STAR-CROSSED
follows "Influencer"

               ***June 21, 2025***

"So," Olivia Goren said, leaning forward in her seat as the Honda Pilot crept up in the line approaching the long, low brick-and-concrete structure, "will we see a real Mountie this year?"

"You saw them last year, Min," Robert Goren told his daughter from the driver's seat in front of her. "You can't expect them to look like Sergeant Preston."

"Who?" Olivia and her foster brother Randall asked in unison.

Alexandra Eames Goren, her dancing eyes hidden under her wide-brimmed sun hat as she reclined in the passenger seat, said, suppressing a laugh, "You're dating yourself, Bobby."

Amused, he continued, "Sergeant Preston of the Yukon was a television series from the 1950s that was rerun into the 1970s, one of the first '50s series filmed in color, and a radio series before it came to TV."

"Annotations," Olivia whispered to Randall, finishing with a smirk.

Bobby, undeterred, went on, "Most episodes were set in the wilderness, and in stories set in winter, he had a dogsled and wore furs. His lead dog was a big Malamute named Yukon King, and Preston's catchphrase at the end was always, 'Well, King, this case is closed.' And I made the point last year that those red serge uniforms are for dress only. Mounties wear those for special duties or ceremonies."

"They were only in red on posters last year," Olivia complained, fidgeting with her headband so her blond hair stayed away from her face.

Randall Shaw craned his neck out the window to observe men and women ahead who were definitely not in red uniforms; they wore blue trousers with a gold stripe on the outer leg, pale blue shirts with epaulets and gear in shoulder straps, and a visored "policeman's cap" with a gold hatband and central insignia. "They just look like everyone else," he commiserated.

"I'm sure there'll be some in dress uniform when we get to the tourist attractions," Alex said, straightening up and reaching into the glove compartment of the Honda Pilot. "They know visitors like to take photos with the Mounted Police."

Olivia glanced over her shoulder to the back of the Pilot, where their collie usually rode, and sighed. "I wish Sam and Bandit could have come with us."

"Too much paperwork, Min," Alex smiled, for she would miss the placid dog and the mischievous budgie, too. "It was hard enough getting a passport for Randall."

"I'm sorry," he said, still a default behavior, ducking his head so that his eyes were obscured under his thick, dark hair.

"Not your fault," Bobby said as he inched the SUV forward. "The rules are made to protect you."

"Remember Ana's story," Olivia reminded Randall, "about Cousin Donny and Scotty, the boy who was being trafficked."

Randall nodded. This was one of Luciana Serrano's favorites, about how she and her brother Carlos had helped Bobby rescue an eight-year-old boy whom sex traffickers had kidnapped; they found out only later that the young trucker who had rescued Scotty was Bobby's fugitive nephew. Donald Carlson had escaped an abusive prison years earlier, where he had been incarcerated based on trumped-up charges.

Randall's passport was the latest wrangle that Bobby Goren and Alex Eames had experienced with Connecticut's Department of Children's Services. Since he was a foster child and currently a responsibility of the state, at first, they did not want Randall to accompany them on trips. Bobby had argued, "Isn't it wrong not to take him to the same places as our daughter: Boston, Old Sturbridge Village, the beaches in Rhode Island, Strawbery Banke? Or to visit with Alex's family in New York? As a foster child, is he supposed to lose out on family outings, even though we've told him he's part of our family so long as he wants to be? Isn't that just telling him he doesn't belong?"

Ruth Dunbar, their social worker, wasn't "far enough up the food chain"—her words—to argue their case, so they had taken their concerns to her superior, Hannah Love, who had also kept a gimlet eye on Olivia before and after she was legally adopted. Bobby, whose persuasive tongue had talked down suicidal jumpers, people hell bent on murder, and even lethal prison guards, made Love concede that it would be a poor move for Randall's mental health. "Southern New England only" gave way to "New England," then further afield. "But the United States only."

Alex had sighed to Hannah Love two months earlier, "So, while we go out and have fun as a family, with family—Olivia's half-brother and his wife—you want us to leave Randall next door with Abbi Diaz and her grandchildren? Not that he won't have a good time with them, and with my cousin Phil and his wife Becky making do as more family, but again we'd be telling him he isn't part of ours."

Phyllis Allyson, the children's therapist, had concurred. "Ms. Love, that choice will only contribute to Randall's feelings of inadequacy. This will negate any positive progress in his self-worth." (She would have stated, "That will make Randall feel bad," but she knew Love responded better to jargon.)

They'd had to scramble to get Randall a passport in time while juggling the book premiere of They Called Me "Conchie," their former neighbor (and former owner of the home they had inherited) Bruno Volpe's Korean War memoir, which Bobby had edited and annotated. It came with a stipulation that Connecticut DCS be informed of any problematic incidents involving Randall, but had worked out in the end.

Now it was the day following the summer solstice, and they were next in line to cross the Canadian border on their way to visit Laurent Pepin and his wife Noémie.

"Good morning, sir," said the border guard, a tall woman with tanned skin and dark eyes.

"Good morning, Officer," Bobby responded, handing her the passports. It was indeed still morning; they had left the village of Milbury, Connecticut, at five thirty a.m. Around eight, they had reached Bellows Falls, Vermont, and stopped for breakfast at a hole-in-the-wall diner-type restaurant, the Heavenly Egg. Olivia and Randall begged to go into the Rockingham branch of the Vermont Country Store nearby, so they had permitted the excited youngsters an hour and no more to explore. Their exploration clocked in at 49 minutes, and, although Bobby's faithful Seiko watch was ticking up the last few minutes before noon, they had managed the border by midday as they had hoped.

"Purpose of your visit?" was the crisp question as the guard examined each passport.

"Vacation and a visit to relatives," Bobby answered with a smile.

"It's my half-brother," Olivia volunteered, "and his wife. She's expecting a baby very soon."

"It's my first time in Canada," ventured Randall. "I've never been out of the United States."

Now the border guard smiled at them both. "Well, I hope you enjoy yourself and that the baby makes an appearance. Are you bringing any plants or animals into the country?"

"No, ma'am."

"We had to leave our dog and bird at home," said Olivia plaintively.

"That's probably best," the guard said. "They'd have needed extra vaccinations to enter."

Both children made a face, and the woman laughed.

"We did bring our lunch with us," Alex added. "Is that within the rules? If not, we'll stop now and eat on this side of the border."

Olivia handed the cooler forward before anyone could ask, and the guard checked inside it. "Are these burritos?"

"Yes, ma'am, homemade!" Randall said enthusiastically, because Abbi Diaz had come running across the yard with the container just as they loaded the last suitcase. "Beef and onion, just the way I like 'em. And we have real lemonade, too!"

The guard laughed. "There's a picnic area and restrooms about four kilometers up the road. Enjoy."

"Are there any Mounties here?" Randall asked hopefully.

"Traditional ones," added Olivia with emphasis.

"Not usually here at the border," the guard told her. "But if you're heading for Montreal or Quebec City, there should be some there."

She handed the cooler back, and Olivia stored it next to her. "Enjoy your holiday!"

In a few minutes of driving along a four-lane highway split into north and south lanes by a verge of grass and wildflowers, and lined on either side with trees, Randall spied a royal blue sign with the number 55 on it, a fleur de lis, and the word "Nord" underneath.

"Is that the highway number? So we're in Nord? Is that a county or a town?" he asked. "And what's that pointy thing for?"

"That 'pointy thing' is a fleur de lis—the lily. It's the emblem of Quebec," Bobby told him good-naturedly.

"The 55 is the highway number. 'Nord' is north. All the signs in Quebec are in French," Olivia chimed in.

"How am I supposed to read them?" he asked in dismay.

Olivia grinned at him. "I s'pose I'll have to be your interpreter." She obligingly translated the next blue sign with the ubiquitous fleur de lis. "Tourist information. Eastern townships. Forty-three kilometers ahead."

"No miles either?" was the groan.

The rest area recommended by the border guard appeared, looking newly reconstructed, with a row of freshly-lined parking spaces outside a tan-colored concrete restroom facility at one end. A picnic area with a covered pergola stretching over a half dozen picnic tables was at the opposite end, and a sign designated it as "Zone de Repos."

Randall sighed. "I guess I'm gonna have to learn French."

"Mas oui," teased Alex.

A half hour for lunch, and then another ninety minutes brought them to Drummondville and the Trans-Canada Highway. The landscape was flat and farmland for most of the early portion of the drive eastward as Randall learned directions and street terminology. "Nord, Est, Sud, Ouest," Olivia chanted. "Rue is a street." "Trois rivieres" brought in numbers and landscape features. It was a relief when trees appeared along the highway again. After two hours, they reached a sizable interchange that transferred them from Autoroute 20 to A73 north, a sweeping left turn funneling them toward the Pierre-Laporte Bridge.

"We're crossing the Saint Lawrence River," Bobby said for Randall's benefit, going into what Alex teasingly referred to as "librarian mode," "and, along with the St. Lawrence Seaway, which begins in Montreal and extends to Lake Ontario, joins the Atlantic Ocean to the Great Lakes. It's a major shipping route for goods entering the northern United States and Canada. The whole system is about 2300 miles long."

"Thank you, geography professor," Alex said tartly from the driver's seat. "Mind piping down and letting me concentrate on traffic?"

"Yes, Captain Eames," Bobby said in a mock-obeisant voice, and there was chortling from the back seat. Traffic was thick, and negotiation through the city was tricky; Alex didn't want to miss the crucial turn to continue on A73 to Stoneham. Once at Stoneham, following Laurent's instructions, she made a left turn onto a local two-lane highway, which ran parallel to the expressway, then veered north. By this time, Randall's language lessons had ended; instead, he thumbed desultorily at his pocket gaming device while Olivia's eyelids drooped as she valiantly tried to stab a cross-stitch project.

"Almost there," Alex said eventually, noticing a particularly prodigious yawn from their daughter in the rear-view mirror. "Everyone on alert. Noémie said the street sign is very small."

Being on the driver's side, Olivia straightened, then poked Randall to bring him to attention, and Alex laughed at his eye roll. "What does the sign say, Mama?"

"Lane des Ėrables à Sucre."

"And that's..." Randall asked.

"Sugar Maple Lane," translated Olivia.

"Why is everything longer in French?"

At first, their route had been dotted with small businesses—garages and tiny stores—and homes. One busy intersection had a McDonald's. By now businesses and homes had dwindled. An abandoned 10-unit motel was passed. Compared to the flat landscape of the Trans-Canada Highway, soft hills had appeared, and thick groves of trees.

"There it is," Bobby said, checking the GPS on his phone and pointing ahead to where a kerchiefed woman on a bicycle had just turned left from a narrow lane to the main highway.

It was a neat blue metal sign with white lettering on a utility pole, and Alex turned left onto a long-ago paved road, dodging several formidable potholes. About a mile in, a gravel drive with a mailbox at its entrance bore a beautifully-carved wooden sign: Trois Sapins.

"Three..." Randall began, having mastered the numbers up to five.

"Three Firs," Olivia finished. "Fir trees. So many!"

"And sugar maples, too," Bobby agreed.

The gravel drive curved through trees and underbrush for half a mile. Juncos, boreal chickadees, and numerous other birds chirped around them, and once a squirrel sprinted in front of the car. Then the drive made a sharp left, revealing a clearing about half an acre square, surrounded by deciduous and evergreens. It had been leveled except for three massive fir trees, two bracketing the structure and one behind.

Olivia said in delight, "La maison est si belle!"

The house was indeed handsome, a rectangular stone structure in the style of a hunting lodge. Russet stone glowed in the late afternoon sun, the centered front entrance featuring paneled wooden double doors sheltered by a deep, open front porch with a lantern-like black iron lamp hung at center. Large, open-curtained windows set in darker dressed stone bracketed either side of the entry. The three-story home featured shallow bay windows on the second story, surrounded by darker stone, with a miniature carved pine tree over each window. A steeply pitched roof ensured snow would slide off, with dormer windows on either side. Just under the peak of the roof was a third carved pine tree. A tall, deep-grey stone chimney topped with a burnished copper chimney pot towered over the right side of the house.

Finishing the effect were well-tended holly bushes with glossy red berries under the ground-floor windows, trimmed in crenelated peaks. The front porch held four sturdy teak chairs, and several wind chimes overhead swayed in the summer breeze, playing a cheerful air. To the left of the home was a five-car brick garage connected to the house by an enclosed, screened passageway.

Randall was puzzled. "Weren't you here last year, before you brought me home? Is it different now?"

"Yes, sweetie, it is. We came by only once; there was scaffolding everywhere. We only saw photos of the inside. Laurent and Noémie were having renovations done, so he rented us a suite in the city for the four days we were here," Alex explained, then she broke into an elfin smile. "We were as surprised as they were when they first saw it. Marcel Pepin described this as a 'cottage.'"

