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JL’s black leather duffel sits between his feet, and I glance over my shoulder to watch him watch me. He bounces on the balls of his feet, ready to rush in if I need him.
When we met last year, I was still with Sam but JL’s magnetism was hard to resist. Once things fell apart, I slowly let myself be pulled in. Ever since, we’ve been circling each other like wary tigers. Now I cling to JL as a safe port in a storm. I’m well and truly ensnared, even though I can’t help feeling one day the web that brings us together will unravel and I’ll be alone.
My topsy-turvy life is light-years from where I want to be—gainfully employed doing work I love, in a stable relationship, and most of all free of fear.
Now, not-so-fresh off the plane from Paris, I question the decision to meet his mother and deadbeat uncle. Am I fooling myself into thinking this is one of the building blocks of a stable relationship? I can’t really believe Louisette Martin will look at me and see a perfect match for her son.
From what he’s told me, she’s a proud French Canadian and a devout Catholic who longs for grandchildren. Two strikes right off the bat. And although JL would make an amazing dad, not that he’s ever said anything, at forty-six, the risk in having children is not one I want to take.
The words, “Hey, dreamer,” snatch me out of my reverie. I haven’t been watching and my guardian spirit lugged the case off the belt. It’s so overweight the wheels can’t keep it balanced. I rush over to help as he wrestles the soft case into submission. He keeps a death grip on the handle, shooing me away.
“I’ve got it.” Then he rolls over to where his duffel sits, forlorn, and sets it on top. “First customs, then locate our ride.”
My computer bag slung over my shoulder, I rub my stomach and make smacking sounds. “When do we get poutine?” When he laughs, I feel my cheeks heat and know my nose has turned bright red.
“Poutine? Have you ever even had it, ma chouette? Besides the distinctly ersatz variety at Stan’s? ”
“It’s very popular in Chicago.”
He leans the bags against his tight abs and scratches his head. “Never even thought about finding real poutine in Chicago. Where do you find it?”
I throw out my arms as if I’ve just crossed the finish line in the marathon. “The Gage on Michigan Avenue has it for their weekend brunch. And it’s delicious.” Then I pull his hand off his head and twist my fingers in his. “This is Canada, home of poutine.”
He frees himself from my grasp and strokes his chin. “Do you think you’re in Quebec?”
My face sags. Is this really just a regional thing? Maybe I should have read up about it, but I didn’t know I was going to Vancouver until a couple of days ago, and life has been a little hectic.
He’s going on and on while my stomach sinks to the soles of my feet with humiliation. “This is Vancouver,” he says. “Don’t you want candied salmon sticks, oysters, B.C. rolls, Nanaimo Bars, Japadog?”
I pout. “Are you telling me there’s no poutine in Vancouver, Beau?”
Then I notice his face has morphed into an impish grin. “Poutine is French Canadian.”
Not willing to give in to feelings of idiocy, I grab the front of his jacket, but the bags are a barrier. I kick them aside, unconcerned when my suitcase clunks to the ground. Then I kick his duffel out of the way and pull him close. My eyes glare like Medusa, my voice hardens, and I declare, “You’re French Canadian, and you’re from here.” I try to rock him back and forth, but he stands his ground like a boulder. “Is there or isn’t there poutine in Vancouver?”
With a sigh, he removes my fingers, steps back, and stumbles over the duffel. While he fights to keep his balance, I move forward and poke him in the chest.
JL’s almost black eyes darken further. Then, as if by magic, his face lightens, and he rubs his stubbly jaw. “Yes, ma chouette, there is poutine. Anywhere there are French Canadians, there is poutine. For sure my maman will have that and tourtière for us as a welcome.”
* * *
JL
When we finish with customs, we walk outside. A black SUV waits by the curb, uniformed driver behind the wheel, aviator sunglasses hiding much of his face. Another man leans against the rear bumper. When he sees us approach, he lopes over and grabs the bags.
“Bonjour, JL.” His smile is wide as his booms out around the carpark.
“Yannick. Been too long.” He gives a side hug, then I feel an arm slip through mine. “Micki, this is Yannick Moreau. He is one of my guys in Vancouver.”
Yannick’s lips twist into an amused grin. “We grew up together.”
I draw her forward. “Yannick, I want you to meet Michelle Press from Chicago.”
“Enchanté, Mademoiselle.” He holds out a hand and when she reciprocates, gives it a squeeze.
“Not sure what you’re doing with this reprobate,” he tells her as we settle her into the passenger seat. I climb in beside her.
She levels him with a look. “He’s not too bad. I like the accent.”
