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Overview
Abby’s come to this small town in northern Quebec to research beluga whales. And her dog, Figgy, is all the company she’s interested in. But then she meets widowed captain Marc Doucette and his brokenhearted daughter. Turns out they may be exactly what she needs.
Too bad Marc’s dead set against everything Abby and her job represent. But can he keep up his stand once he sees how good Abby—and Figgy—are for his daughter? And can he deny that there might be other—more personal—reasons to change his mind?
SINGLE FATHER
Sometimes he gets things right. Sometimes he needs a little help.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781459217263 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Harlequin |
| Publication date: | 09/15/2011 |
| Series: | Single Father , #20 |
| Sold by: | HARLEQUIN |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 288 |
| File size: | 532 KB |
Read an Excerpt
No one had said anything about needing reservations. If they had, Abby Miller knew she wouldn't be sitting here now, near the end of a long line of cars waiting for the few remaining slots on the Matane-Baie-Comeau ferry.
"Who'd have thought so many people wanted to get across the Saint Lawrence Seaway this time of year?" she said. In the back seat, Figgy pricked up her ears and made a low chuffing sound. "Go back to sleep, girl," Abby said. "There's no reason we should both be up at this ungodly hour." The small brown dog obligingly put her head back down on her front paws, sighed mightily and closed her eyes.
Abby glanced at her watch. Five-thirty. According to the brochure of ferry schedules open on the passenger seat next to her, the Felipe was due to depart the docks at six-ten. Abby had arrived at the terminal fifteen minutes earlier, thinking that would give her more than enough time to purchase a ticket and board the ferry for the two-hour crossing.
No such luck. She leaned back against the headrest and watched enviously as Québec Maritime terminal staff directed the rapidly dwindling line of cars in the Passengers with Reservations Only lane. The Felipe had a capacity of six hundred cars, and Abby had tried to count the vehicles as they drove into the cavernous opening. But so many had boarded before she arrived that she soon gave up, knowing it was an exercise in futility.
Next to the ferry brochure was her much read and well-creased road map, the route from her apartment in Andover, Massachusetts, to Tadoussac, Québec, highlighted in bright red. The helpful agent at AAA had assured Abby the drive would be a scenic one, albeit long, and had been telling the truth. Abby had made a right turn out of her driveway early the previous morning and had driven north in a straight line ever since. About halfway through the trip, late yesterday afternoon, she had left the interstate for the more rural highways of northern Maine. By evening, she had cleared Canadian customs and crossed the border into New Brunswick, Canada, picked up the Trans-Canada Highway and entered the province of Québec around midnight.
So near and yet so far, Abby thought, looking out her windshield at the choppy waters of the Saint Lawrence.
She sat up straighter as the last of the cars eased over the ramp between the dock and ferry. Abby could barely make out the ferry's darkened interior, but it looked like there could be enough room for all the cars in her lane. Her optimism, however, was premature.
Just as she was keying her ignition back on, she watched in horror as the terminal workers switched their attention to the scores of big rigs, panel trucks and large flatbeds that had been idling in the lane to her left.
When the last the of the trucks had been allowed on board, Abby saw the brake lights on the lead car in her lane flash. As if that were the signal, all the remaining cars roared to life and the line slowly inched forward. A terminal worker approached each car, handed the driver a slip of paper and then waved the vehicle on. The closer Abby got, the more convinced she became that she would have to make a reservation on the next available ferry—eight hours later or drive miles and hours out of her way to Québec City and the bridge.
She was now so close to the ferry, it blocked out the sky. She watched as the car in front of her—a late-model Saab with two mountain bikes lashed to the back bumper—was waved aboard. The attendant approached her car, the coveted white boarding slips in his hand. Rolling down the window, Abby offered him what she hoped was her most engaging smile, as if charm alone could magically create a space for her.
"Good morning," she said brightly to the young man, his Québec Maritime Windbreaker zipped to his chin, the hood pulled low over his eyes against the raw wind whipping off the Saint Lawrence. "Gosh, there are so many cars and I know I should have called ahead, but I really need to get across this morning and—" Abby knew she was babbling but couldn't help it.
The young man glanced in the car, saw Abby was the only passenger, mumbled something indecipherable, scribbled on the paper and handed it to her with one hand, pointing to the ferry with the other.
Abby accepted the slip with a genuine "thank you," clutching it in one hand even as she steered onto the ramp.
Once on the ferry, another Québec Maritime worker directed her to a spot behind the Saab and against the boat's port side hull. "We made it," she said exuberantly to Figgy, who was now sitting up and looking around, the noises of the ferry's interior—parking cars, slamming doors, metal clanging and the steady throb of the boat's engine—having wakened her.