"After his own family home and Maison Duplantier, I expect it was," Bobby said dryly. "Laurent did say it was larger than he expected." He indicated the structure to the home's left. "Last year, that was only a two-car garage in poor shape."

"The covered passage is new, too," Alex added.

"It must be nice when it snows," Olivia said, recalling their stormy winter.

The side door to the garage opened, and a tall man in his mid-thirties appeared, his hair nearly jet-black, and his eyes a particularly vivid shade of blue. He wore a short-sleeved button-down tan shirt, jeans, and work boots, looking like something from a home improvement store ad, a change from the expensive dress suits he had worn in his previous life. Alex had already stopped the Pilot in front of the house, and Olivia promptly unsnapped her seat belt and bounded from the car. "Laurent!"

"Ma petite soeur!" he shouted happily, squatting down to greet her.

In a moment, they were all indulging in hugs, and Laurent then produced a complicated remote to operate the center door so Alex could drive into the garage. The structure was spacious, with a long workbench against the back wall, which was covered with carefully spaced tools hung on pegboard. The two parking spots to her right were for the family cars, the one to her left filled with a compact, aged silver Chevrolet—"Madame Beauvais, our cook and housekeeper's car," Laurent told them—and the fifth spot held two snowmobiles and a snow blower, currently covered in tarpaulins.

"We could have left the car outside for now," Alex told him.

"It is better if it is inside," answered Laurent, and when Bobby cocked his head at him, the younger man grinned. "Ah, the detective never dies, eh? I will tell you more later. Here, we will go in through the front, so you will get the full effect. Hand me that suitcase, Alex, si vous voulez."

A few minutes later, they were surveying the central hallway with pleasure. Coffee-colored woodwork, which included paneled wainscoting, and cream-colored paint adorned the walls, with another blackened-iron lantern overhead. At the right side of the hallway was a walnut-finished staircase with a sturdy, gracefully curved newel post, and wildlife and landscape prints decorated the walls.

"I see you kept most of the lodge look," Bobby remarked.

Noémie appeared through the arched entranceway to their right. "This isn't a 'House Beautiful' type home, Robert." She pronounced it "Ro-bear" in the French manner. "I grew up hunting grouse and pheasant with my father, and fishing in the French Alps. All it needed was some softening, and that terrible deer's head off the wall over the fireplace. People who do not eat the prey they kill defile the animal."

Alex regarded her with alarm. "When did you say the baby was due?"

The dark-haired woman laughed, looking down at her considerably swollen belly under a pretty—and very snug— blue-flowered shift. "My OBGYN, he teases me: 'yesterday.' As you can see, I'm carrying lower than in our last Zoom call, and I've had some Braxton-Hicks contractions. I was checked and sent home."

Olivia's eyes were like saucers. "Maybe you should sit down."

"Nonsense," Noémie protested. "Neither you nor Lauré will turn me into a child." Her face sparkled. "I will save the pampering for afterwards, when I am prepared to be treated like une reine."

Laurent smiled indulgently. "She will have a nurse if she likes."

"You and I will take care of our child, not some stranger," Noémie said briskly. "Now, mon enfants, attend: you can either share the larger room on the first floor, which has two twin beds, or you can each have one of the rooms on the second floor, where the servants used to sleep. Neither Madame Beauvais nor Reynaldo lives in. The rooms are all of the same comfort and there is a bain at the end of the second story passage."

"Is it okay?" Olivia asked Alex hesitantly. "Or...am I too old now?"

Alex bit her lip at the girl's oblique reference to what Olivia called les règles. Randall had already ducked his head.

"If you feel comfortable sharing," she advised. "And if you respect each other's privacy."

They saw Randall take a deep breath. "I would rather have my own room, please."

A hurt look flashed across Olivia's face, then she responded quickly, "May I still have the room with the twin beds?"

Noémie sensed something was amiss. "Of course."

Olivia lifted her chin in the air. "I shall use the other for a divan." Without another word, she took her suitcase in one hand and the laptop case in the other and stolidly began to climb the staircase with its paisley-patterned red stair runner. Randall remained at the foot of the stairs, hands tightly gripped on his backpack and suitcase, his head down. Over his head, Bobby and Alex eyed each other with dismay.

Finally, Bobby squatted and said, "Randall...it's okay. Sometimes a guy needs space."

Randall swallowed and sniffed, nodded, then began to plod up the stairs himself.

"That is funny," Laurent said quietly as soon as both were out of earshot, "I thought the anger would be in the opposite direction."

"Think of this as an eleven-year preview of the joys of adolescence," Alex said ruefully. Bobby threw his satchel over his shoulder, took a suitcase in each hand, and followed, Laurent calling after him, "You have the front room to the left. And there is lemonade and strawberry shortcake in the kitchen."

Bobby set the luggage into the indicated room, then proceeded to the one on the opposite side of the adjoining bathroom, attractively decorated in pinks, violets, and golds, with twin beds on either side of a window. Olivia had dumped her bags on one bed and was sitting at the side of the other, looking disconsolate. He cleared his throat, and she looked up, then asked unhappily, "Is it because...I'm a lady now?"

Bobby chuckled softly. "I think it's more likely, Min, that it's because he's twelve."

She seemed stunned. "What, Papa?"

"Your mother and I bought you and Randall books last September. My Changing Body, remember? And we asked that you read Randall's book, and he read yours, so there were no misunderstandings like the lies you see on social media?"

"And we did," Olivia replied indignantly.

Bobby had read them as well. "Then you know what it said about boys needing privacy..."

She turned pink. "Oh!"

Bobby leaned on the doorframe, watching her process the information.

Then her face brightened. "Maybe I'll stay upstairs after all, Papa. Can...you tidy up for me here? Please?"

"I will," he said, and backed out of the doorway as she grabbed her things and bolted out. "Tell Randall there's strawberry shortcake. I'll bring your other bags up later."

"Merci!" she caroled from the staircase.

Then he smoothed the spreads on both beds to pristine condition and made his way downstairs, pleased by her choice. In the meantime, Olivia more slowly mounted the upper staircase, narrower than the previous one, to a cream-colored hallway. The upper floor, intended as servants' quarters, had no wainscoting, just dark woodwork and two solid wooden doors open on either side of a hall hung with vivid paintings of the Canadian wilderness. To her right, she saw a tidy little room with an iron-framed twin bed and a night stand under the dormer window facing the door. The room to the left was a mirror image, except that it had green-and-silver striped wallpaper and matching bedclothes/curtains instead of blue-and-silver, and Randall was seated on the edge of the bed. His eyes shot up, startled.

"Just think," Olivia said brightly, standing between the two doorways, "no grownups to bother us here. We can have the doors open and talk way past bedtime. You'll be talking stars and profiling, I know." He regarded her sideways to see her mischievous expression. "Unless you...need to close the door."

Randall grinned back.

"Papa says there's strawberry shortcake," she added.

The most extensive renovations had been reserved for the rear of the house, a spacious kitchen updated with modern appliances, quartz countertops, and a walk-in pantry. After being introduced to the Goren family, Mrs. Beauvais had left for the day, leaving a slow cooker full of something delicious-smelling on the stove, and the table already set in the adjoining dining room. On the kitchen table, a white ironware pitcher held a big bouquet of fragrant dark purple lilacs—"Olivia said you love them. They bloom later here, and this is a midsummer variety," explained Noémie—that Alex was enjoying. Olivia and Randall were on the roomy deck, standing at the rail using it as a table, finishing the last vestiges of shortcake, then checking out the large stack of lumber and fittings laid in the yard.

"Next week the workmen will enclose the yard to make a play area for the bébé," explained Laurent as they sipped their lemonade at the hewn-wood kitchen table, "and of course something for us, perhaps the fosse à feu...firepit. I wanted them to do so this week, but no one is in the mood to work on the week of St. Jean-Baptiste Day."

"You'll enjoy that through almost every season," Alex agreed.

"I've seen firepits that double as a grill," Bobby added, but his knees were bouncing up and down in a way that made Laurent bite back a smile.

"In any case," he said casually, "I wanted your auto in the garage because the neighbors have reported some type of prowler."

"Not the local wildlife?" Alex asked, having seen social media of bears romping in backyards.

"We both know bear tracks by now," Noémie explained, "and they leave"—here she pinched her nose and made a face—"signs. That is one of the reasons for the fence."

"Burglaries?" Bobby asked instantly.

"No homes or businesses broken into, but minor items stolen from outside, like a pillow a woman had put out to air, or a pie left cooling on a porch. People are still very old-fashioned here. While they will lock their homes now, porches and garages are left open."

"Does anyone have footage–"

Noémie laughed. "This is not the city with cameras everywhere. More like Milbury."

Laurent said, "We are thinking perhaps it is a hobo or some other homeless person. We are hoping to catch them to see if they are...nefarious? Or perhaps just in need of help."

"Patti was here earlier," Noémie told him, "I think she is concerned about it; the last week or so, she seems uneasy about something, but I could not tell quite what." She added for the family's benefit, "You might have seen Patti leaving? A woman on a bicycle? She often rides here, although her home is some miles away by the road."

Laurent regarded Bobby soberly; both of them were tired from driving, but he detected a certain weariness that was not just travel fatigue. "Mon ami Robert, you look très triste."

Bobby tossed Alex a wry smile. "I assume that means I'm finished in the interrogation room. My face gives away things too easily these days."

"A stranger would not notice," Noémie answered fondly. "But your family would."

Alex patted Bobby's arm. "One of his favorites at the veteran's hospital passed away a few days ago."

"Mr. Spinelli?" Laurent intended it as a question, but it came out as more of a statement.

Noticing that Bobby and Alex had given him their full attention, Laurent chuckled. "Our Mignon is as faithful a correspondent at eleven as she was at nine. She knows what troubles you."

"If you need someone to talk to, we are here," said Noémie sympathetically.

"He knew it was bad going in, but I'd hoped he could beat it. Spinelli had stones enough for a platoon," Bobby said reflectively.

Alex had kept one eye out as the kids prowled the yard, taking in the lone, two-meter-tall glacial granite rock at the far end. Noémie had chattered about surrounding it with perennials. It sloped to one side, so that Randall scrambled to the top easily and shouted, "We can come out here tonight!" Then he looked down at Olivia. "It's like the star-watching rock in Meet the Austins!" Bobby had read the book to them the previous month.

Laurent said wryly, "Having seen the weather forecast, I rather doubt there will be stargazing tonight. Perhaps later in the week."

They came trotting back, Randall with his head down and Olivia with her nose up, taking in the scent of pine from the firs and surrounding woods.

"And I predict..." was Alex's playful statement as they crossed the deck to the kitchen door with bowls and utensils which were put into the sink with the others.

Randall didn't disappoint. "Is dinner soon, Noémie? I'm starved."

She returned with a smile, "Didn't you both just eat huge slices of gateau with whipped cream?"

"Welcome to boys' appetites," Laurent said cheerily.

"Girls, too," Alex reminded.

"It smells wonderful," Olivia said, sniffing appreciatively. "Is it ragoût de venison?"

"You have a good nose, little one," Noémie teased.

"It was one of Papa Marcel's favorites," said Olivia happily.

"What's that?"

Olivia knew her brother by now and described it in terms he would be familiar with. "It's like Papa's beef stew, with potatoes and carrots."

Bobby sniffed. "A hint of burgundy. Shallots."

"Shallots and cabernet sauvignon," was Laurent's good-natured response.

"And venison," Alex added.

"We're eating Bambi?" Randall's jaw dropped.

"We're eating an animal who lived a peaceful life in the forest, sired fawns, and died instantly instead of starving to death from overpopulation," Laurent countered. "I know the hunter. He is a responsible man."

Randall tried the meal with trepidation, but in the end was won over by the savory taste. There was also crusty French bread to dunk in the stew juices and, for dessert, maple pudding cake. By then, the star watching was postponed due to cloud cover, and instead they watched a favorite crime program of Noémie's, with a handsome, bearded detective and his dark-haired partner, then made it an early night.

Bobby still kept up the custom of nightly reading that had begun when he and Alex had brought Olivia home from France. The newest selection was an old book that Randall had found at an antique mall, a 1940s-era dog story. Bobby agreed to the purchase with the stipulation that it would be a bedtime book; Randall had wondered why until Bobby began the story.

"What's a 'quarter-breed'?" he asked. The story had started promisingly with an adolescent boy, Pierre, and his wolf/dog cross, Juneau, being left in the care of a Native American in an Alaskan cabin; Randall had paged through it, and it involved being snowbound and the boy being on his own with the dog.

"It's an unkind name for a person who's part Native—First Nations, as they say here—using the terminology of the time."

"Why?"

Olivia, sitting with legs crossed at the foot of Randall's bed, appeared sour. "It's in a lot of old books. Papa always explains them to me. People then had a trash idea that white skin was superior and people with darker skin weren't as smart. They even thought all redheads had bad tempers—that's why there was such a fuss about Anne Shirley's hair. They kept kids like Kenny Shepherd shut away in dirty asylums."

