The Trickster's Lullaby Page 2

  “Never had it.” He glanced around at the neighbouring tables, where most patrons were eating large bowls of soup. “Take-out pizza and St. Hubert barbequed chicken are my mother’s go-to choices.”

  His English was flawless, reminding her of the neglected MacLean part of his heritage. Beneath his amiable manner thrummed an undercurrent of nerves. “Where do you live?” she asked to put him at ease.

  He named a street she’d never heard of. “East end. It’s tiny but my mother has made it nice. She’s an artist, and she has an eye for that stuff.”

  “And how long have you been at Collège de La Salle?”

  He hesitated. “I’m in my second year, with some … interruption. If I can get my grades up, I want to go to university next year.”

  “Studying what?”

  “Not sure yet. The way my grades are right now, I’ll probably just squeak into a general arts program at Concordia, but I like political science and history.”

  At least he was astute enough not to say Global Development, she thought wryly. Naming her own field of study would have been too obvious. “Quebec history?”

  He shook his head. “Everybody wants to study that. It’s kinda weird, but after all the stuff on TV — The Tudors, Wolf Hall, Borgia — sixteenth-century Europe seems really cool.”

  “The Renaissance?” She masked her surprise with an effort. Luc was proving to be nothing like the sullen misfit she’d been expecting.

  His eyes crinkled. “Yeah, right. Rebirth. Seems more like hatred, murder plots, and religious wars, pretty much like today. That’s what’s so cool about history. We really haven’t changed.”

  “Maybe that’s just human nature. Goodness is hard to sustain.”

  “The world’s not looking good right now, for sure. Well, you know that better than anybody.”

  Again she worked to hide her surprise. How much had this young man unearthed about her, and, more importantly, why? Deftly, she avoided the obvious attempt to dig up more and tossed the ball back into his court. “So how are your grades?”

  His face fell. “I won’t lie — they suck. I spent the last year — well, the last couple of years — AWOL from school and studies.”

  “How?”

  He shifted in his chair. “Should we order?”

  “I already have, their signature pho for both of us.” She kept her eyes on him. “How?”

  He looked nonplussed, affording a glimpse of the eighteen-year-old she’d been expecting. “You read my file?”

  “Yes, but I want to hear your version.”

  He sighed. “Okay. When I got to CEGEP last year, I started hanging with the wrong crowd. None of my high school friends were going there, so I didn’t know anybody. I admit it was stupid. I was pissed off. My father had just ditched us, sold the house out from under us, buried his money in offshore companies, and moved into Westmount with his new wife. So I was in a new home, new neighbourhood, new college, a bitter kid ripped from his roots. Some kids showed me how to make it all go away. First weed and E, but cocaine worked way better.”

  “How did you pay for the cocaine?”

  He quivered, but his blue eyes met hers. “How do you think?”

  “I can think of several ways.”

  “And I did them all.” He looked away. “I don’t like to think about it. It’s like a black hole I’m trying hard not to fall back into.”

  “How did you turn things around?”

  “Counselling.”

  “Zidane?”

  He nodded. “First rehab in the group home, but when I went back to school, yeah, Zidane. The college had brought him in to try to help because they had quite a few kids struggling. CEGEP is like junior college, but it has one big problem. Throw a whole bunch of seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds together in a new place, and they’re all going to be trying to find their place. There are lots of temptations to go wrong.”

  “So how did Zidane help you?”

  “We talked about my father, who he was, who I wanted to be. We talked about respecting myself and taking care of my body …” He flushed and lowered his lashes. “It’s personal.”

  She debating asking him about his falling out with Zidane but chose to go to the heart of the issue. She threw the question casually into his embarrassment. “Are you clean?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long?”

  “Three months.”

  “A drop of sand in the life of a cocaine addict.”

  “I know, but I’m working on it. That’s all I can do.”

  “How?” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the waiter approaching with their pho. She gave him a barely perceptible shake of the head.

