They had been underway for more than thirty minutes and the hills around Matane had slipped from view below the southern horizon. With no land visible, it was easy for Abby to imagine they were in the middle of the Atlantic, not crossing one of North America’s mightiest rivers.
More than one passenger had done a double take when Abby had stepped up to pay her fare, Figgy obediently at heel. But no one had said anything. She had been prepared for another go around with the ferry’s personnel about the no-dogs-on-deck policy, but they must have figured that if she’d made it past the sentinels down below, there was an official reason for this particular canine to be with a passenger.
Her only regret was not getting her benefactor’s name. But by the time she had gathered her things and convinced Figgy to jump out of the car, Mr. Wagoneer, as she had dubbed him, had vanished.
Taking another sip of coffee, she gazed out at the sparkling blue waters topped by a confusion of whitecaps. Breezy, yes, but not a strong enough wind to explain the water’s turbulence. No, she figured the intense wave action had more to do with their proximity to the Gulf of Saint Lawrence, where the river met the Atlantic. It was an area of strong crosscurrents, which she suspected made for a tricky passage at the best of time for the ferry captains.
The sun was rising higher and the glare off the water made Abby squint. She was digging into her purse for her sunglasses when she heard the hatch next to her bench open and close and someone step out onto the deck.
“When I said to keep a low profile, I didn’t mean you had to sit out here and freeze to death,” a familiar masculine voice said.
Abby shaded her eyes against the sun and recognized Mr. Wagoneer smiling down at her.
“Mind if I share your bench?” he asked.
“No, not at all.”
Stepping around her and turning the collar of his brown canvas coat up against the chill, he sat down on the bench, stretching his legs out until his booted feet almost touched the rail.
“So, I take it you had no trouble getting your small passenger on deck?”
“No,” Abby said. “The hardest part was getting past the guy downstairs—and you did that for me.”
He smiled, and held out a hand. “I’m Marc, by the way.”
Abby shook his hand. “Abby. Abby Miller, it’s very nice to meet you.” How could she not have noticed down below just how handsome he was? Curly brown hair edged the navy-blue watch cap he was wearing and the corners of his clear-blue eyes crinkled with lines that come from a lifetime of laughing or working in the outdoors or both.
“And your friend?” Marc nodded toward the sleeping Figgy.
“That’s Figgy Piggy,” Abby said, laughing self-consciously.
“Figgy Piggy?” Marc’s eyebrows rose.
At the mention of her name, Figgy got up, stretched, walked out from under the bench and sat staring at the man and woman.
“It’s a long story,” Abby explained.
“Well, it’s a long crossing,” Marc said. “Hey, are you hungry?” He leaned away from her and dug in the large outer pocket of his jacket. Pulling out a slightly crumpled white paper bag, he held it out to her. “I picked these up just before I got to the dock.”
Abby peered inside to see a half-dozen glazed doughnuts. As the smell reached her nose, she suddenly remembered she hadn’t eaten since the previous day’s rushed supper on the road. She heard her stomach rumble and hoped Marc didn’t catch it over the sound of the ferry’s engines.
“Wow, thanks, yes, I’d love—Figgy! No!”
To Abby’s horror, Figgy jumped up, put both front paws on Marc’s chest and tried to stick her head into the bag.
“Whoa girl, down.” Marc held the bag out of reach with his right hand and used his left to gently take Figgy’s paws from his chest and push her back to the deck.
“I’m sorry,” Abby said. “She’s really such a good dog but she’s a shameless beggar.”
As if to prove the point, Figgy cocked her ears, put her head on Marc’s lap and looked up at him with pleading brown eyes.
“She does have it down to a fine art,” Marc said. “When’s the last time you fed her?”
“This morning when we got to the dock. Figgy, come here.” Abby tugged firmly on the dog’s leash.
Instead of complying, the dog cast Abby a disdainful look, put her head back down on Marc’s leg and drooled slightly.
“Okay, that’s it—get over here,” Abby ordered.
With great reluctance, Figgy began to back off, but Marc said, “Don’t worry about it. I like dogs. And this one’s a real character.”
“No, I don’t want her to bother you,” Abby insisted.
“It’s no bother. Besides, it’s my own fault for getting her here in the first place. Can I give her a little piece of doughnut?”
“Sure, and if you do, I guarantee you’ll have a friend for life.”
“In that case, here’s one for you, too.” Marc handed Abby a doughnut before he pulled a chunk off his own and handed it to Figgy, who downed the morsel in one gulp.
“One piece is enough for you, okay?” Marc said to the dog.
“Yes, now lie down,” Abby commanded.
Looking from one to the other, Figgy lay down directly at Marc’s feet, keeping a watchful eye for any crumbs.
Satisfied that Figgy was not contemplating another sneak attack on Marc’s bag of doughnuts, Abby sat back and enjoyed the fresh pastry and hot coffee.
“Now I’m doubly in your debt,” she said, licking the last of the glaze from her fingers. “Dog lover and provider of treats.”
“All in a day’s work,” Marc said loftily.
“What a morning. First I wasn’t sure if I was even going to make it onto the ferry and then the whole thing with Figgy—”
“No reservations?”
Abby shook her head. “I guess you didn’t have any either. I mean, you were behind me.”
“Nah, I don’t bother. I can usually pretty well guess my odds and what time I should get in line. Even then, it’s not worth breaking a sweat over. There’s always another one, right?”
Abby laughed. “That’s a healthy attitude.”
“So, where are you headed?” Marc asked.
“Tadoussac. It’s on the north shore, about ninety miles west of Baie-Comeau.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Are you from Québec?”
Marc nodded. “Born and raised. What brings you to Tadoussac? On holiday?”
“No, work.”
“No kidding? Doing what?”
Abby smiled and had to consciously force herself not to feel for the well-worn envelope inside her shirt pocket. She had read the letter so often it was now committed to memory:
Dear Dr. Miller,