Randall considered his mentally-challenged classmate. "There was a lady in our apartment building like that," he confessed, leaning back on his pillow. "Mommy said she was old and didn't know any better, so we should be polite, but that the things she believed were wrong."

"Some parents want to hide these things from the past. We want you to know about them and understand what people back then endured," Bobby explained.

"I'll pay attention. Can we keep going to see what happens to Pierre?" urged Randall.

Just after midnight, Bobby ambled to the bathroom. A thin, waning crescent moon was peeking out between approaching storm clouds as he used the toilet. There were low-wattage security lights at the rear of the house and, as he gazed out the window at the silhouette of the tree line at the edge of the property, he spied a slight shadow detach itself from the darkness. At first, he believed it was an animal, but after a few minutes, he could discern something odd about its gait. It drew closer and closer to the house, never completely separating itself from the trees' shadows, but halted as the light grew brighter.

Finally, it retreated into the shadow of the trees. He remained leaning against the window for another five minutes, but didn't see movement again. Encroaching clouds then swallowed the moon, and rain splashed against the bathroom window. As he returned to bed, he hoped the 'shadow' was well undercover.

Alex rolled over in bed, blinking in the gray morning light. The sheer curtains fluttered in a moist morning breeze, and she could smell grass, pine, and petrichor. She reached out sleepily to pat Bobby's side of the bed.

"Already gone?" she said aloud. "So much for morning delight."

Twenty minutes later, in t-shirt, shorts, and slippers, and with her hair pulled back, she stepped quickly upstairs only to find both children gone, the bed covers neatly turned down, and the windows open to air out the beds. Smiling, she reversed course and was soon in the kitchen.

"Good morning, Mrs. Goren," said Mrs. Beauvais, the very picture of a traditional housekeeper, of medium height with curled, greying hair, a round friendly face, and a plump figure wrapped in a full apron, from her position at the stove, and Alex returned the greeting distractedly, because Olivia and Randall were leaning on the window overlooking the deck, staring outdoors. She positioned herself behind them only to see Bobby, an umbrella protecting him from the drizzle, carefully pacing parallel to the tree line, bent over examining something.

Olivia looked over her shoulder. "Papa asked Mrs. Beauvais for serving spoons and elastic bands before he went outside. He said he'd replace the spoons if he damaged them."

"For his shoes?" Alex ventured after a minute.

"Yeah, how'd you know?" Randall asked without turning.

"Experience," she chuckled, still a bit puzzled herself. A few minutes later, Mrs. Beauvais ventured, "Mrs. Goren, the oatmeal is finished."

"I'll dish it up, Mrs. Beauvais, and you can finish the rest," offered Alex, then called out the door, "Bobby! Breakfast! Unless you want your oatmeal microwaved!"

She saw him turn his head and grin at her before he gingerly footed his way back. On the porch, he removed several thick rubber bands that held two decidedly muddy stainless steel serving spoons on the bottom of his Dr. Martens before scraping the soles on the mat and re-entering the kitchen. There was a rag hanging over the boot tray next to the door, which he used to finish cleaning his shoes, then immediately crossed to the sink and scrubbed the two spoons with dish soap and hot water. For good measure, he loaded them into the dishwasher.

"Papa," Olivia began, but Laurent entered the kitchen at that moment, followed shortly by Noémie and morning small talk, so that Olivia and Randall disappointedly dug into their oatmeal, topped with sliced almonds and maple syrup, and later their scrambled eggs, until there was a lull in the topic of "did you sleep well" and associated tedious adult questions, when Bobby took pity on them, saying casually, "I may have seen your prowler last night."

"Here?" Noémie asked, startled.

"Ah, I wondered why you were crouched over out of doors," Laurent said, digging into his eggs. "I saw you out the window near the stairs."

Randall seemed about to burst, and Bobby explained, "It's muddy outside, but the spoons on the soles of my shoes still left a distinct mark in the wet soil. Now, if someone from the constabulary has to look there, they can distinguish my footprints." He smiled at Alex. "Since I don't carry booties with me."

Laurent didn't pretend to understand the joke between them, but merely asked, "And did you find anything?"

"Not a man's footprints, so rest easier. Perhaps not even a woman's. The intruder wore footwear with a worn crisscrossed tread, very small feet—the prints are barely visible."

"A child is wandering out there?" Alex asked, concerned.

"There are several families in the surrounding area," Laurent replied, "but I don't see them permitting their children to wander so afar, especially at–"

"I saw movement first about midnight, just as the rain started."

"Especially si tard dans la nuit!"

Noémie's voice was so horrified that not even Randall asked for a translation.

"The storm would have washed away those prints. Your visitor came back when the rain slackened, perhaps around seven. They were taking a chance since it was full daylight by then. What other prints I could make out disappeared into the woods. That direction is a nature preserve?"

"Yes, Bois Royale Talbot. It occupies the countryside between this property and two modest farms."

"We can keep watch with you this week. Once the workmen come to install the fencing, the tracks will disappear."

"You took photos?" Alex asked.

"What do you think?" and she laughed.

"Dad...did you see my teaspoon on the way back in?" Randall asked meekly as he picked up another slice of maple-cured bacon.

"Your teaspoon?"

"I dropped it off the railing," the boy confessed, "when I was eating the shortcake yesterday. When I picked up the dish, I must have dropped the spoon, and I forgot to go back for it."

"I didn't see a spoon near the deck at all," Bobby told him.

"It's only a teaspoon," Noémie soothed.

"But it wasn't mine," Randall said. "Maybe it's in the mud? I'll go check later, I promise."

"Yes," Alex finished. "Eat up. We need to grocery shop as soon as we finish."

"Grocery shopping!" Olivia said, dismayed. "Aren't we hiking in the park today?"

"Patience, ma petite soeur. You will, this afternoon, when the trail dries. There is too much mud now," Laurent told her. "But tomorrow everything is closed, and on Tuesday as well, for Saint-Jean-Baptiste. It is like your Fourth of July for Québécois. All the celebrations are tomorrow, to make the long weekend, but if we want the cookout and picnic we promised you, we must get the supplies today. Allez vous, it will not take long. And you will meet some of the neighbors."

An hour later, they were in the local supermarket, where Olivia had to chime in occasionally, as when Randall saw a vente sign, followed by flocons de maïs. He sighed. "Even cornflakes are longer in French!"

Laurent had not been wrong when he told them they would meet "some of the neighbors"; Noémie did not hit an aisle where someone did not greet her and ask after her health and about the baby. The Charbonneaus were a couple in their 70s; with them was a little boy about kindergarten age, their grandchild. Monsieur and Madame Simard were a preppie-looking couple in their mid-twenties, accompanied by a toddler whom M. Simard carried on his hip. The Lefebvre-Blancs were two men in their forties. Lucy Monmouth was the Pepins' tax consultant.

On the final aisle, a woman who appeared only a few years older than Laurent, wearing a trim blue blouse and conservative A-line skirt, hair confined in a denim kerchief, hailed Noémie. She was oval-faced and freckled, with thick, dark curls and vivid green eyes shot with hazel that were bracketed with faint crows-feet.

"Good morning, Patti! Famille, this is Patrice Poudrier! Patti, these are our guests, the Gorens. Robert and Alexandra, and this is Laurent's little sister Mignon Olivia, who they adopted at her mother's wishes, and Randall is her foster brother, but soon, God willing, to be permanent," Noémie responded cheerfully, while Olivia and Randall peeked at the brood with her: six in all, from a tall, serious girl who appeared to be fourteen to a curly-haired boy of three who was sniffling and wiping his nose on his chubby hands. The four boys were in simple overalls, blue work shirts, and well-worn boys' work boots, while the older girl and the middle one, about seven, wore plain blue cotton dresses and sandals. They were surprisingly subdued, but Alex felt sympathy at Patrice's weary face, given a family of eight.

The meat counters were to their right, and Bobby turned away from them with two big handfuls of steaks for the grill. He set the plastic-wrapped packages in the grocery cart, then, aware that at six-foot-four he often even overwhelmed adults, squatted down to the tiny boy, gravely handing him the handkerchief he always kept in a pocket, and asked sympathetically, "Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas, petit?"

"Ma soeur–" he sniffled, wiping his nose before returning the handkerchief, only to scrub at his eyes with his fists.

"Lucien is tired, monsieur," the oldest girl said with a fond smile, quickly scooping up the child with the practiced air of the older sister used to being caretaker for her younger siblings. "He wants me to take him home for a nap."

"Yes," Bobby said gently, observing the boy's tear-streaked face. He had plump cheeks and a sorrowful expression that made one want to cuddle him.

"Bonjour," Olivia said, nodding at the younger girl, who returned her greeting with a shy smile. One of the boys, who seemed to be Randall's age, met his eyes, and then both boys ducked their heads. Birds of a feather, Alex thought to herself.

Noémie introduced them in order: Marcelline, Pierre fils, Clément, Renée, Philippe, and, last, tearful Lucien. They exchanged conversation about the upcoming holiday and Patrice's husband (Pierre pere) before separating and checking out. Olivia and Randall kept darting glances at each other, but they waited until re-entering the Pilot before Olivia burst out, "Six children! I've never known anyone with six children."

"They are extremely strict Catholics," Noémie explained. "There was another girl, Paulette, but she died at birth."

Alex saw a flash of fear on Noémie's face and rested gentle fingers on her forearm.

Bobby finished loading the supplies in the back of the car, then climbed in the passenger seat as Noémie sighed. "You hear such tales–"

Alex shook her head, scowling. "When I was carrying Liz and Steve's child, I heard all of them. I have no idea why mothers want to frighten first-timers like that. I didn't let them get to me."

Bobby clicked his seat belt. Perhaps 'they' hadn't 'gotten to her,' but he'd worried the moment she was out of his sight and had been heartily relieved when her nephew Eddie was safely delivered, followed by her brief phone call later.

I'm sure Bishop was happy, too! Alex had said tartly when he had first confessed it to her, and now a smile escaped his lips.

"Oh, she rejoiced!" responded Alex unexpectedly, glancing at him sideways, to the confusion of the trio in the rear seat.

"I had some Amish vibes from the Poudriers," Alex added.

"They belong to a very strict sect," replied Noémie. "Église du Sacré-Coeur. They are indeed a little like the Amish. Mass is still said in Latin at their church, and women are expected to dress modestly. But they are permitted to have jobs until they marry, and the church is opposed to all types of abuse. If a man is seen harming his wife or child, the priest will take legal action immediately."

"That's a relief," was Alex's grim response.

"I do not envy Patrice," Noémie confessed. "Pierre's grandmother lives with them—he was orphaned at age three and she and his grand-père raised him—and Madame is...tres formidable. I think you might say 'next level strict.' Patrice is often...overwhelmed by Grand-mère Poudrier. The family has no television or internet at her request. Of course, at their parochial school, they still use pencil or pen and paper, and blackboards. The Provincial educational authorities ensure the school is academically sound, and it has very high ratings, although the children learn as they did 100 years ago."

"No television or internet?" Randall blinked. "No Star Trek?"

"I'm afraid not, Randall, but they're fine," Noémie smiled, patting his shoulder. "Grand-mère Poudrier believes technology is bad for them. They live as the Amish do. I can't imagine why les jeunes were so subdued today; they're usually happy and playful, especially Luc. He is usually joyeuse."

Bobby asked as they pulled into the garage, "Randall, have you looked for the spoon yet?"

The boy started, then murmured, "No, Dad."

"Please get it, before we both forget, okay? Take one of the bags of groceries with you, please."

"Yes, sir," Randall replied, popping out of the car and releasing the gate latch. "I can manage two!" he called, taking a reusable shopping bag in each hand, and headed inside.

By the time Noémie wiggled out of the back seat, the rest of the Gorens had claimed the remainder of the bags, and she said huffily, "I can at least carry the bread!"

"You have enough to do to carry the baby," Alex reminded her with a grin as they trooped inside.

Randall had set the two grocery bags on the kitchen table, and they could see him through the window, peering down from the deck, then descending the steps to the yard. Bobby began helping put the groceries away when they heard a plaintive "Dad?"

"Shoo," Alex told him. "Min and I can finish."

"And me," Noémie insisted.

Bobby found Randall on the wet grass about a foot away from the deck, staring at the ground directly beneath the railing. "It should be right there," he said without preamble. "I d-dropped it there. I'm s-s-sure." His stammer cut in, as it did when he became upset, and Bobby rested a hand on his shoulder to reassure him. He started to step forward, but Bobby stopped him, then squatted down, and Randall followed suit.

"There's where it landed," Bobby pointed out. "See the cut in the soil there, the curved one? It's where your spoon landed and then sank further in the mud as it rained." Then he shifted his left hand. "And here's just the faintest suggestion of a shoe print, the same one I saw at the tree line, with the cross-hatched sole."

"If that's a shoe print," Randall said dubiously, "it's awf'ly small."