Curious about the fate of the drivers behind her, Abby looked in her rearview mirror to see just how close she had come to being left behind. With the limited space behind her, it was obvious that, while she was not the last to board, not much of a cushion had remained. Her view was blocked as an older Jeep Wagoneer pulled up behind her, so close its grill filled the mirror.
"Okay," she said. "What say we get our stuff and head above decks?"
Thanks to her proximity to the inner hull, Abby had to squeeze out of the car. She then walked around to the passenger side, opened the door and began gathering her purse, some bottled water, the previous day's newspaper and Figgy's leash. Snapping the leash to the dog's collar, she stood and pulled gently for Figgy to follow her. Startled, she felt a tap on her shoulder.
A crew member was standing just behind her, saying something in French.
"Pardon?" she said.
The crewman, with obvious impatience, repeated himself, and Abby did her best to follow his rapid speech.
Dammit, she thought, why didn't I pay better attention in high school French?
She said, "I'm sorry, please slow down, I don't understand."
Glowering at her, the man pointed at Figgy and then jerked a thumb over his shoulder at a sign on the far wall. Looking past him, Abby felt her heart drop when she saw the illustration of a dog on a leash with a fat red line through it. She didn't have to be fluent in any language to know that symbol meant dogs were not welcome, allowed or wanted on the Felipe's upper decks.
"You mean I have to leave her here? In the car? What if something happens and I have to get to her?" Abby was horrified. Figgy had been her companion for the past five years, and there was no way she could leave her beloved pet alone in the dark musty hold.
Then she realized there was another option. "Never mind," she said to the crewman, not caring if he understood her or not. "I can ride down here. I can even take a nap."
She bent to put her things back in the car and again felt a tap on her shoulder.
The crewman had obviously been through this before with countless other passengers and their pets. Shaking his head, he pointed to another sign, this one with instructions in several different languages, including English. Passengers are forbidden to stay with their cars.
"Listen," she said, "I can't leave her down here. Can't you make an exception? Please?"
The crewman was looking at her impassively and Abby had the distinct feeling she'd have a better chance pleading her case to the nearby bulkhead.
She closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. She knew she was being foolish, that Figgy would be fine down here for a couple of hours. But she couldn't get the image of some kind of maritime disaster out of her head. Abby knew she was tired; worn out from the stress of an all-night drive and then the uncertainty of getting on the damned ferry. All she wanted was to get up to the main deck, pay her fare, buy a large cup of coffee and find a sunny place to sit and enjoy the scenery for the next two hours.
She opened her mouth, unsure of what was going to come out, when a masculine voice to her right said, "Excuse me, I didn't mean to be eavesdropping, but can I help?"
Turning, she saw it was the driver of the Jeep Wagoneer. Given the tight quarters on the car deck, he had been unable to get past Abby's car since she and the ferry worker were blocking the narrow aisle.
"What?" she said.
The man smiled and, without a word to Abby, turned to the crewman and spoke in French. Abby couldn't keep up, but she could have sworn she heard him say something about a doctor.
After a further exchange, during which the worker cast several questioning looks at Abby, the driver of the Wagoneer extended his hand for the crewman to shake. Smiling briefly, the man shook hands and looked at Abby again, then left.
Was that fear in his eyes? she wondered. No, she was just tired and seeing things.
"Okay," the driver said. "You're all set."
"What do you mean all set?"
"You and your dog. You can take him up with you."
"Her," Abby said, stunned at the change in fortune.
"What?"
"He's a her. That is, my dog, she's a female."
"Fine, you can take her up with you."
He turned to walk away and Abby called out to him.
"Wait a minute! How did you—what did you, I don't understand. Dogs aren't allowed."
The man laughed. "I just told the guy I'm your doctor and you are under treatment for an emotional disorder. That's your therapy dog and I can't be responsible for what might happen if he separated you two."
"You told him what?" Abby asked, incredulous.
"Hey, it worked, didn't it?"
"And he believed you?"
He grinned. "Guys like that never want to hear more than they have to about emotional problems when it comes to women."
Abby got the feeling he was viewing the entire thing as one big joke. Whether it was on her, the ferry line or both, she couldn't tell. But she found herself smiling back at him. "I'm not sure if I should be insulted or grateful. But thanks."
"Don't mention it," he said, again moving off. "I always like to start my day by saving a damsel in distress." He stopped. "But listen, just in case. Try to keep a low profile up there, okay?"
"I will," Abby said, "And thanks again, I mean it."