  Luc was oblivious. He leaned in as if eager to convince her. “I don’t take anything that might harm me. No alcohol, no drugs, no smoking, not even caffeine or sugar. I go to the gym every day. I’m trying to restore my body, and through it, my mind.”

  Amanda kept her expression impassive with an effort. Luc was following the same regime she had to expunge the horrors of Africa and to reassert control. As if by building her power and strength, she could vanquish the memory of helplessness. “Is that difficult?”

  “Yes. But I also feel way better, and my grades are starting to improve. I’ve got five months to turn things around so I can get into Concordia. Or maybe even McGill.”

  “Is that why you want to go on this trip? So it looks good on your application?”

  His nostrils flared, as if a foul odour had wafted through the room. He sat back. “I don’t know what to say to that. I’m not playing a game. Yeah, I admit, going on this trip would look good. But really, my final grades are all that matter, and I know I can get them up if I apply myself. But I want to…” He faltered and looked down at his hands, which were shaking slightly now. Emotion or addiction, she wondered.

  “You want to what?”

  “I want to prove I can do it. To myself. I know I’ve been weak and have failed just about every test of character thrown at me. I want to know … do I have the guts to pass this one? Belief builds belief. I need that.”

  Chapter Two

  Fresh snow was falling, cloaking the trees in white. The road and ditches blurred together, so Amanda gripped the steering wheel tightly as she squinted ahead. Kaylee rode shotgun, turning her head constantly in eager anticipation. She didn’t know where they were going, but Amanda knew she recognized the endless trees, frozen lakes, and rolling mountains. Country meant running free, off leash and snuffling the animal trails. Country meant adventure.

  Amanda ruffled her ears. “Yes, it’s an adventure, princess, but not today. We’ve got a big problem I need to fix. I promise a little walk, maybe even a short ski, but first I have to talk to some friends.”

  “Friends” was a bit of an exaggeration, since she’d only met Sebastien and Sylvie a few times, but that distinction was irrelevant to the dog. For Kaylee, friendship was easily earned; anyone who threw a ball for her was her friend for life. Other subtleties of character were unimportant.

  Amanda’s Laurentian Extreme Adventure was scheduled to launch in a week from a trailhead in the nature reserve just north of Mont Tremblant National Park. All the plans had been falling smoothly into place until two days ago, when the tour guides had phoned to say they were pulling out of the deal. It was the wife, Sylvie, who made the call, but she quickly became too incoherent with rage to explain, even in French. Her husband took over, calmer but firm.

  “Nothing personal, Amanda. You know how much we admire what you’re trying to do. It’s a noble cause. But politics should have no part in it, especially repressive politics that insult women. We will not be part of that, and I will not turn my back while Sylvie is discriminated against.”

  Amanda had been in her aunt’s cottage, finalizing her activities. “What are you talking about? What happened?”

/>   “Monsieur Zidane phoned to ask if I could find a male guide to accompany us on the trip instead of Sylvie. When I asked the reason, he said that certain of the students were very conservative and would be uncomfortable sharing the camp and the group activities with a woman.”

  Amanda was astonished. “That makes no sense! There are boys and girls on the trip. In any case, Sylvie is a guide, not a chaperone. We already agreed she won’t be sharing a tent with the boys.”

  “No, but they would be sharing lavatories—”

  “There are no lavatories!”

  “All the worse. And there is no privacy. They will need to seek Sylvie’s help for teaching, for equipment.”

  “We have four adult leaders, Sebastien. Two male and two female. I’m female. Is he suddenly objecting to me, too?”

  “I’m only telling you what he told me. Students have expressed concerns—”

  “Students? Or their parents?”

  “He said students,” Sebastien said. “Under the circumstances, you understand my objections. If these students find it unacceptable to interact with a woman …”

  “Leave it with me, Sebastien. Don’t quit just yet.”

  “The insult is already done, Amanda.”

  “I’ll fix it.”

  Within five seconds she’d been on the phone to Matthew Goderich. “Matthew, what the hell? Who does Zidane think he is, telling our guides they can’t send a woman? First he tries to veto Luc Prevost, and now he’s going all fundamentalist?”