"Mmmn," Bobby said, suppressing a smile because he'd imitated Olivia's pronunciation of the word precisely. He reached forward and pulled a few strands of long grass back to reveal another faint, curved pattern. "There's another."

"So it's a kid?"

"Or someone with achondroplasia—a little person."

"Why would they take a teaspoon?"

"If it's a child, maybe they thought it was pretty, or they're making some type of playhouse and wanted a spoon for their kitchen."

"Do you think they're hungry?" was the next question.

Bobby considered. "It's possible."

"Can we leave out some food?" Randall asked immediately.

"It might be a good idea," Bobby said, rising, and Randall followed suit.

"But the spoon–"

"As Noémie said, it's just a teaspoon; she has others, and I know you'll be more careful next time. It's okay, Rand."

He was pleased when Randall, head bowed, but of his own volition, apologized to Noémie, who repeated that it was "just a spoon" and hugged him sideways in deference to her baby bulge.

Next, the children scrambled for hats and insect repellent, and Noémie provided them with a map of the trails through the adjoining wildlife preserve. They spent a happy two hours exploring a wilderness of fir and spruce trees mixed with varieties of maple, elm, and beechwood. Sumac, chokecherry bushes, coltsfoot, and ferns carpeted the spaces between the trees. Boreal chickadees trilled "dee-dee-dee" from the treetops, answered by cardinals and warblers. High on the trunk of a leafless oak, a pileated woodpecker drummed for remaining insects. Mindful of their last, interrupted hike, Alex snapped photo after photo; this time, they didn't have a Junior Ranger handbook, but Olivia and Randall kept busy looking for fungi and different types of birds, laughing at the squirrels scolding overhead.

After clicking two shots of Randall examining a big seashell-like mushroom protruding from a maple tree trunk, Alex noticed that Bobby was still a few lengths behind, shifting on his feet and surveying the area with binoculars Noémie had lent them.

"What's up?" she asked, joining him, seeing that Randall and Olivia had slid down to sit with their backs against a huge beech tree, stopping to talk and drink from their water bottles.

He handed her the field glasses. "To the left of that oak," and he indicated a tall, massive tree with age-twisted branches towering in the distance. "Do you see something that looks like wood?"

Alex laughed. "Bobby, aren't all the trees made of wood?"

He snorted appreciatively. "Point taken."

She slowly panned the area with the binoculars as she would have at a crime scene. "Nope," she eventually said, "but you're a head taller. It could be they put up nesting boxes for the birds, or bat boxes."

"I could lift you up for a better view," he proposed lightly, putting his hands on either side of her waist.

She grinned at him. "You always lift me up. But I'd rather you do it later on."

Olivia nudged Randall, then teased, "You're canoodling again."

"I rue the day Bruno taught you that word," Alex groaned, sending the pair into fits of laughter.

"They have us where it hurts, Eames," Bobby responded, amused, then called, "We'd better go. We're almost back at the trailhead, and Noémie expects us for lunch, however late it is."

"You forgot the charcoal?" Noémie demanded, hands on the hips of her sleeveless, flowered shift.

"I forget nothing, mon chérie! I just did not replace what we used after the last time."

Noémie simply stared at him as at an obtuse child, tapping one foot, and Laurent looked so abashed that Olivia giggled. As they carried food out to the deck, Noémie had noticed there were no briquets in the plastic storage container next to the grill. Laurent held his palms upward and shrugged in a Gallic manner. Alex laughed. "I know where the store is. The rest of you keep setting up."

"We're coming with you, Mama!" Olivia said, dropping napkins on the kitchen table and racing after her mother. Randall bolted after her. "We'll keep her company, Dad!"

Bobby, stirring a pot of baked beans on the stove, winked at Laurent. "A likely story."

In the meantime, Alex and the children returned to the supermarket. The parking lot was now wall-to-wall vehicles, and as they hurried to the automatic doors, Alex watched with dismay as shopping cart after shopping cart containing multiple bags of charcoal were pushed out. Inside the door, she pointed to a huge wall sign at the far end of the store indicating "Pharmacie."

"It's a good thing we're here. I noticed this morning that we need more sunblock for the parade tomorrow," she told them. "Go directly there and get SPF 50, then meet me at express checkout. No detours."

"Yes, ma'am," Randall said.

"The kind you always buy if they have it?" Olivia asked, and Alex nodded, then hurried to the picnic aisle. To her relief, there were still stacks of charcoal briquet bags left, but she had to wait for one behind a dozen other shoppers.

Sister and brother trotted to the pharmacy area and soon had retrieved a large bottle of sunblock. Randall was distracted by the large television in the clinic waiting area, where an older man and a blond woman with a baby sat patiently. A boy about Randall's age had his back to them, his head up, raptly watching the screen.

"Isn't that Clément?" Olivia asked, then solved the problem by stepping forward and asking, "C'est toi, Clément?"

The eleven-year-old turned. All the Poudrier children were distinctive, with dark hair and freckled noses, but Clément had green eyes flecked with hazel, like his oldest sister and his mother. "Oui. Bonjour, Olivia."

Randall turned back to the television. "That's Olivia's favorite show on PBS, Molly of Denali."

"No, it's not," she countered hastily, "it's Nova. And Nature."

Randall blinked at her lie.

"Those are good programs," Clément said. "I like your PBS stations."

"But you don't get to watch TV, Noémie said," countered Randall, holding the sunblock against his chest.

Clément looked alarmed, then glanced guiltily at the pharmacy counter where a stout, silver-haired woman was speaking with the pharmacist. "Don't let Grand-mère know I've seen some! She thinks television is méchant. She thinks lots of things are, like people from France."

Olivia bridled. "I was brought up in Paris and am not wicked."

The boy ducked his head. "It's just how Grand-mère is. She is Papa's grandmother, you know, and so very old—plus de 80 ans, tu sais!—and has always been old-fashioned, but she grew worse after my sister–" and he abruptly cut himself off, looking frightened.

"All right, you two," Alex said sternly from behind. "I said the express lane, remember?" She was hefting the bag of briquets over her shoulder. "Hello, Clément."

A shuttered look came over Clément's face. "Bonjour, Madame Goren."

"Mom, I'll carry that," Randall offered.

"I've got it," Alex said, "but if one of you will get my wallet from my pocket and pay the cashier, that would work."

Olivia volunteered for the task, and Randall would use her keys to open the car after they left the store. Both children had looked backward as they headed for the checkout lane labeled "10 articles ou moins" to see Clément staring at them with a forlorn expression.

When they were seat-belted in, with Alex concentrating on the road, Randall poked Olivia, ducked his head low, and hissed, "Why did you fib to Clément about Molly? You love that show."

To his bafflement, Olivia muttered back, "I didn't want him to think I was a baby."

"I'm bushed," Alex said, collapsing flat on the bedspread, her arms starfished.

Bobby settled heavily at the left side of the bed, laboriously removing his shoes. "Maybe next time we should leave the kids with Abbi and take a cruise?"

Alex was silent for a moment, thinking of hours spent dancing under the stars, sipping cocktails, and enjoying gourmet dinners. Then she laughed. "Sounds like a total bore."

He chuckled, stretching out on the spread beside her, left hand caressing her body from her throat to her navel. "You're going to give me ideas, lying there like that. Are you happy with our life, Princess Ozma?"

"Yes, my Wizard," she murmured, and for some minutes they were silent, occupied with other actions.

They had enjoyed the previous evening's cookout. Laurent had invited two co-workers: a single woman with a son slightly older than Randall, and a man, his wife, and two daughters, ten and eight. While technically fireworks were illegal in Quebec, the latter family had brought sparklers and minor ground fireworks more colorful than noisy. Laurent manned the garden hose in case, mindful of earlier wildfires in neighboring provinces, and the kids waved sparklers as they watched Bobby use long matches to set off multicolor fountains and swirling spinners in the soaking-wet grass.

The party had broken up early, with quick cleanup, because they would have to wake early Monday morning. Bobby, still thinking about their nocturnal visitor, left a plastic-capped can of tuna outside on the deck railing along with a plastic fork.

Carrying both breakfast snacks and a lunch, the six hustled into the Pilot and hurried south at six a.m.. Laurent's employer, Énergies du Bouclier, had an office on the St. Jean-Baptiste parade route, and they inched and threaded their way through already hectic traffic to avail themselves of the company parking garage and join others of the staff in obtaining seats at the curb.

Noémie walked slowly, and Alex whispered a concerned question to her, only to receive a gentle smile in return. "My back aches, as it has for weeks now, that is all, Alex."

The first chair was reserved for Noémie, then all arranged around her: three more folding chairs and a pop-up canvas table to put food on. Laurent vanished into the building to return with a jug of ice water and soft drinks for all, for the temperatures were unseasonable for June. Olivia and Randall stationed themselves on cushions at the curb after being slathered with sunscreen. Having no wish to stain a cross-stitch project, Olivia had brought her cell phone and a book, periodically updating her blog with photos of attendees wearing blue and white fleur-de-lis shirts and painted faces. Randall had his handheld game and also a book, so they were well occupied until the parade began with shouts of "Bonne Saint-Jean-Baptiste!" and a big blue-and-white banner carried by participants in more fleur-de-lis shirts.

Following the banner were horse-drawn and motorized floats celebrating Quebec and its culture, featuring local celebrities and performers, and proud marching bands, performers from ballerinas to break-dancers, and mounted units. Despite the unusual heat, people laughed and shouted, faces shielded by baseball caps, fishing hats, and wide-brimmed Panamas with blue-and-white motifs and streamers.

"There are your Mounties, Min," Alex said fondly, as a brace of chestnut and bay horses came high-stepping past, their red-suited riders tall in the saddle.

"I hope they have ice packs under those hats," Laurent joked, fanning himself with that morning's newspaper.

The final float had a summer solstice theme, with a stylized sun rising behind the performers, sparkling with glitter and sequins in the bright sunlight. The choral group aboard sang "Gens du Pays," the national song of Quebec, concluding the parade.

It was now so warm that, instead of heading to the park across the street where some of the performers were signing autographs under big canvas pavilion tents, they trooped upstairs to Énergies du Bouclier, which was holding a special celebration for the day, supplanting their picnic luncheon with ice cream and slices from a blue-and-white frosted strawberry cake. Olivia and Randall found a group their age playing Uno in one of the conference rooms, while Bobby and Alex ambled through the offices, meeting Laurent's co-workers.

Noémie chose to sit in a plush chair in the comfortable foyer, joined by several young women in various stages of pregnancy—Alex grimly hoped they weren't feeding her more grisly birth stories—and a slightly older woman who had a three-month-old baby.

Later in the afternoon, Laurent and Noémie escorted them to a smaller neighborhood in an older part of town, where an old-fashioned carnival was being held and the local fire department had set up a bonfire for the evening. After riding the Ferris wheel, carousel, and other attractions and exploring the booths, Randall hung back shyly for a while, but soon joined Olivia in playing a no-rules game of soccer with children from age eight to in their teens.

Noémie smiled as Alex watched him fondly. "He has improved since last August, no?"

"So much!"

"He'll never be a social butterfly like Min," Bobby said thoughtfully from his folding chair, "but that's fine with both of us. He's not as tense as he used to be, or as uncomfortable with other kids."

Alex said lightly, "He was talking with one of Mrs. Poudrier's boys when I picked up the briquets yesterday. Clément."

"Patti let Clément go to the store on his own?" Noémie asked with surprise. "I'm told she's been overprotective since Paulette died."

"Olivia said he was with his great-grandmother," Alex said briefly, hoping to divert the conversation away from a stillborn child.

But Noémie continued sadly, "Madame Charbonneau told me the whole story when we first became friends. The whole family was désolée after Paulette passed, in mourning for months, and no one saw Patrice until the Christmas after the birth. I believe Madame Poudrier took it the worst. She had engaged a midwife for the first five, and they were born at home. Perhaps she now thinks it would have been better if she had let Patti go to a hospital, since the rest have been born there."

Bobby was pensive. "Do you know if the parents were as strict before Paulette's birth?"

To his surprise, Alex spoke up. "I don't think so, Bobby. Randall told me that Clément was familiar with PBS. He knew Molly of Denali, Nova, and Nature. I think those kids used to watch TV."

"That was my understanding," Laurent said, sipping his beer. "Pierre was the foreman of the crew that rebuilt our garage. Very strict with the workers—he knew he could not keep them from using curse words, but he permitted only the mild ones, merde or diable. Te baise was forbidden—he fined them if they used such. He told me proudly that such language would not be permis at his home, that they had even cut out the television the children used to watch."

"Big Bird was a danger?" Alex asked in a light voice, but she looked troubled.

"I wonder..." and Bobby steepled his fingers. "So this began at Paulette's death?"

"I would have to ask Madame Charbonneau," Noémie said, shifting on her seat. "I think it started then, but has grown worse in the last few years. But why? I have seen these shows—there is nothing objectionable about them."