THE SUN radiating off the brilliantly whitewashed outer hull of the Felipe was a deliciously warm counterbalance to the chilly morning air. Abby clasped her cup of coffee in one hand, breathed in its strong aroma and finally felt herself begin to relax. Figgy lay at her feet, tucked under the wooden bench on which Abby sat. The little dog was fast asleep, lulled by the ferry's steady vibration as it plowed through the waves toward the industrial city of Baie-Comeau on the far shore. Despite the clear weather, the cool temperatures meant most of the ship's other passengers were indoors, enjoying breakfast in one of the ferry's two restaurants or sitting in one of the lounges. As a result, Abby had the stern-side deck to herself.
They had been underway for more than thirty minutes and the hills around Matane had slipped from view below the southern horizon. With no land visible, it was easy for Abby to imagine they were in the middle of the Atlantic, not crossing one of North America's mightiest rivers.
More than one passenger had done a double take when Abby had stepped up to pay her fare, Figgy obediently at heel. But no one had said anything. She had been prepared for another go around with the ferry's personnel about the no-dogs-on-deck policy, but they must have figured that if she'd made it past the sentinels down below, there was an official reason for this particular canine to be with a passenger.
Her only regret was not getting her benefactor's name. But by the time she had gathered her things and convinced Figgy to jump out of the car, Mr. Wagoneer, as she had dubbed him, had vanished.
Taking another sip of coffee, she gazed out at the sparkling blue waters topped by a confusion of whitecaps. Breezy, yes, but not a strong enough wind to explain the water's turbulence. No, she figured the intense wave action had more to do with their proximity to the Gulf of Saint Lawrence, where the river met the Atlantic. It was an area of strong crosscurrents, which she suspected made for a tricky passage at the best of time for the ferry captains.
The sun was rising higher and the glare off the water made Abby squint. She was digging into her purse for her sunglasses when she heard the hatch next to her bench open and close and someone step out onto the deck.
"When I said to keep a low profile, I didn't mean you had to sit out here and freeze to death," a familiar masculine voice said.
Abby shaded her eyes against the sun and recognized Mr. Wagoneer smiling down at her.
"Mind if I share your bench?" he asked.
"No, not at all."
Stepping around her and turning the collar of his brown canvas coat up against the chill, he sat down on the bench, stretching his legs out until his booted feet almost touched the rail.
"So, I take it you had no trouble getting your small passenger on deck?"
"No," Abby said. "The hardest part was getting past the guy downstairs—and you did that for me."
He smiled, and held out a hand. "I'm Marc, by the way."
Abby shook his hand. "Abby. Abby Miller, it's very nice to meet you." How could she not have noticed down below just how handsome he was? Curly brown hair edged the navy-blue watch cap he was wearing and the corners of his clear-blue eyes crinkled with lines that come from a lifetime of laughing or working in the outdoors or both.
"And your friend?" Marc nodded toward the sleeping Figgy.
"That's Figgy Piggy," Abby said, laughing self-consciously.
"Figgy Piggy?" Marc's eyebrows rose.
At the mention of her name, Figgy got up, stretched, walked out from under the bench and sat staring at the man and woman.
"It's a long story," Abby explained.
"Well, it's a long crossing," Marc said. "Hey, are you hungry?" He leaned away from her and dug in the large outer pocket of his jacket. Pulling out a slightly crumpled white paper bag, he held it out to her. "I picked these up just before I got to the dock."
Abby peered inside to see a half-dozen glazed doughnuts. As the smell reached her nose, she suddenly remembered she hadn't eaten since the previous day's rushed supper on the road. She heard her stomach rumble and hoped Marc didn't catch it over the sound of the ferry's engines.
"Wow, thanks, yes, I'd love—Figgy! No!" To Abby's horror, Figgy jumped up, put both front paws on Marc's chest and tried to stick her head into the bag.
"Whoa girl, down." Marc held the bag out of reach with his right hand and used his left to gently take Figgy's paws from his chest and push her back to the deck.
"I'm sorry," Abby said. "She's really such a good dog but she's a shameless beggar."
As if to prove the point, Figgy cocked her ears, put her head on Marc's lap and looked up at him with pleading brown eyes.
"She does have it down to a fine art," Marc said.
"When's the last time you fed her?"
"This morning when we got to the dock. Figgy, come here." Abby tugged firmly on the dog's leash.
Instead of complying, the dog cast Abby a disdainful look, put her head back down on Marc's leg and drooled slightly.
"Okay, that's it—get over here," Abby ordered. With great reluctance, Figgy began to back off, but Marc said, "Don't worry about it. I like dogs. And this one's a real character."