Page 23 of Touch the Sky

I jog to catch up with her and then slow my pace. She’s moving much faster than she was back at the house, her jaw set in that stubborn line again.

I stuff my hands in my pockets and peer up ahead at our destination. I can see the edge of a crowd gathered on a wide front lawn. The cacophony of voices echoes through the streets, laughter and chattering conversations all blending together into an expectant hum like a generator coming to life.

“People are really excited about this inn, huh?”

“Yes, we’re all very happy for the girls.” Pride beams through Gabrielle’s face even as she lets out a grunt of pain. “Everybody knows them. There’s my Jacinthe, of course, and her cousin Madeleine, and their best friend, Natalie Sinclair.”

We’re close enough now that I can see the top of the house: glittering new shingles catching the sunlight, the gabled windows of the upper storey flanked by old-fashioned, emerald green shutters. The outside of the house is painted a traditional farmhouse white, and if what I can see from here is anything to go by, the place is massive—not a mansion, but definitely big enough that I can’t imagine it being anything other than an inn. The two balsam fir trees stretching up on either side of the house are equally gigantic, towering a dozen feet above the roof.

“The whole town watched the three of them grow up,” Gabrielle continues while we shuffle closer to the crowd. “Even when they were kids, they were very, um, oh, I don’t know how you’d say it in English. I mean they were always starting little businesses together, lemonade stands and car washes and that kind of thing.”

“Entrepreneurial?” I offer.

She nods. “Yes, that sounds right! I always knew they’d do something like this when they grew up. Natalie inherited this house from herTanteManon earlier this year. Poor woman. She lived alone here for decades. She did not seem to like anyone, even her family, but she left the house and every penny to her great niece.”

I take another glance at the house, but as hard as I try, I just can’t imagine a little old lady in there on her own for decades. I can see why the entirety of La Cloche seems to be crammed onto the front lawn, waiting for the chance to indulge their curiosity.

We’ve reached the edge of the property now. The whole sidewalk is crammed with onlookers, and the front lawn is a mass of jostling bodies. If I rock up onto the balls of my feet, I can just catch a glimpse of the bright red ribbon stretched across the stairway up to the wraparound porch.

Gabrielle shifts up onto her tiptoes too, but she’s not tall enough to clear the crowd. Her face falls, her shoulders slumping.

“Ah,zute. We’ll never get through. I told Jacinthe I would be watching.”

I can hear the panic edging her tone as she scans for a gap in the crowd, and I know exactly what she’s feeling. It’s the same feeling I’ve had rushing home from work to get to a school talent show or to make sure I can give Shel one last hug before a visit with her dad. It’s the feeling of a mom who’s not willing to let her kid down.

“Don’t worry.” I reach for Gabrielle’s shoulder and give her a squeeze. “We’ll get you up there.”

I take a step back and clear my throat. I can already feel any trace of proficiency in the French language leaving me as I contemplate communicating with dozens of Quebecers at once,but that’s another thing about being a mom. Sometimes you’ve got to be willing to embarrass yourself.

“Excusez-moi!” I call out, cupping my hands around my mouth.

I have to try three more times before I get more than a couple people to turn their heads. Once the first two rows in front of us are all staring me down, I flap my hand out towards Gabrielle.

“La mère de…um…Jacinthe.”

I don’t know if that’s enough information to inspire them to move, but for the life of me, I can’t remember how to say ‘the property owner.’

Sweat beads on the back of my neck, but Gabrielle is beaming at me like I’m the next Messiah.

“La mère de la propriétaire,” she offers.

I nod and face the crowd again.

“La mère de la propriétaire!” I shout. “Elle veut, um,aller.”

Telling them ‘she wants to go’ is not as specific as I was hoping to be.

“Elle doit aller!” I add, with a whooshing gesture like I’m parting the red sea.

Telling them sheneedsto go has more of an effect. People start mumbling amongst themselves, and a few of them seem to recognize Gabrielle. Word spreads throughout the mass of bodies, and in a couple minutes’ time, we’ve cleared a path up the lawn.

“Merci, mon ange,” Gabrielle says, grabbing my arm and tugging me alongside her before I can even consider heading back to my truck.

We make it up to the porch just in time. Gabrielle is still clutching my arm when the hulking, green front door swings open. She squeezes me tight enough for my bicep to twinge in protest, a little squeal slipping past her lips.

“There she is!”

Two people step out onto the porch. There’s a young woman with dark hair and glasses in a professional-looking sheath dress, and beside her, there’s Jacinthe.