"When people are grieving, sometimes they seek reasons for their misfortune. If Grand-mère is as devout as you say, she may have seen the baby's death as...divine judgment."

"Surely there is no one so old-fashioned as that any longer? I have met the Sacré-Coeur priest, Father Huguet," Laurent said, surprised. "While Sacré-Coeur is traditional, he seems to be a forward-thinking man. He was quite unhappy when Pope Francis passed; he liked the direction in which the Pontiff was taking the Church. I thought Madame Poudrier was devoted to him."

"Perhaps," Bobby considered, "but things you learn at your mother's knee, so to speak, don't go away so easily. Look at your mother, Laurent: progressive in her business practices but still firmly entrenched in antiquated prejudices."

"Because of her Papà," Laurent pensed. "It was so. But–"

Bobby silently pointed to the two perspiring children trudging toward them, Olivia's face hidden by her version of Alex's sun hat, Randall's face in the shade of his sister's borrowed LVPD CSU baseball cap, so that by the time they were in earshot, the adults had already changed the subject to the following day's activities.

               ***June 24, 2025***

Tuesday proved so warm that, of their planned excursions, only the tour of the Basilica of Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré and the nearby waterfall remained intact. Olivia, whose interest in history flagged at churches, was charmed when she and Randall discovered that each end of every pew featured a unique carving of a different animal, and that the dog was a collie. The cooling mist from the waterfall at Canyon Sainte-Anne proved to be a decision point, and after lunch, armed with swimsuits, the Gorens spent the rest of the day at Bora Parc. Olivia played freely in whatever water was available, whether on slides or with inner-tube rides—Randall watched her with envy, as she was like a little otter when swimming—while Bobby took an hour's opportunity to upgrade Randall's skills in a smaller pool. He could float safely and swim after a fashion, but his technique was rough, and Bobby gently guided him through a lesson disguised as a game. But mostly they played on the water slides, and played hard, so that Randall gobbled his way through his second serving of poutine for the day when they finally had supper.

He seemed subdued when they arrived back at Three Firs, and while the adults lounged on the deck with iced drinks in the path of an industrial fan, Olivia asked permission for them to walk the length of the tree line so long as they remained visible from the house, and once out of earshot, she demanded, "What's rattling your cage?"

Randall glared at her. He knew it was something she'd picked up from Bruno Volpe, but seldom used, except with him. "Nothin'."

She rolled her eyes, and they hadn't taken a half-dozen steps when he muttered a few words.

Olivia sighed. "What?"

"Why d'ya have to be so good at everything?"

She ticked her mind over the events of the day, then took a theatrically deep breath. "Randall, your dad taught you enough to enjoy a lido—the pool—and that was good. Papa Marcel taught me to swim and dive and snorkel, holiday after holiday in Nice. I've had more practice, that's all. You did awf'ly well with Papa today."

When he was silent, she added, "I don't do well at algebra; you know that. And–" Olivia considered, then finished, "and there's something else about school I'm worried about."

Baffled, Randall protested, "School let out last Thursday. We're out till September. Why are you even thinking about it?"

"Because I'll be the youngest in the upper school."

For a second, it took him aback. "So what? You were the youngest in eighth grade. And seventh, too."

"But there were younger kids in the lower school. I'll be the smallest in the whole upper school."

Randall halted, considering. Olivia would be the kid on the outside. Just like him.

"You'll be okay," he asserted gruffly. "You'll be with Cerise and Jacob, won't you? And Harpreet and Gary and the others." He stared at the ground, scuffing his sneaker in the dirt. "Brother Michael said if I do well enough in eighth grade, they're going to put me in gen pop in the upper school."

Olivia bit her lip, trying not to look amused. He'd heard Bobby and Alex use "gen pop" so often regarding prison inmates in old cases that he used it instead of the school's term, "mainstreaming." He'd be in a regular home room, she knew, not a curated one. With all those boys—and girls—with their sharp tongues...

"You'll be okay, too," she told him stoutly. Then she sighed. "I'm thirsty. Let's go back. Who knew it would be so hot in Canada? I'm sleeping downstairs tonight."

"Me, too," agreed Randall.

"Here, on the neighborhood bulletin board," Noémie said, pulling up a web page on the laptop they kept in the office nook of the big kitchen. The forecast was blessedly cooler that day, and she was in a short-sleeved shift over comfortable shoes, ready for Laurent to take her to the maternity clinic for a quick checkup. "You see, we are surrounded by farms—some of them more properly orchards. The Poudriers have an orchard—they raise cherries. Right now, the sweet cherries are ripe; later, they will have pie cherries that Mrs. Beauvais will put up for us. While we visit the clinic, why don't you take in some of the town or the farms? Later, you can go hiking in the park if you like."

So the family found themselves pulling into a wide driveway beside a well-kept, two-story pale yellow farmhouse with cream trim. Every window was thrown open to the breeze, and a vintage wooden screen door framed an even more vintage-looking living room. Patrice, looking preoccupied, was emerging from that door with Lucien hanging from her left hand as they parked across from the house. The youngest Poudrier had a frown on his face and was sucking his thumb.

"Bonjour, Gorens!" she said, switching on a smile as Alex greeted her. "Did Noémie send you for more cherries? She has been craving them for a month."

"No, she didn't," Alex said cheerfully as she emerged from the Pilot, "but we'll buy some for her now. We wanted them for ourselves, and show the kids a working orchard."

Patrice observed Olivia and Randall, clad in t-shirts and jeans, already looking with interest at the hand-built farm stand just inside the gate. "I will have Clément show you around. He's picking cherries with Marcelline and little Pierre and their father, and will need a break about now. We don't permit him to pick very long. He's still too young to spend an entire day in the orchard. Later, our pickers will be here, as Pierre has a new construction position starting tomorrow, but we like the children to help with the farm management so they know the orchard is part of their heritage." She picked up Lucien, who seemed to be a handful for her. "Come, follow me."

Bobby said in a quiet voice to reassure her, "Do you suppose I could carry him since you seem so busy? If he wants to? Maybe he could ride on my shoulders?"

Patrice regarded him, then said to the toddler, "Lucien, tu veux monter haut? Sur les épaules de Monsieur Goren? Je serai là."

Lucien's round face lit up like a floodlight as he struggled in his mother's arms. Bobby capably lifted him from Patrice's tenuous hold and settled him around the back of his neck as if the child were riding a pony. Lucien crowed happily, and Olivia laughed. "Hou la, Lucien! You're now a giant! Lucien le géant!"

Alex watched a thought flicker across Bobby's face so swiftly that she wouldn't have noted it had she not known him so well. Then he grasped Lucien's ankles securely and bounced him gently as they walked past the house. The old farmstead had large windows to catch the daylight, curtained lightly for summer, and they passed what appeared to be a girl's bedroom, very modestly decorated.

Behind the house was a small barn with a chicken coop, and they stopped briefly as Patrice showed off the Rhode Island Red and White Leghorn hens that kept the Poudriers in eggs. Five-year-old Philippe was in the barn proper playing with a cat named "Milette" and four kittens, and they could not pass until he had introduced each feline by name and each kitten was held up to Lucien to pet.

They passed a square, sturdy shed with a slanted roof and long windows high up, which Patrice told them was a sorting and boxing room for the cherries to go to market, then a few more steps brought them to the orchard itself. The family had gone apple picking in Rhode Island the previous autumn, but they were surprised to see how much more compact the cherry trees were than the big apple trees.

"The leaves look like peach tree leaves," Olivia said, checking out the clusters of dark cherries hanging from the limbs, and when Alex looked questioningly at her, she explained, "Papa Marcel's house in Nice had fruit trees outside it. There was always fresh fruit most of the year."

Patrice searched one tree at a time. Her stocky, dark-haired husband was at the highest point of one tree, plucking each cluster of cherries gently from the branches and setting them into a red bucket. Marcelline was also on a ladder doing the same, and Pierre the younger was stationed at a third tree, on a stepladder with a safety rail at the top, gently detaching the cherry stems.

"Pierrou," she asked her husband as she returned to his tree, "where is Clément?"

He smiled at her with tired eyes and said in French, "He was thirsty and I let him go early." He gave her a significant look. "You know he is going through the growing pains."

"Yes," and Patrice nodded. "Do you think he might be with Grand-mère in the salle de tri?"

"It's possible," he said, this time in English, and went back to his picking.

Randall nudged Olivia, then made quick ASL signs to her. = We're going to meet the Monster! =

Bobby loomed over them for a moment. "Rand, that isn't polite. You don't like it when people judge you, do you?"

"No, sir," admitted Randall.

Bobby whispered to him, "Try to keep an open mind, buddy."

As they approached the double doors, they heard a girl's voice falter, then stop reading aloud a Bible story in French. Once inside, the sorting barn was cooler than they expected. Bobby pointed to the long windows eight feet overhead, pivoted open horizontally. "See, they open with a pole, to let the warm air out."

"Vous comprenez les fenêtres, monsieur?" said a voice from the depths of the structure, and a woman with a round, rosy face and an appealing smile turned away from a row of tables in the back corner. She was in unrelieved black: a light, calf-length dress with a tatted collar and sleeves and an erect, half-moon cap also with tatted edges, her silver and white hair in a black knitted snood. In a little chair next to the first table sat Renée, her hands resting on the children's Bible she had been reading.

"Yes, I've seen windows like that in fruit sheds in Germany," Bobby responded.

"You were en Allemagne, monsieur?"

"In the Army, in the 1980s."

Lucien began bouncing on Bobby's shoulders, chanting, "Nay! Nay!" and with an obliging grin Bobby let him down so he could scoot to Renée's side, calling "Je veux voir Lette! Lette!" She whispered loudly to him, "Alors tu veux voir les chatons?" and led him out the door.

"These are the Gorens, Grand-maman," Patrice said when they were gone. "They are visiting my friend Noémie and her husband."

The elderly woman held out her hand, stained and sticky with cherry juice. "Je suis Adèle Poudrier." Then she noted the grime and said in English, "Perhaps we should not."

Now she smiled at Olivia and Randall. "Hello, les beaux. Would you like to try our cherries?"

"Oui, madame," Olivia said with a curtsey. "J'aime mieux les rouges foncés, madame."

"You are from France!" Madame Poudrier said in surprise.

"And I am not wicked," replied Olivia stoutly, remembering what Clément had said in the supermarket.

"No," Madame Poudrier said to her soberly. "I do not believe you are." She placed a cluster of dark cherries on a recycled paper plate. "But you must be very careful, ma fille. The Evil One lurks everywhere. You must not let yourself be ensnared." She gave a troubled glance at Patrice. "You must beware tous les jours."

Alex nearly bit her tongue in holding back an admonishment to stop frightening her children. Randall had already retreated a step, but Madame Poudrier said in a more kindly voice, "You would like the dark ones, too? Or perhaps the Raniers?" and she held up a different cluster, yellow cherries with a pink blush.

"Yes, ma'am," hazarded Randall. "I love Raniers."

She plumped two clusters of cherries on another plate. "You remind me of my Clément; he is growing so quickly, too."

"Oui, Grand-mère," said a voice from the doorway.

"There you are," Madame said, slightly reproving, but in an indulgent way. "Here, take more cherries, doux petit-fils. The season, it passes so quickly, and these are ton préféré."

"Merci, Grand-mère," Clément said, eagerly holding his hands out. "Please, another?"

"So hungry, these boys!" Madame said merrily and gave him two more clusters so that he had four. "Now, take your guests out to the pasture; tu veux leur montrer ton poulain?"

Clément smiled widely at Olivia and Randall. "Yes, you must see Plume!"

"Now," Madame said as they were leaving the barn, "perhaps you would like...how you say it, pour essayer quelque chose de plus adulte, no?"

"We have been trying our hand at cherry liqueur," Patrice explained.

"But not too much," Madame concluded warningly. "There is pleasure in His eyes when you use His gifts wisely, but there is offense in the eye of God with drunkenness."

Clément excused himself to run into the house; when he returned, he carried a small cloth string bag already stained with cherry juice and an apple. Randall whispered to Olivia, "What's a 'poolan'?"

"A colt!" Olivia answered happily, and they followed him to a small pasture, more like a grassy corral, behind the barn and shed where a sorrel mare and her foal stood, the mare's cream-colored tail flicking flies away from her youngster's face. The mare swiveled ears at Clément, and, even though the colt was nursing, trotted to the fence at the sight and scent of the apple, her baby following with a disconsolate whinny.

"Bad girl, Mabelle," Clément said. "Plume was hungry." Nevertheless, he balanced the fruit on the palm of his hand to feed her the apple, which the mare crunched with slabs of teeth while Olivia and Randall eagerly ate their cherries.

"Aren't you going to eat yours?" was Olivia's inquiry.

Clément peered briefly at the bag. "I have eaten some I picked. I will save these for later."

