Page 56 of Touch the Sky

She pats the sides of her thighs. “It’s a good day. I didn’t even have to take any painkillers.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” I say, beaming at her.

She had a bad streak last week. I didn’t even see her for a couple days in a row. During our morning barn chores, Jacinthe told me Gabrielle had barely gotten out of bed, but just when we were wondering if we should call in a doctor, the pain began easing off.

I had no idea how unpredictable of a disease MS could be, but Gabrielle seems to take it all in stride.

“Should we take my truck?” I ask her.

She agrees, and we pile in to make the short drive over to Balsam Inn. The parking situation is nothing compared to the open house, but we still end up having to walk from down at the end of the street.

“So, who exactly is coming to this?” I ask Gabrielle as we get closer and closer to the sound of chattering voices. “Is it mostly just family, or will there be lots of people from around town?”

Gabrielle chuckles. “There would be lots of people from around town no matter what,ma belle. There is no such thing as a private party in La Cloche.”

I laugh too. “You know, now that you say that, I totally get it.”

I still have a freezer full of casseroles to prove the people of La Cloche will turn out en masse for pretty much any occasion.

“Ah, they have music!” Gabrielle grins as the hum of a few guitar notes reaches us. “I hope it is not my nephew Luc playing. You can never tell anyone I said this, but he is not very good.”

She drops her voice to a whisper and looks guilty enough that I have to stifle a laugh.

“Your secret is safe with me,” I assure her. “I’ll make a note not to ask Luc for lessons. I’m still on the lookout for a teacher for Shel.”

“Ah, Shel wants guitar lessons? You should ask Jacinthe to show her a few things.”

I stumble to a halt.

“Jacinthe knows how to play guitar?”

She’s seen Shel practicing dozens of times, and she’s never even mentioned it. Not that I’d actually ask her for lessons when she’s already doing so much for us, but the fact that she plays at all seems like a natural thing to bring up.

Then again, I can’t picture it. There’s something about the way Jacinthe is always storming around like a pint-sized hurricane with a foul mouth that doesn’t exactly scream sensitive musician.

Gabrielle gives me a wry grin, like she’s aware of the inconsistency.

“She will be mad I told you, but yes, she does. She learned it to impress a girl in high school.”

She presses a hand to her mouth to suppress a giggle, and I crack up too as I imagine an angsty teenage Jacinthe hunched over an acoustic guitar, swearing at the strings and plotting some awkward adolescent courting ritual.

It’s actually a pretty cute mental image, and my chest twinges with something like tenderness when I think about the fact that even in our completely separate lives in different parts of the country, we both grew up taking the same fledgling steps into our queerness.

Although I never went so far as to learn the guitar just to woo a crush.

“She still plays a little,” Gabrielle says as we approach the driveway. “Well,en fait, I can’t remember the last time she had her guitar out, but I’m sure she could give Shel some tips.”

“Oh, I couldn’t ask that,” I tell her. “You two are already doing way more for us than you need to. I’ve been meaning to say, if you ever want me to pay you for the times you’ve kept an eye on Shel when I’m running late at wo?—”

Now it’s Gabrielle’s turn to grind to a halt. She holds a hand up to silence me.

“Pas du tout,” she says sternly, sounding exactly like her daughter. “Ça suffit, ma belle. Do not speak of it. I’m happy to watch her as much as you like. She’s a sweetheart. You know, I’ve learned more interesting things about animals from her in a few weeks than I did in all ofsécondaire.”

I have to laugh at that. Shel could probably already pass a high school ecology test.

The sound of a car door slamming makes us both turn. There’s a woman peering over at us from the top of the driveway, her arms loaded with a few plastic grocery bags.

“Ma tante, c’est toi?” she calls.