official language. Every now and then, the village boosters go off the deep end. This might have been one of those times. I was shaking my head as I drove under the banners and past a line of large white trucks parked casually by the side of the road for no reason that I could see. And frankly, at that moment, I didn’t care.
I needed an ATM, and I needed it fast. I snagged a parking spot then stood in line for fifteen minutes at the Caisse Populaire. I stared in disbelief at the crowd ahead of me. There’s never a lineup in St. Aubaine. And if two people are waiting, they strike up a conversation, or suggest that you go ahead. It’s that kind of community.
St. Aubaine is full of aging hippies, old farming families, snowboarders, retired public servants, struggling musicians, blocked writers, starving artists, bad poets and, increasingly, young organic farmers. Oh, right, and tourists. We locals lean toward clothing from Mountain Equipment Co-op, or Tigre Géant, or even Canadian Tire. But this crowd seemed fairly young and oddly urban. Lots of tousled blondes with the kind of hair you see in magazines. Who were these people? Whoever, they weren’t inclined to chat with the locals.
Was some edgy new band playing at the Pub Britannia perhaps? Maybe they were attracting the trendy set.
A woman with spiked hair the colour of a freshly polished fire truck pulled up to the edge of the sidewalk in a white Lexus SUV. She hopped out, left it running and raced over to CeeCeeCuisine, the pricey new kitchen supply shop. I was still cooling my jets in line when she returned, carrying a cluster of distinctive green shopping bags with the CeeCeeCuisine logo. She opened the idling SUV and tossed the parcels in. She slammed the door, hustled over and elbowed ahead of me. Stunned as I was by this behaviour, I still couldn’t help noticing the startling amount of stretch in her dress and the equally amazing number of rhinestones studding her black glasses. Me, I probably wouldn’t have chosen a leopard-patterned headband to go with that look. She sported straw sandals with towering wedge heels, probably the highest I had ever seen in St. Aubaine. Even so, she hardly came up to my chin. She was as stocky as my old washing machine. The wedgie sandals showed off the blood-red polish on her toenails.
I didn’t bother to argue over my place in the line. I’m never in a hurry to deal with any bank. When I finally got up to the machine, I popped in my card, pecked in my PIN and picked SAVINGS. I already knew that Mother Hubbard’s CHEQUING cupboard was bare.
Oops.
I downgraded my request to twenty dollars.
The hell with you, said the ATM, or words to that effect.
I tried CHEQUING again.
It was not to be.
Well, that’s just plain bad when you don’t have twenty dollars in the bank.
I yanked back my card before the machine confiscated it. It looked like I would have to dig into my drop-dead emergency fund to get through the month.
Then what?
Nothing but grim days ahead.
I turned to leave and banged into Jean-Claude Lamontagne, my least favourite person on the planet. Too bad he’s also my closest neighbour. I might have been awash in perspiration, but Jean-Claude was a vision of dry elegance in his light-weight silk suit, silver grey, of course, one of the money colours.
“Hello, Fiona,” he said.
Personally, I thought the salon tan clashed with the cool of the handmade suit, but what do I know? I was wearing my pink flip-flops, my three-year-old jean skirt and a black T-shirt with sparkly white letters that said “Leave Me Alone”. I’d lost nineteen pounds since I’d started visiting Marc-André. Maybe it was the smell of all that institutional food. Whatever the reason, it had left me with a limited wardrobe.
Jean-Claude smirked, but then he usually does. Maybe it wasn’t the outfit. Had he seen the screen message of AMOUNT REQUESTED EXCEEDS BALANCE? Oh, rats. That was all I needed.
“How are you, Fiona?” Jean-Claude always speaks English to me. I’m pretty sure that’s just a dominance thing. He knows perfectly well I can get along en français. He makes a point of emphasizing my name.
“Très bien. Parfait. Fantastique,“ I said. I did my best to look like someone who hasn’t sailed past her agreed-on overdraft amount. “I have just been visiting my friend Marc-André Paradis at the rehab centre, and he seems to be getting better again.”
“Really? Yet you are...distressed.”
“Well, I’m a bit warm, if you must know.”
Of course, he could tell that by looking at me. My hair couldn’t have been frizzier if I’d stuffed my tongue into an electrical socket.
“Well, I can certainly understand. Things are definitely heating up in St. Aubaine,” he said.
I am always trying to figure out the subtext of what he says. Where there is Jean-Claude, there is always some kind of worrisome undercurrent. Plus, I trust him as far as I could toss him and his shiny new silver Porsche Carrera.
I smiled. “Absolutely.”
“Lot of building going on. Boom economy.”
Right. Now I knew where we were headed. Same old same old. Jean-Claude has been the driving force behind most of the development in and around our picturesque and historic town. He wasn’t satisfied with two monster home developments or his new batch of condos cluttering the waterfront. His latest plan was a grand riverside development just north of the village.
I said, “I’m not planning to sell. Not now. Not ever. Just in case that’s where you’re going.”
“I think you should hear me out. That place you have is a lot of work for a single woman, two acres, a big lawn, that old cottage needing repairs all the time. I couldn’t help noticing your driveway needs regrading. I imagine keeping the woods clear of deadfall must get you down. You must worry in this kind of weather. Brush fires, things like that.”
“I’m happy there.”
“I can’t even imagine the state of your wiring.” He gave an elegant shudder.
“I love my home. I believe I have mentioned that before. I am sure that my wiring is fine. And if it’s not, it can be fixed. I’ll never find another place like that.”
“Well, it’s a beautiful spot, and a lot of waterfront property for sure. But it’s not the only nice place in the area. Everyone knows you are broke. I could make it worth your while to sell.”
“No,” I said, a bit louder than I intended.
The stocky redhead with the towering heels had been lingering by her idling car, maybe counting her cash or even just waiting for someone. She checked her watch conspicuously and scowled in our direction. I was pretty sure that Jean-Claude was the focus of her attention.
Jean-Claude seemed to be totally unconscious of her presence as he turned his back on her. I wondered about that, since he does nothing without a good business reason. He didn’t even glance when a couple of giggling teenagers