It was on the tip of Randall's tongue to ask why he had not just left them in the house, but Olivia remarked, "Your grand-mère is quite nice."

"Did I say she wasn't?" Clément responded defensively.

"You said...well, she was old-fashioned–"

"It doesn't mean she isn't nice," he returned.

Randall asked suddenly, "Is everything okay, Clément?"

Clément straightened, affronted. "What do you think is wrong?"

Randall only knew he was getting signals from the younger boy that he interpreted by his own experiences in the past. "I..." and his stammer came back. "I j-just w-wondered. You're n-not being h-hurt, are you?"

Outraged, Clément stepped up so he was in Randall's face. "No one is hurt here. My Mama and Papa are kind."

"Hé!" Olivia said, pushing herself between Clément and her brother, crossing her arms as Alex did when she was angry. "Arrête ça! Calmez-toi!"

The Poudrier boy stepped back immediately, shamefaced. "I beg pardon! I'm sorry—it's just–"

He checked to see if any adults were around. "If...if I had a secret, would you keep it, too? Not tell anyone, even if they asked, even your maman and papa?"

Randall's mouth fell open when Olivia said fiercely, "No. Anyone else, maybe. But not Mama and Papa. I never keep secrets from them, except about gifts."

"Never?" Clément looked astonished.

Olivia's voice trembled. "You don't understand. Randall does, because he knows. Mama and Papa saved me from something terrible. I never lie to them. Ever." Then her voice softened. "Je suis désolé, Clément. But I really can't."

Then she reached out to pet Mabelle's silky nose, for the mare was still nosing at Clément in hope of another apple. "Tell us about Plume. How old is he? I know he's not old enough to be weaned."

They remained by the corral, talking about the colt and the cherry picking, until Bobby and Alex called them to go on to the next stop. Clément waved at them, then headed in the opposite direction, toward the woodlot at the very rear of the Poudrier land.

They went on to another agrotourism site where two brothers raised alpacas, and then returned to Three Firs to kit themselves out for a second hike. They had only explored one half of the walking trails on the previous foray; this longer one took them out further to the north. It was a pleasure hiking in Bois Royale Talbot; every trail was well-marked, and there were ample containers for trash made from hollow logs, collected daily so that hikers' litter did not pile up.

One third of the way through, Randall halted at an unusual tree: some unknown accident, perhaps a large branch fallen on it while it was a sapling or perhaps a lightning strike, had split a big red maple's trunk in two. Instead of dying, the maple had just continued growing, now shaped like a "V."

"Isn't this sick?" he told Olivia excitedly. "I can reach right up here in the split and maybe leave something for someo–"

He stopped in wonderment as his fingers made contact with, and then pulled out, a white cotton string bag like the one they had seen Clément with earlier. It was empty, but liberally stained with rusty red cherry juice, which a half dozen ants were still enjoying. He held it by the tips of his fingers—Randall hated insects crawling on him—and made a face.

"Looks like someone else had the same idea," Alex grinned as he dropped it back into the crotch of the tree.

"Well, it was an idea," he joked, but he shot a glance at Olivia. "Dad, there's a path down there; could we go that way?"

"Like Frost, you're called by the road less traveled, aren't you?" Bobby commented, affectionately patting Randall on the back, and when the boy looked puzzled, Alex supplied, "It's a poem, sweetie."

"Sorry," Bobby told him. "But I know how you feel. I used to look for places like that when I was your age. Where I could be alone and explore and think. But...it's best if we go on. God forbid we have to tell Hannah Love we let you walk off-trail."

"Oh...yeah," Randall said apprehensively.

They continued and ten minutes later, were startled when Clément came striding around an outcropping of rock and bushes, loudly humming a Taylor Swift song that died the moment he saw them. He was carrying a canvas sack over one shoulder.

"Bonjour, Clément!" Alex said cheerfully.

"Oui...I mean, hello, Mr. and Mrs. Goren. Hi, Olivia. Hi, Randall." Clément's apprehensive face told the adults he was waiting for the inevitable question.

Olivia asked it. "What's in the bag, Clément?"

"I'm collecting wild plums," said Clément importantly.

"Are plums ripe this early?" Alex asked in an innocent voice.

"No, madame," he said respectfully. "Grand-mère, she makes preserves with the green plums. For the family. They're so good with pork chops."

"Good luck, then," Bobby said, nodding.

"Merci!" Clément said in a relieved voice and moved on.

As they approached the end of the trail and were on the path that led back to Three Firs, Olivia and Randall pulled ahead, Randall declaring that he was starving, Olivia teasing him that he'd better shower first, since he smelled like Clément's horse.

"What's going on at the Poudriers'?" asked Alex quietly.

"Something I still can't put my finger on," Bobby answered somberly.

In the evening, Laurent and Noémie sat cuddled across from the television watching the variety show Bonsoir, Bonsoir. Alex spent the time adding to her journal from an armchair next to the fireplace, watching Bobby out of the corner of her eye; he was reading one of the books he had picked up on Wednesday, but he was fidgeting as he did.

When the program ended, he stretched and yawned. "Noémie, I was wondering about something–"

She smiled at him, and he remembered Alex's face when she was carrying her nephew, rosy and beautiful. "Yes, Robert?"

"We met Madame Poudrier today," he returned, unable to keep from smiling back.

"She's quite a character," Alex said lightly, saving her document.

"Oh, she is that," Laurent answered wryly. "I, too, encountered Madame today, but by hearsay."

"Oh?" Noémie echoed. "Is that rascal Anton gossiping again?" She winked at Alex. "Men, they are terrible gossips. And they talk about us."

"When has he stopped?" Laurent chuckled, then explained, "Anton LeClerc, my hair stylist. While Noémie chatted with her friends at the clinic, I walked across the street to...what's that expression...'shoot the breeze' with Anton. He was alone, and we talked about the prowler and your visit. I mentioned your drive to the Poudrier orchard today.

"Anton has lived in this township for nearly twenty years and knows everyone. He clucked his tongue and said it was a shame about the Poudriers, not just the death of Paulette, but how they had changed."

"About how strict they are?" Noémie guessed.

"Oui. He said they were always good Catholics, but the change had been severe. And he knew what had caused it."

Laurent lowered his voice. "The children are outside, no?"

Alex hopped from her chair and vanished for a moment, then returned. "Safe outside." She posted herself behind Bobby, gently resting her fingers at the base of his neck.

"There are no facts," Laurent warned, "but Anton says that the rumor is that Pierre...il s'est égaré. A woman at a building site. After Renée was born, and just for a few weeks. His grand-mère found out after the fact, and I'm certain he had a reckoning. Patti was soon enceinte, but then Paulette died. Anton tells me that, although the Poudriers always lived plainly, Madame was quite proud of her appearance dans le passé, and always wore a diamond and gold crucifix that her late husband bought for her, the one fine thing she owned. After Paulette's death, she went back to her widow's weeds, which she had abandoned, and wore the crucifix no more."

"Sackcloth and ashes?" Alex queried, rubbing Bobby's neck.

"She felt responsible," he agreed, arching his shoulders.

"There was a...mystery, I suppose you might call it...afterwards as well: the midwife, Madame Loiselle, almost immediately left town, never to be heard from again. Anton says that no one seemed to care, that she was as cold a grande dame as she was a good midwife."

"That is odd, is it not? Do you suppose the midwife did something wrong, and that is why Paulette died?" Noémie straightened in her seat awkwardly. She looked uneasy again, as she did whenever labor and birth were brought up.

"For her to skip town, it would have had to be something egregious," observed Alex.

"If she was impaired in some way during the birth," Bobby said thoughtfully, "drunk perhaps? Or abusing some medication? But I'd have expected Madame to keep a close eye on Patrice during her labor. She would have noticed, I'm certain, told the police, or medical authorities."

"Unless she fell asleep–"

"Or left the room to get something to eat," Bobby finished.

"Which would explain 'the sackcloth and ashes.'" Laurent nodded.

"But..." Bobby said, leaning back. "All conjecture. Rumors and old stories aren't evidence."

Laurent shrugged and pointed the remote at the television. Alex smoothed her husband's shoulders and went back to her laptop, but after a few moments, when Laurent had found a favorite American series set in a fire station, she noticed Bobby stretch and put the book down, leaving his armchair to wander in the direction of the kitchen as if in search of a drink or snack. When he didn't come back, Alex set the laptop down once more and padded in his wake.

He was standing at the screen door, watching the kids seated on the big granite rock. Randall was gesturing at the sky. The sun had set only half an hour before, and the stars had just begun to wink to life in the eastern sky. She could see Olivia's head tilt up to follow Randall's hand.

"Lucien loved being a 'giant' today," she said affectionately as she slipped her right arm around his waist.

"That he did," Bobby said with a wistful smile, his voice holding a solemn edge.

"I saw your face," she told him, "when he settled and held on tight."

"A thought I put out of my head as soon as I realized it," responded Bobby more harshly than he intended.

Alex sighed. "Bobby, for once, can't you forgive yourself for being human?" She paused, then said resignedly, "We talked in Paris, remember, about Joe and me wanting kids? What's more natural for you to wonder, even for a second, than what it would have been like to have physically fathered a child?"

She felt his body vibrate and added, "You were right that night, in the shed." When he looked quizzically at her, she explained, "About needing those years between...we were working partners first, learned to trust each other, had a bad patch–"

"A very bad patch," he said in a grim undertone.

"–which we survived, that cemented our partnership further, till I was unwilling to stay on without you, returned—then we were our own for a while, to follow some life goals–"

"–and straighten out my head..."

She pressed a forefinger to his lips. "Shhh. We both had things to work out. And then by God or Fate or Providence–"

She knew she'd pulled him back from further recrimination when he said lightly, "Or Hartford."

Alex smiled, "The menace from the Hartford, more like it," referring to her cousin Phil, who'd dragged her to Milbury almost four years ago on a cool October night for a fateful trivia contest. "There you were, and there I was," and she scooped her hand toward the youngsters in the distance, "and it led to all this. No regrets."

"I don't see," Bobby said, low, "how any child could mean more to me than those two."

As the sky grew ever darker, from darkest royal blue to midnight blue to black, they watched the kids shift restlessly, gaze sweeping from horizon to horizon, and then Olivia sat bolt upright. "Did you see it?"

"Yes!" Randall shouted, pointing high in the eastern sky. "Right there!"

He swiveled his head to the house and recognized the silhouettes in the doorway instantly. "Mom! Dad! I think there are shooting stars!"

Alex arched her eyebrows with a grin as Bobby swung open the screen door. "At least two of them."

"Didn't I say you would like this?" Laurent asked happily as he sipped at his portion.

"Yes, you did," Alex admitted comfortably, addressing her own shot glass, "and I do."

"After all," Laurent had told them at suppertime the previous evening, "you should have something on this trip just for you."

Olivia had agreed, even though Randall looked reluctant. "Mama and Papa, you must go, have some grown-up fun! Randall and I will stay here tomorrow and help Noémie finish the room for notre nièce ou notre neveu."

Randall seemed less than thrilled by the prospect until Noémie coaxed, "Yes, Randall, I could use some help hanging the pictures and putting up the books for le bébé."

"I can use the hammer?"

"But of course? How else do the picture hooks stay on the wall?"

So Laurent, knowing Alex's penchant for bourbon and prudently hiring an Uber so they could freely sample alcohol, had taken them almost an hour's drive north, where a Scotsman and his Quebeçois brother-in-law had opened a distillery and tasting room, L'eau de la Vie, where they made true Scotch whiskies and also bourbons. Bobby noted the luxury of the place, wryly commenting that the outlay must have cost Arran Brodie and Ludovic Profiat a fortune. As Laurent pointed out, however, it was very popular with the tourists, and now they sat in plush leather chairs trying different samples, three individuals in a mixed crowd of six dozen, served on wooden trays by handsome young men and rosy young women in tartans.

Every so often Bobby's phone would buzz with a text and a picture from Olivia: Randall carefully balanced on a stepladder putting up a picture hook, the lovely framed print of a mother and child done in the style of Gustave Klimt, Noémie folding tiny onesies and minute socks into the drawers of a dresser with frolicking lamb decals, another shot of Randall sitting cross-legged to stock a child's bookcase with colorful board books, a long shot of the baby's room with the white crib and dresser and changing table and bookcase in high relief against the green-and-gold decor pulled from the Klimt-inspired print.

Olivia's final text said, "Mrs. Beauvais has made poutine for lunch!"

Bobby showed it to Alex, who laughed.

By the time they left after two, they were pleasantly relaxed, having had their own lunch. Laurent had bought a bottle of aged Scotch that Brodie had brought over from Scotland, to "wet the baby's head," and when they entered the house through the front door, he went directly to the handsome carved vintage liquor cabinet in the living room to store it.

Noémie was asleep on the sofa, head pillowed on puffed pink satin, a soft smile upon her face, and Laurent kissed her with a great flourish, as if he were the prince from "Snow White."

