Page 32 of Touch the Sky

“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’recongratulating 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.Mamancan’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 ofpeople 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.”