  “Some of the parents threatened to pull their kids.”

  “Their kids are seventeen and eighteen years old! And the parents don’t run the zoo. Neither does Zidane. You know me better than that. You know how hard I’ve always fought for tolerance and women’s rights. Do you think I’d countenance this on one of my own trips? It goes against everything I’m trying to accomplish — to bring people together, to build respect, to lift children above their everyday constraints.” She scowled out the cottage window. Flakes had begun to swirl down through the trees. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

  “There’s been some big money donated—”

  “Oh, no you don’t!” She gripped the phone, forcing calm. “Fun for Families is not about raising money. Yes, I’m really happy I’m raising money for children’s charities — and given the present jihadi mess, Roméo Dallaire’s Child Soldier Initiative couldn’t be a more perfect choice — but my first goal is to give young people an experience that will bring joy, hope, and with any luck a broader perspective on their future. This trip is supposed to bring immigrant youth from different parts of the world together.”

  “And it does,” Matthew said. “But with that comes some old-fashioned cultural views. If we want to draw these kids in, we can’t just run roughshod over those.”

  She rolled her eyes. The snow was falling more heavily, dancing in the porch light and promising fabulous snow conditions for their skiing adventure. “Including a woman on the trip is hardly running roughshod, Matthew. I’m being as respectful as I can, but we do comprise fifty percent of the population, and if any of the students are uncomfortable interacting with us, then perhaps this is not the trip for them.”

  “So you’re saying you’d rather exclude the students?”

  She sighed. She hated to exclude anyone who was eager to go, but she needed some basic level of mutual respect for the experience to be a success. She had seen too much embedded prejudice and tribalism in her years overseas to underestimate its destructive power. Not everyone could be reached, or turned, at least not in a week.

  “Yes,” she said. “Put it to Zidane. I’m sure he has some kids on the waiting list. Meanwhile I’ll try to salvage our deal with Sylvie and Sebastien.”

  On the way up to the outfitter’s chalet, Amanda ran through the various arguments in her mind. As she drove, the mountains grew taller and the little Laurentian towns fewer, tucked into hills criss-crossed with ski runs. Named after saints and dominated by tall, silver church spires, the towns reflected the powerful stranglehold the Catholic Church had once exerted over Quebec life. No more. Sylvie exemplified the modern Quebecker, defiantly and protectively secular. Amanda knew she couldn’t ask her to be anything less.

  The Laurentians were Montreal’s playground. Part of the ancient ridge of the Appalachian range that twisted like a granite spine down the eastern side of North America, it was a lush paradise of sparkling mountain lakes in the summer and world-class ski resorts in the winter.

  Mont Tremblant was the jewel in the crown, a legendary, almost three-thousand-foot-high monolith that loomed over lakes and rivers below. The Algonquin had named it Mountain of the Spirits, and it was believed whenever the spirits were disturbed, the mountain trembled. The spirits should see it now, Amanda thought wryly. In recent years it had been developed into an alpine-style resort with ninety-six downhill runs as well as cross-country trails, restaurants, and lavish mountain lodges. Condos, time-shares, golf courses, and boutiques had sprouted up, dwarfing the bucolic little Quebec village that had nestled in the valley for centuries.

  After years spent working in crowded, hot countries, Amanda had come to cherish the wide-open spaces, clean rivers, and lush green of her native land, and when she went searching for the perfect location for her next charity adventure, she had been dismayed by the clutter and traffic of the Laurentians.

  Until she got to know Sylvie and Sebastien Laroque. They had introduced themselves back in November on a ferry in the middle of the St. Lawrence River. She had been on a promotional motorcycle tour, crossing the river into Quebec from New Brunswick in search of her next adventure location. The first had been a modest, experimental affair, a weekend in Nova Scotia’s Cape Breton Highlands with some children of unemployed local coal miners. The success of that weekend — and Matthew’s incessant badgering — had encouraged her to plan the next one while she was still in the public eye.