She blinked at him. "Oh...oh, I have slept too long!"

"I'm surprised Min and Rand kept quiet enough for you to sleep," Bobby chuckled. "Are they off reading somewhere?"

Noémie peered at the mantel clock. "They are hiking in the park."

Alex went very still. "You...let them go into the park on their own?"

Laurent looked down at his wife, who sat up very slowly. "I didn't think it would harm them," Noémie said nervously. "I used to hike on my own as a child, at their age, and after lunch, they wanted to so badly. The trails are so clearly marked! I made them both promise to stay on the main trail, and made sure they had water bottles and hats, and that Olivia had her phone. I know she has the GPS app on it that you use to keep her safe. They said they would be back by three."

"Mon cher," sighed Laurent, "it is half past that now."

Bobby had already whipped out his phone and confidently pressed Olivia's shortcut. "They shouldn't have teased you so much, Noémie. They both know–"

He had put the speaker on, but the phone kept ringing and ringing. Bobby hung up before it went to voicemail. His lips thinned, and they could see anger—and fear—wash over his face. He shifted to the GPS app, which, despite the unanswered call, sent steady signals that the children—or Olivia's phone, at least—were still in Bois Royale Talbot.

Noémie was weeping now. "Je suis vraiment désolé, vraiment désolé. Robert, Alexandra, je ne voulais pas les mettre en danger."

Alex, her heart pounding in her ears, kept Noémie from struggling to her feet. "No, no, we understand. The two of them are so persuasive, and you're right, Olivia will stay on the trail. She's trustworthy. Bobby can tell you she has a good head on–"

Her voice died. Bobby was gone, the sharp bang of the screen door laying evidence to his departure. Later, he wouldn't recall how he got from the long living room of Three Firs to the entrance of the trail they had walked on Sunday, only skidding to a halt and then a quick pivot to the left as he hit the first trail.

Ten minutes later, he realized bitterly that it was a cold one. The GPS signal between his phone and Olivia's was signaling they were further apart, not closer, and the girl's signal was closer to the north. He mopped at his face with his hands, then spun on his heel and jogged back to the trailhead, images from the past flashing in his brain: Maggie Coulter's blank, mannequin visage after her rape; the stark face of ten-year-old Robbie Bishop driven to the edge; Stacy Hayes-Fitzgerald's racing heartbeat in her hospital bed as she faced the terror of her stepfather; the betrayed look of Bennie Renato after having finally found someone to trust; Robbie Boatman, stripped of what sanity he had left after a week of "aversion programming"; even worse the cases from his FBI years, especially the Valdez girl, staring up at the sky, totally insensible as ants left tiny scarlet trails over her bloodied nine-year-old body...

"Not my girl," he panted through his teeth, catching his breath briefly as he reached the trailhead, then turned to the longer path they had hiked only yesterday, the one with the V-shaped maple tree and the path that had called to Randall so strongly, "not our girl," he amended, thinking of Alex's face, how she would look, how she would crumble even under her famous reserve, "not our boy..."

His feet beat a tattoo into the dirt. "Not them! Not them!"

There had always been adults monitoring her life: from Maman and nanny Luisa to the teachers at Creatwood School to the few short, nightmarish days with Madame Pepin, then finally the liberating but protective orbit of Robert Goren and Alexandra Eames, so when Noémie gave them leave to walk the park trails on their own, Olivia had felt a flush of victory in being trusted enough to do so.

Noémie had set rules, too, but nothing more strenuous than usual, so when she and Randall crossed the boundary from Pepin property to the eastern trailhead, Olivia had begun to walk the path they had tread four days earlier with confidence.

Randall, however, had stopped and shaken his head. "Can't we do the other trail, 'Livia, from yesterday?" he begged. "It was more interesting and it's longer. I liked helping Noémie, but–"

Always restless, she realized. "You remind me of Papa," she blurted in such an earnest way that he ducked his head in embarrassment. But why not walk the longer trail? She had to admit he was right: it rambled more, featuring more varied plant life, and when he proposed that they go through it in the opposite direction, it gave them a different vantage.

Once they started out, Olivia fell into a satisfied trance. She'd spent a good deal of the wet, cold winter, when not occupied by schoolwork, her friendship with Ana, and occasional visits to Alex's family, reading in front of the fireplace, and in January had immersed herself in Anne of Green Gables, envying Anne and Diana's forays into the woods. The nature park didn't disappoint as a satisfactory "book adventure": the trees were alive with birds, squirrels chattered overhead, and they heard, but never saw, chipmunks chirp. "Remember Fenwick Park," was all Olivia had to say, and she and Randall laughed at themselves from last October, now nine months older and so much wiser!!

And then she realized why she had been talked into this specific route: as they approached the split red maple tree, the one beside the enticing path Randall had longed to walk the day before, he picked up his pace.

She balked. "Randall, tu l'as fait exprès!"

He halted as well, turned, his hazel eyes bright behind his eyeglasses, and against his tanned face. "Don't you want to see what's down there? It looks like it might lead to someplace where rabbits silflay, like in Watership Down. And I think that's where Clément was going to gather plums," and he gazed longingly down the shady path that was dotted with trillium and ox-eye daisies, coltsfoot and chokecherry. "I know it's not on the main trail, but we can lay down trail markers, like we saw in the Junior Ranger pamphlet..."

Olivia remembered Clément's canvas sack, but even more, she recalled the lure of Anne and Diana's woodsy strolls, and Randall's absorption with his good report card gift, the beautifully-drawn graphic novel prompted by his classmate Kenny's pet rabbits. She eyed the flowery path. "I don't know, Randall...it does look interesting...and I suppose if we didn't go too far... Cairns will take too long, though. Let's get branches."

She was aware that her practical mother might not see this path for what it was to her, a walk through Lover's Lane and Willowmere and Violet Vale. But Papa would understand when she told him, and she would tell him, as she'd asserted to Clément, after Randall's curiosity had been satisfied and they were back at the house, right before bed, when everything was safe and calm and done for the day...

Almost half an hour later, Randall had retreated behind the rough-surfaced trunk of a massive white oak tree when they finished exploring what they had found along the tempting path, his sneakers sliding on fallen acorns.

"We need to get back," Olivia hissed, joining him. "We're already late. We'll let them know about this–"

"What's that?" Randall said, startled, as a distant shout was heard.

"Someone's...calling...us." Olivia looked at her watch, then pulled out her phone in a panic. She had turned the sound off so that the notifications from her blog wouldn't disturb the birds.

"Papa called!" she whispered in horror. "Almost half an hour ago. We're awf'ly late, Randall. We promised Noémie we'd be back by three o'clock!"

They could make out Bobby's voice now. "Olivia! Randall!" An anxious voice, but with an edge of anger that neither had ever heard Bobby use with them. Randall recognized that anger and shrank backward against the oak.

"Then go get him," he said in resignation. "He needs to see this. I'll be right here, I promise," and Olivia at first tiptoed away from the enormous oak, then, when far enough away, pelted down the woody path, guided by their dutiful row of trail markers to eventually reach the split maple tree where Bobby had halted, his head swinging back and forth from one point to another. Olivia saw the wild fear etched on her father's usually patient face, his hair and face damp with sweat, and for the first time could see terror within him. It was the way she had felt when she realized she might have to live at Maison Duplantier, and the knowledge knotted her stomach. She ran to him, burying her face in his chest. "Papa, we're fine! I swear! I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Still rattled, vibrating with suppressed anger, Bobby grasped her shoulders tightly, speaking through his teeth. "Min, we t-trusted you! You're on the wrong trail, and you went on the p-path I forbade Randall to use. Do you...realize how you've–" She tilted her head upward, and only then could he see her tears and her lower lip trembling.

"I know, Papa. I know. But please, right now, can you keep your voice down? It's important, I swear! Please."

He searched her face, taking deep breaths to calm himself. "All...right. I apologize, too. You frightened me, Min. So much...t-that I ran out on your mother without a word."

She hugged him tightly again. "I know. I didn't think... We're sorry, Papa. But Randall saw something while we were walking." She felt him stiffen. "Not anything scary, Papa. Just interesting. Randall notices things, like you."

"Flattery will get you nowhere." His voice was still stern, but Olivia knew that he was calmer now, requesting of him sotto voce, "Come see, Papa. Softly."

"Are you telling me how to run my case?" he managed in an almost teasing voice.

They were forgiven—she hoped. "Mas oui!"

They tread carefully on the pine-straw scattered trail, Olivia's hand sliding trustingly into Bobby's until they turned the corner where Randall had remained, as he promised, next to the white oak tree. His head was bowed, but as he heard them approach, he hazarded an upward glance.

He's afraid of me, Bobby thought with a jolt. No. Not that.

Lifting his hands, palms upward, instead of speaking he signed to his son. = I love you. It's okay. =

Pale-faced, Randall smiled wanly. ASL was all he could manage. = Dad, come look. Please. =

The white oak, its trunk so thick that Bobby could have wrapped fully outstretched arms only halfway around it, offered a fine vantage to the children's 'interesting' discovery. The first was a wooden building, gray with age and slightly tilted to one side, like a storage shed with a steeply-pitched, many-times-patched roof to keep off the snow. Bobby realized it was probably the tip of the roof that he had spotted on Sunday though the binoculars. The door was half-open, revealing a begrimed glass window in the rear and angular shadows inside.

"It looks like a waystation," he told them in a hushed voice. "Maybe for the rangers patrolling in the past, holding supplies, or an emergency snow shelter."

"'Livia and I already checked inside. There's a bunk bed, with blankets and things. And a water container, and some clothes," Randall whispered.

The second structure was more interesting still, a lean-to made of a rope stretched from one tree bough to another, covered with a stained but still serviceable grey-cloth tarpaulin. Under the covering was a moth-nibbled military-grade olive-drab wool blanket, and scattered on it were a few worn toys—including a rag doll in old-fashioned dress: a white ruffled apron over a brown frock with a full skirt, and a minute brown kerchief over the doll's dark hair—a tuna can, an outdoor pillow, and one shiny silver teaspoon.

Bobby stared at it, deep in thought, and then a child's voice and the crackle of a branch brought him out of his muse. With one swift movement, he pulled both kids behind the cover of the broad trunk of the oak just as a little girl stepped from between the trees, singing "Gens du Pays" in an odd voice with a strong lisp-like quality, waving a tiny blue-and-white fleur de lis flag, marching as if she were in the Jean-Baptiste parade. She was in shorts and sandals, but incongruously had a miniature hood and cape over her head and shoulders, sewn with a light fabric, so her face was hidden.

Bobby took a breath, then motioned to Olivia and Randall to be quiet with a finger tapped to his lips.

Just loud enough for the child to hear, he said gently, "Bon après-midi, Paulette."

Two pairs of thunderstruck eyes flashed up at him, but no one was more surprised than the child, whose head snapped up, and her hood slipped off. She started in fear, then pivoted to run, and Bobby coaxed, "Ne cours pas! N'aie pas peur, petit, s'il-vous-plaît...Min, please, tell her we mean her no harm."

Olivia continued in French, "Please don't go away. We don't want to hurt you...oh, Paulette, they are worried about you. Lucien keeps crying."

That stopped the girl in her tracks, and she stared at them in fright like a cornered deer. "Lucien pleure pour moi?" she said in a curiously nasal voice with some consonants sounding odd.

"Oui," Olivia returned, then said fiercely in English, "Who hurt you, Paulette? My papa will have them punished—he used to be a policeman."

Paulette appeared puzzled. It was obvious that she was a Poudrier: she resembled Clément so closely they could almost be twins, complete with green eyes and dark hair, her upturned nose spattered in freckles. "I'm no' hur'," she said in English, struggling to pronounce things. "Please don' call 'he police. I know I'm wicke,' so I ran away. Only Clémen' knows where. Don't 'ell, s'il-vous-plaî'! My arrière gran'-mère worries more every 'ay. Maman cries, and Papá looks sa', and I'm 'ire' of being home, always having no fun. I jus' have lessons an' my family."

Bobby stepped toward her carefully, Randall on his right, Olivia on his left. "Who tells you you're wicked, Paulette?"

"No one says, but I hear 'hem. Gran'-mère says I am ba' luck, 'ha' Go' marked me. She los' Gran'-pere's gif' to her because of me. I have no school, just Maman and Marcelli help me 'hrough my lessons. I have no frien's, like mes frères e' soeurs." She faintly smiled. "Clémen' comes every 'ay to bring me foo' and milk, and 'ell me all he does at Jimmy Weekusk's house. He 'ells me abou' 'elevision shows: Ar'hur and Molly of 'enali and Lyla, and gives me 'he 'rie' bison mea' and bannock brea' Jimmy gives him."

"I like Molly, too!" Olivia confided.

"Clémen' 'ells 'he stories," Paulette said, her eyes shining. "All, even how 'hey look. Some'ay, maybe he will wri'e books. I like 'ooey bes', and his dog team—I wish I ha' a 'og. Clémen' brings Mabelle here some'imes, but I would ra'her have a 'og."

