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“I would have thought she’d live in Montreal or somewhere.” He smirks, as if he’s caught me out in a lie.
“Not all French Canadians live in Quebec,” Yannick huffs.
“She lives here,” I say. I clench my fists, temper frayed.
Yannick claps me on the shoulder. “Let’s just finish up.” His eyes are hooded and he purses his lips. Is the warning for me or the asshole behind the desk?
I sign a bunch of papers, insist on two copies, and promise to bring the Porsche back with a full tank. Moving at a fast clip to work out my foul mood, we go out back where lines of sparkly clean cars sit, waiting for travelers to claim them.
The Porsche, parked next to a gleaming gold BMW, looks like a sweet ride and the minute or so as we roll around to the front confirms it. While we transfer the luggage, Micki gets into the front seat. Once we’re both belted in, I connect my cell to the car audio system and wave off Yannick. “I better not see you hugging the curb.”
“We’ll be unobtrusive but close enough to be effective.”
“Tell Jean-Claude I need to know where he bought his aviators.”
“I’ll have him text you.” With a screech of tires, they exit the rental place. They’ll be in Kitsilano before us.
“Hey, Siri. Call Maman.”
“Calling Louisette Martin,” Siri answers.
While the phone rings, Micki asks, “Who’s Jean-Claude?”
“The driver.”
Puzzlement spreads over her face. “Why didn’t you just ask him?”
“His role is chauffeur. A customer wouldn’t ask that.”
“But who would hear once we were driving?”
“Probably no one, but you can never be too careful. And he likes to stay in character.”
“He’s an actor? TV? Theater?”
“He wishes, although he was an extra on a TV show once. As a getaway driver.”
We’re still sitting at the curb, laughing, when Maman picks up.
“Où es-tu?” she demands before I can open my mouth.
Hoping to encourage her to do the same, I answer in English. “Just picked up the rental. We’ll be there in about an hour, depending on the traffic.”
“Qui sont nous?”
Again, I lean into English. “I told you. I’m bringing a friend.” The glance I give to Micki is warm and not so friend-like.
Trying to keep irritation at bay, I snap out the response, “And my friend doesn’t speak much French.” Don’t even bother to tell her about the security detail that will shadow us everywhere, even though there is no sign Sam is in Vancouver.
“Of course. Is your friend staying with us or at a hotel?”
From the coolness in her tone, I’m sure she hopes for the latter. “With us,” I tell her, then reach for Micki’s hand and give it a reassuring squeeze.
Not missing a beat, Maman trills, “Fine, I’ll make up the bed. And I have some surprises for you.”
A pang hits where my heart rests. Some surprises? A harem? “The sooner we’re underway, the sooner we’ll be there.” Then I throw a little French her way, “Á bientôt, chère Maman.”
“Ciao, ciao.”
