Setting his wine glass back down on the coffee table, Yves said, “Your name, Meg, is a short name for Margaret, non?” “Yes.”
“Do you mind if I call you by the French name, Marguerite? It also means daisy and suits your sunny brightness much better.”
I felt myself warm to this outrageous compliment. Eric had no time for flattery. He only joked and made fun of my red hair.
I sank back into the deep cushions of the suede sofa I’d bought to replace Aunt Aggie’s unyielding Victorian settee. Much to my surprise, I found myself enjoying Yves’s company, something I wouldn’t have thought possible after our first icy encounter. And though his auburn hair and brown eyes reminded me of Yvette, his mind had matured well beyond the backwoods Québécois boundaries his father had imposed on his sister. Unlike Yvette, he conversed easily in English and seemed to know as much about English Canada as he did his own French-Canadian world.
He was also older than I’d initially thought. Probably fifteen years older than Yvette’s early twenties, which put him closer to my age. The age disparity and the fact he was male probably helped to explain how he’d managed to escape his father’s domination. Although he deftly deflected any questions I asked about his early years, I got the impression that he’d left the family farm sometime in his teens, when Yvette was a small child. But he didn’t say whether he had been on good or bad terms with his father when he’d left. Instead, he implied his time was pretty much taken up with the pressures of work, with little time to spare for his family.
He did, however, finally tell me the name of the investment house he worked for, a small independent brokerage with offices in Montreal and Toronto. At the mention of Toronto, I soon found myself resurrecting the city life I’d left behind when I’d fled my hometown to escape the end of my marriage. Although I had few regrets about leaving my old life, his lively talk brought back fond memories of living in one of Canada’s fastest-growing cities. We shared a liking for quaint Queen Street cafés, Yorkville boutiques and Centre Island, the summer playground of the downtown city dweller.
The Château wine went down so smoothly that before I realized it, Yves was opening another bottle, in fact the last of my cellar. After I’d promised Eric to stop drinking, I’d given away my entire liquor supply, but for a few bottles of good wine to offer people at dinner. This 1996 Chambertin was the last, and at the moment I didn’t see any reason to save it.
I found myself warming to Yves’s charm, preening under his appreciative glances and giggling like a young girl on a first date at everything he said. I couldn’t remember the last time a man had treated me this well. Eric’s usual technique was a pat on the bum and a “I’m ready if you are” sort of wink. Maybe if Eric was making a change, it was time for me to as well.
Although Yves had started out sitting in the wing-backed chair, he soon joined me on the couch. He was giving me one of those looks that suggested a kiss was next when the phone rang.
I almost didn’t answer it, and I must have sounded annoyed when I did, for Eric didn’t bother with the niceties of a hello. Instead he said, “I have obviously caught you at a bad time, so I’ll call back later.”
I felt the heat of embarrassment wash over me. “No, not at all,” I replied hurriedly. I tried not to look at Yves.
“Just calling to let you know that Ajidàmo is going to be okay.”
“Ajidàmo?”
“Squirrel. The little boy you rescued. Remember?”
“Of course I remember him. So the doctor said there’d be no ill effects from the overdose?”
“None at all. Should be home in a day or so, after they’ve done a few more tests.”
“Great news. Do you think his grandmother would mind if I visited him when he gets home?”
“Good idea. I know she’d like to thank you in her own way for saving her grandson. But look, I’m keeping you. Don’t forget about tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Christ, where’s your head, Meg? Remember we agreed to check out the marathon trails tomorrow.”
“Okay, okay. I remember.”
“You’ve not broken your promise about drinking, have you?”
“Of course not,” I lied into the receiver, and with a quick “See you tomorrow,” hung up. Muttering “damn” under my breath, I took a gulp of wine and resumed my seat beside Yves.
But the mood was broken by Eric’s interruption, so after a few strained minutes, Yves rose to his feet. “I should go before I become a bore and you never want to see to me again.”
“I don’t think there’s any danger of that happening,” I said, surprising myself by my boldness.
“I understand now why Yvette considers you a friend. I hope you will allow me to become your friend also?”
The door had no sooner closed behind his elegant frame than I was regretting my ready acceptance. Did I really want to go in this direction?
Remembering that I’d forgotten to tell Eric the good news about the marathon, I called him back but failed to reach him at the Fishing Camp, Band Council Hall or even his home. I left a voice mail saying we had Papa Gagnon’s go ahead, and he should call me for details.
I slumped back down onto the couch and finished the rest of the wine while I waited for Eric to phone back. He never did.
nine
Next morning, I awoke to the kind of pounding headache I hadn’t felt in two years. I cursed myself for finishing the remaining half bottle of wine and vowed never again. I trudged into the kitchen to make a pot of extra strong coffee. Without thinking, I reached into the cupboard for the cognac to add the final touch to my tried-and-true hangover remedy. When I saw the empty shelf, I swore again for slipping back so readily into the old alcoholic groove.
Outside, another winter storm raged. I sat slumped over my coffee watching the last of the visible stalks in my flower garden disappear under a growing snowdrift. A steady flight of chickadees, for the moment free of tormenting jays, ferried seeds from the feeder to neighbouring trees.
I thought about Yves, so like his sister in appearance, yet so unlike in character that it was as if they hadn’t grown up in the same family. It was this polished manner that appealed to me. I’d forgotten what it was like to be involved with a worldly, sophisticated man, who knew how to treat a woman.
I was wondering if it would be too forward of me to use a visit to Yvette as an excuse to see her brother when the phone suddenly rang.
“Bonjour, Marguerite,” flowed the voice of Yves through the static I’d come to associate with the Gagnon phone line.
I sat up, smoothed my uncombed hair and said in my best high school French, “Bonjour. C’est une vrai bonne journée.”
“Oui, it is indeed a good day, especially when I hear your smiling voice.”
Thankful he couldn’t see my blushing face, I quickly changed the topic. “How is Yvette? Would it be possible for me to visit her today?”
“I