  She was standing on the deck of the ferry, considering the stunning geography of the Gaspé at the mouth of the St. Lawrence, when a young couple rushed up to her.

  “Amanda Doucette!” they exclaimed. “Your green motorcycle and your red dog — we’d know you anywhere! Let us buy you a drink when we land in Godbout.”

  The drink had become dinner, with the wine and the jumbled bilingual conversation flowing freely. When Amanda mentioned she was thinking of a winter adventure based in the Gaspé, their eyes widened.

  “Ben non! In Quebec it must be Mont Tremblant. Nothing is as spectacular, as vast, as challenging. It offers any winter activity you wish. And only a hundred kilometres from Montreal. Sebastien and I run a private tour company near there, and we would be honoured!”

  Amanda was dubious. Her Aunt Jean had told her horror stories of the resort’s development. “But it’s full of tourists, golf courses, and luxury condos,” she replied.

  “Not everywhere,” Sylvie said. Her English, only lightly accented, was better than her husband’s, so she did most of the talking. “The national park is huge, and most of the northern part is wild. And there’s a big wildlife reserve beside it. I promise you will never see a BMW or a spa where we take you. We can offer winter camping, cross-country skiing, dog sledding, and as a bonus, Sebastien and I are both gourmet cooks on a camp stove.”

  And so the partnership had begun. Amanda had visited their outfitter’s store outside the little village of La Macaza and had hiked some of the wilderness just as the first snow was falling. She was instantly in love. The area was a delicate lace of lakes and creeks that wove their way around forested hills and tumbled over rocky outcrops. Matthew was skeptical of Sylvie and Sebastien’s motives, suspecting they saw her as a goldmine of publicity for their fledgling business. But they insisted they were committed to the ideals of her project.

  Until now Amanda had harboured her own lingering doubts, but their abrupt cancelling of the deal had dis
pelled all doubt. Sebastien and Sylvie had far more to lose from pulling out than she did, no matter how righteous a spin they put on it.

  Sylvie and Sebastien’s home business was in a century-old farmhouse that had once been a modest hotel. They had bought the old building for a song two years earlier, after it had been shuttered for several years by the larger, more modern lodges surrounding Mont Tremblant resort. Away from the throngs of the tourist hub, Sylvie and Sebastien had rebuilt it as an intimate eco-tour company for private, customized adventures.

  “We can do anything!” Sylvie had assured her on that first visit as she ladled out a divine venison stew that was testament to her gourmet skills. The walls of the cosy farm kitchen were covered with Montreal Canadiens hockey paraphernalia, from signed hockey jerseys to old skates and hockey sticks. Sylvie’s eyes were dancing with the confidence of her youth. “Sebastien and I grew up in these mountains. We know every river and trail. Snowshoe, ski nordique, and even we can do dog sledding!”

  “I am taking inner city Montreal kids into the wilderness,” Amanda had said. “They want to try everything, but they are novices. I want them to feel the joy and accomplishment of new experiences, but safely. They don’t need to cover thirty kilometres a day on skis; I just want them to discover the thrill of gliding like a feather over snow. And some of them are from cultures that are afraid of dogs, so we should avoid dog sledding. I am bringing Kaylee, but any more than that might be too stressful. I want them to bond together, laugh, share, and fall a little bit in love with this land.”

  “Pas d’problème. We can do three kilometres a day if you wish. Leave the idea with me, and I will make it perfect.”

  And she had. She had designed a five-day excursion into the backcountry of the Rouge-Matawin wildlife reserve north of Mont Tremblant that included a four-kilometre snowshoe trek in and four nights at a base camp nestled in the woods on the edge of a small frozen lake. She had pulled strings and cajoled officials to obtain special permits for camping and ice fishing, she had worked out an exquisite menu of local cuisine, all to be cooked on the woodstove, and she had even agreed to forego her signature homemade French Canadian farmer’s pork sausage and tourtière out of respect for Muslim food restrictions. She’d been brimming with ideas and excitement about the trip.