“It is,” agreed the maître d’.
“Here, taste this.” Chef Véronique shoved a wooden spoon under his nose and he pursed his lips as though kissing it, just the lightest of contacts. He did it by rote, a thing he’d done many times before, Lacoste realized.
“Perfect,” he said.
“Voyons, you always say that,” the chef laughed.
“Because it’s always perfect. You can’t do anything but.”
“It’s not true.”
Agent Lacoste could tell she was pleased. And was there something else? Something in the instant the spoon touched his lips? Even she had felt it. An intimacy.
But then cooking was an intimate act. An act of artistry and creation. Not one she herself enjoyed, but she knew how sensual it could be. And she felt as though she’d just witnessed a very private, very intimate moment.
She looked at the chef with new eyes.
Towering over her young assistants, her apron-wrapped torso was thick, almost awkward in its movements, as though she only borrowed her body. She wore sensible rubber-soled shoes, a simple skirt and an almost severe blouse. Her iron-gray hair was chopped with less attention than the carrots. She wore no makeup and looked at least sixty, maybe more. And she spoke with a foghorn voice.
And yet there was something unmistakably attractive about her. Isabelle Lacoste could feel it. Not that she wanted to sleep with the chef, or even lick her spoon. But neither did she want to leave this kitchen, this little world the chef created. Perhaps because she seemed so totally oblivious of her body, her face, her clunky mannerisms, there was something refreshing about her.
Madame Dubois was her opposite. Plump, composed, refined and beautifully turned out, even in the Quebec wilderness.
But both women were genuine.
And Chef Véronique Langlois had something else, thought Lacoste, watching her gently but clearly correct the technique of one of her young assistants, she had a sense of calm and order. She seemed at peace.
The kids gravitated to her, as did Pierre Patenaude and even the proprietor, Madame Dubois.
“It was a commitment my late husband made,” Madame Dubois explained. “As a young man he’d travelled across Canada and supported himself by working in hotels. It’s the only job untrained kids can get. And he spoke no English. But by the time he got back to Quebec he spoke it very well. Always with a heavy accent, but still it stayed for the rest of his life. He was always grateful to the hotel owners for their patience in teaching him his job, and their language. His dream from then on was to open his own auberge and do for young people what was done for him.”
That was the other ingredient of the Manoir, thought Lacoste.
It was filled with suspects, it was filled with Morrows, huffing and silent. But more than that, it was filled with relief. It was like a sigh, with structure. Guests relaxed, kids found an unexpected home at a job that could have been agony. The Manoir Bellechasse might be built of wood and wattle, but it was held together by gratitude. A powerful insulator against harsh elements. It was filled with young people revolving through, learning French, learning hospital corners and reduction sauces and canoe repair. Growing up and going back to Prince Edward Island and Alberta and the rest of Canada with a love of Quebec, if not the subjunctive.
“So, all your workers are English?” asked Agent Lacoste. She’d noticed that the ones she’d interviewed were, though some seemed confident enough to conduct the interview in French.
“Almost all,” said Pierre. “Diane over by the sink’s from Newfoundland and Elliot, one of our waiters, is from British Columbia. Most are from Ontario, of course. It’s closest. We even get some Brits and a few Americans. Many of them are sisters and brothers of kids who worked here before.”
Chef Véronique poured iced tea into tall glasses, giving the first to Patenaude, her hand just brushing his, unnecessarily and apparently unnoticed by the maître d’. But not unnoticed by Agent Lacoste.
“We’re getting sons and daughters now,” said Madame Dubois, expertly snipping a sagging snapdragon from the beaker of flowers on the table.
“Parents trust we’ll look after their children,” said the maître d’. Then he stopped, remembering the events of the day. Thinking of Colleen, from New Brunswick, standing in the rain, her large, wet hands covering her plain face. Her scream would follow him, Pierre knew, forever. One of his staff, one of his kids, in terror. He felt responsible, though there was no way he could have known.
She seemed composed now, and gathered into the group of girls to be fussed over and comforted. That moment of horror had finally given the young gardener what she’d longed for. Company. Acceptance. It was too bad it came at such a cost, but then peace often did.