Page 9 of Touch the Sky

I end up standing next to a bulletin board covered in local announcements, the pages ranging from professionally printed pamphlets to sticky notes scrawled with looping handwriting. There’s a call-out for vendors at an upcoming autumn craft market, a dog-walker looking for new clients, and a new bed and breakfast called Balsam Inn that’s hosting a grand opening at the end of the month.

The name rings a bell, and I realize this is the inn Gabrielle told me about while I was shoeing the horses. It’s the business Jacinthe decided to open with a couple of her friends, after one of them inherited a huge house from an elderly relative.

I scan the grand opening details, impressed with how professional everything sounds. My gaze flicks over to the next advertisement, and my pulse kicks up as I forget all about the inn.

There’s a farmhouse for rent.

Well, part of a farmhouse.

My gaze darts over the details typed out under a few black and white photos: the back end of the house has been converted into its own unit, with a bedroom, living room, and small loft space. It’s got a full bathroom with a shower and tub. Thekitchen is only a mini fridge, microwave, and hot plate, but the ad says renters would also have access to the full kitchen in the main part of the house, along with the laundry room.

My heart pounds even faster when I get to the price.

It’s within my budget—well within my budget, in fact.

I blink a few times to make sure I’m not seeing things. I’ve looked at enough property listings over the past two weeks that I wouldn’t be surprised if my eyes had started playing tricks on me, but the numbers on the page remain the same.

My hand starts gliding towards the strips of paper cut along the page’s edge, all of them printed with the landlord’s phone number. None of them have been torn off yet, but before I can rip one myself, I hear someone make a noise of surprise behind me.

I turn around to find Gabrielle Gauthier from La Grange Rouge has joined the line. She’s wearing an oversized chambray shirt that’s a little frayed around the collar, her mass of grey-streaked hair pulled back into a puffy ponytail.

“Well, hello there, Miss Farrier!” she says, her stunned expression shifting into a twinkling smile. “How nice to see you again!”

I stick my hand out for a shake. “C’est…um...bonde, um…te revoir, Madame Gauthier.”

My face heats up as I stumble through my sentence. I have enough French to hold a passable conversation, but something about speaking French to actual French speakers gets my tongue tied in a knot and makes me forget half my vocabulary.

Gabrielle somehow manages not to laugh.

“Très gentil,” she says. “So, what brings you back to our little town so soon?”

“Oh, um…” I shove my hands in the pockets of my jeans and nod over at where Shel is sitting engrossed in the stackof postcards we got for half price in one of the galleries. “My daughter and I are out exploring.”

“That is your daughter? How sweet!” Gabrielle chuckles at Shel’s concentrated face before turning back to me. “Are you getting the cinnamon buns? You need to get the cinnamon buns. I’m bringing some back tola grangefor Jacinthe. I am glad the tourists didn’t eat them all yet.”

I laugh as we shuffle up a couple feet with the rest of the line. “Guess I’m guilty, huh?”

She wrinkles her nose and gives my shoulder a playful swat. “Oh,pas du tout. You’re not a tourist. Saint-Jovite isn’t far enough for you to be a tourist.”

“I just meant that I’m still new around here.”

She shrugs. “You’ve already put shoes on all my horses. I think you are well on your way to becoming a local,chérie.”

I turn to the bulletin board to hide how her comment is making something warm well up in my chest.

After Jacinthe went inside to deal with her manure-stained clothes and rest her tailbone, Gabrielle and I ended up spending the rest of yesterday afternoon together while she held the horses for me. I told her about Shel and the move and my hopes that taking over Léon’s business will all go smoothly. She was sweet enough about everything that it almost felt like getting the chance to talk to my own mom face to face.

I stare at the board, blinking hard as I wait for the prickling sensation in the corners of my eyes to fade.

“Ah,” Gabrielle says, her gaze following mine. “Rien encore.”

She traces a finger over the strips of phone numbers along the bottom of the ad for the farmhouse.

My forehead wrinkles as I turn her words over in my head.

Still nothing.

“Has that ad been here a while?” I ask.