Bobby said gently, squatting so that she felt more comfortable. "I see you built yourself an observation post. Do you watch the animals during the day?"

Paulette's face brightened. "Oui, monsieur! 'he crows are funny—Clémen' brings me foo' in foil, and I make i' in balls. 'he silly crows figh' over who shall have 'hem. 'he chipmunks are so swee'."

"But what about at night?" Randall asked. "Aren't you scared?"

Paulette cocked her head at him. "Non. Animals won' hur' me." She picked up the doll and held it up for inspection. "An' I have Jeanne 'Arc! She's my frien'."

"I have a stuffed fox like that," Olivia told her. "His name is Captain."

"Like 'he fox in Secre' Gar'en?" Paulette cried unexpectedly.

"Yes!"

"Maman has read 'ha' to me, in French!" was the delighted answer.

Bobby surveyed the contents of the blanket. "Did you enjoy the tuna, Paulette?"

Now she looked slightly shamefaced. "I brough' i' for 'he squirrels, Monsieur, but 'hey dinna like i'. I ha' i' myself. I am hungrier now."

"I don't doubt it. You're growing up." He winked at Olivia and Randall, and the latter smiled, tearing his eyes away from Paulette's face.

"Dad says I'm insatiable." And Randall scuffed his feet.

Paulette's mouth trembled and she said with difficulty, "Gran'-mère 'oesn'...wan' me 'o ge' big. She says people will see me an' know...we are sinners."

"You're no sinner, Paulette," Bobby said, brushing her cheek. "Your family aren't sinners, either. Your great-grandmother doesn't understand." He straightened up with an imperceptible wince, then offered her his left hand. "Will you come with us, Paulette? We'll find someone to explain things to your Grand-mère, so she understands. Perhaps your priest, Father Huguet? I know she must trust him."

Paulette hugged Jeanne d'Arc to her instead. "Will 'he lady be angry abou' 'he spoon?"

"No," Randall answered first. "I was the one who lost it, and she wasn't angry at me."

Bobby's phone shrilled, and Paulette jumped.

"That's Mama," Olivia explained as he answered it. "She's worried about us."

"Alex...sorry...the kids are fine. All of them." They saw him pause as Alex's barely audible recriminations broke his silence. Olivia bit her lower lip as she imagined what was being said.

Bobby just listened patiently. "Eames...you'll understand when you see us. And please have Noémie call Patrice Poudrier right now—just tell her everything is all right. I think...Patrice will understand."

"Es-tu en difficulté?" said Olivia with apprehension as he tucked the phone back into his pocket.

"Juste un peu," Bobby replied with his thumb and forefinger half an inch apart.

He offered his hand once again. "We'll walk you back, Paulette. Your maman will be happy now."

"Probablemen,'" Paulette said, looking doubtful, slipping a thin, grimy hand into Bobby's. She picked up the teaspoon, but the tuna tin was crawling with ants.

"Leave it," Bobby said. "We'll clean later, when you are home, and everything has been explained."

"Ce sera...bien," Randall said in his tentative French.

"Papa–" Olivia whispered. "I don't understand. Her face..."

"I'll explain in good time," and then, to her surprise, he bent down and hugged her fiercely.

"Good time," Randall and Olivia learned, took a great amount of time, even though Patrice Poudrier arrived at Three Firs almost immediately with her brood, and Lucien fell sobbing into Paulette's arms. Pierre pere pulled up in a battered pickup truck after being summoned from a construction site by police, stammering excuses, and Laurent took him aside and spoke sternly to him. Finally, two more police officers and a social worker arrived.

"Why don't you kids play in the yard?" Alex suggested eventually, and Laurent loped to the garage and returned with a slightly battered soccer ball. Olivia, seeing that Marcelline was still in shock, quietly took charge, and the children—all but Paulette, who Patrice held tightly in her lap—were soon having a noisy game. As they took a breather after one scrum, Olivia noticed Bobby on the deck, his hands gripping the railing as he ostensibly watched them, but his gaze was far away.

"We should keep an eye on Papa tonight," she confided to Randall, and he nodded.

Soon after that, a third police car had arrived with Madame Poudrier and Father Huguet from Sacré-Coeur. She was sobbing as the silver-haired priest escorted her inside.

Sometime later, Noémie, after a short altercation with both Alex and Mrs. Beauvais, rolled out a big pitcher of lemonade with paper cups and some cookies on a paper plate.

"These are store cookies," Pierre fils told Randall. "Grand-mère won't allow us to eat them."

Clément refused to eat one. "Do you think they will arrest Grand-mère?"

Promptly, Lucien began to cry again, but Randall bent over him and said awkwardly, "My Dad will talk to them. He'll make it okay."

Olivia kicked him in the heel to remind him not to promise too much, and he finished with a determined stammer, "Or h-he w-will do his b-best!"

Everyone left so late that sunset was coming on by the time Mrs. Beauvais laid supper on the table. Noémie hugged her and kissed her on both cheeks, French style.

"Merci, Madame Beauvais, merci d'être resté si tard. On se verra demain. Veuillez conduire avec soin."

"Tomorrow," the housekeeper smiled and said in English, "will be better for everyone."

Alex realized she had not eaten through such a silent meal since Randall joined the household. Mrs. Beauvais had made a thick chicken stew with all of Randall's favorite vegetables, and even he poked through the food as the meal began. Olivia made a gallant effort to finish her plate, dipping crusty bread into the savory leavings. "I'll have to tell Madame Beauvais how good this was!"

Her attitude rallied the rest of them, although Bobby seemed to push most of his food around his plate until the final moments when he sighed and completed his serving.

"It's dark," Randall ventured. "Can we go look at the stars?"

"'May we,'" Alex corrected with a soft smile, and he repeated, "May we go look at the stars?"

"Don't you want dessert?" Noémie coaxed. "It's strawberry shortcake again."

Randall shrugged, eyes fixed on his plate.

"I tell you what," Laurent proposed. "Tonight I will be le serveur and le dishwasher. Tomorrow night we will be eating out after you go into the city for the tour I have arranged." He arched his eyebrows at the children. "I hope you will like the surprises I have planned for you."

"Will you come, Noémie?" asked Olivia.

"I think I shall sit here and rest watching mon mari work," Noémie said, amused. "It will soon not be so quiet."

"Could you turn off the floodlights once we're settled?" Bobby requested, and she nodded.

They were soon perched atop the "star-watching rock" as Randall had dubbed it, Alex clambering up first and guiding Olivia on her way up, Randall behind her like a little goat (Rock climbing wall flashed through Alex's mind, and she noted the idea for later in the summer), and then Bobby, surefooted, but his step slightly slower than usual.

Once they were settled, Bobby said, "I know it's been a long day, but I wanted to–"

Randall interrupted firmly, "It was m-my fault, Dad. I t-talked her into it. Don't p-punish Olivia, just me."

Olivia shot back, "I could have said no. I'm just as much to blame. I could have stopped you–"

"But I–"

"I wasn't trying to lay blame," Bobby said gravely. "I just wanted you both...to understand why I was so angry."

"I know why," Olivia answered, eyes downcast. "Because we didn't follow the rules. You said in the car at the border stop the rules are to protect us."

"It's more than that," Alex explained, "because you did follow the rules Noémie set for you. You stayed on the trail, you stayed together, and...even when you did leave the trail, you left markers. That was smart."

"Noémie was right," Bobby continued. "If you hadn't found Paulette's camp, you would have come back safely, on time. But–"

Olivia and Randall shifted. "But–" was always significant.

"Our rules take precedence. Sometimes you need to be more careful than that. Your dad...and I..." Alex went on haltingly, "are different. Like Captain Benson and Elliot Stabler, and Fin and Mr. Carisi. We've seen too much, sweetie. Children like you...subjected to things children should never have to endure."

"We're not going to change," Bobby concluded. "We can't. If...if it seems in the future that we're too overprotective, it's just because we remember. We know."

It was then that Noémie switched off the deck lights. Olivia laid her head on Bobby's arm, and Randall buried his face against Alex's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mommy. I won't do it again."

Bobby's knee nudged Alex's, and she smiled to herself. Randall had never called anyone "Mommy" but Rosalind and she restrained a sniffle.

"Comme c'est beau se soir!," Olivia breathed. The constellations were quite clear, and the whole sky was sprinkled with distant stars like scattered sugar dust. "Not as nice as that night at the Grand Canyon..."

"Can we go again someday?" Randall asked wistfully, still leaning against Alex. "'Livia talks so much about it."

"We'll see if we can find someplace closer, just as good, but easier to reach. Donna might know a good place in Maine," suggested Alex.

"There's Cassiopeia!" and Olivia pointed to the north-northeast. "See the W shape?"

By craning necks to the right or left, they could make out Sagittarius, Scorpius, Libra, and Leo. Randall was the first to lean backward and immediately yelped, "There's the Great Bear!"

Olivia added, "What Molly's Grandpa Nat calls 'Yahdii,' the Traveler."

Bobby told them, "The Wampoanaug call it 'Maske.'" No one asked how he knew; he just always did. "And there are Alpha and Beta Ursa Majoris..."

Randall finished eagerly, finger tracing an invisible path in the darkness, "...the guide stars pointing to Polaris."

"Papa says Mama is his North Star," Olivia said softly.

"She is."

There was silence as they surveyed the sky, then Olivia spoke. "Papa–"

"I think it's time for our debriefing," Bobby told Alex. "Fire away, Min."

The first one was expected. "If Paulette wasn't hurt, what happened to her face?"

There was always a lesson attached. "Run your tongue up and down the roof of your mouth; what do you feel?"

"There's a raised part in the middle," Randall said first.

"A ridge, yes. It's part of your palate, which has several functions, including separating your sinus cavity from your mouth. It's essential to our speech. You noticed that while Paulette could speak, she found it difficult."

"Yes, sir." Randall sounded gloomy.

Alex squeezed Bobby's hand, and he continued, "A baby's palate grows together as the baby develops in the womb. That ridge is where it connects, but sometimes it doesn't finish connecting, which is why Paulette's mouth looks as it does. It's called a cleft palate. In the old days, you might have heard it called a 'harelip,' because the upper lip is–"

"Like a rabbit's?" Randall asked.

"Yes."

"Will the Mounties arrest that awful midwife?" Olivia demanded, "and get Madame's crucifix back?"

"I suppose they will. There's no statute of limitations on blackmail in Quebec," Bobby offered. "I didn't know you were so interested in justice for Grand-mère Poudrier, Min."

"I'm not," grumbled Olivia frankly. "She was dreadful telling Paulette that rot about being a sinner, and telling all of them Paulette was a judgment from God was just cringe. But Madame Loiselle prob'ly made it worse by saying she would tell everyone about the family sin. French people aren't wicked, but blackmailers are."

Bobby let out a slow breath when Randall finally asked plaintively, "D-Dad...d-did you have to call social services? Paulette wasn't hurt."

Alex took the burden from him. "Oh, Rand...you know we did. The Poudriers need professional help. You're right, Paulette wasn't physically hurt—but she's been isolated since she was born. Yes, her parents and her brothers and sisters love her—maybe even her great-grandmother at some level. They feed her, they educate her, but...she's in a cage. No school, no friends. Her father's too cowed by his grandmother to defy her, and her mother defers to him. Paulette ran away because she was tired of being confined. The Poudriers couldn't tell the police because, for legal purposes, she doesn't exist; it's lucky they weren't arrested. As it is, they'll have to go to court." She paused, knowing there would probably be more than that. "Besides, too much damage has been done—not just to Paulette, but to Clément and the others. You saw that even Father Huguet could not sway Madame Poudrier's fears. It's best for all of them."

"But Paulette will have to go to foster care–"

"And she'll have counseling, too, so she won't think she is a punishment from God any longer. She'll see doctors and have surgery to correct her palate. It isn't only her speech that's been affected: she'll be able to eat and breathe normally. Unfortunately, it will be harder for her now that she's older; the surgery is easiest on a baby. Once she heals, she'll have speech therapy—and Dad and I both spoke to the social worker from DYP. Clément and the others, and her parents, will see her as often as possible, they'll receive counseling, too, and she'll go home when—and if—Youth Protective Services knows her home life will be normal."

Bobby coaxed, "You weren't hurt physically, either, Randall. But remember how your dad made you feel: like you didn't belong, like you weren't worth anything? It's how Paulette feels now. She needs someone who won't judge her. I know it bothers you, because you know better than the rest of us that sometimes proper foster care takes time." Bobby reached around Alex's shoulders and laid a warm, protective hand on his son's upper arm. "We're here, buddy, and hopefully soon Paulette will have someone, too."

Randall reached up and squeezed Bobby's hand. "I know, Dad. Thanks."

Olivia smiled for the first time since Paulette had left Three Firs and clapped her hands.

They were at the foot of the Citadel, where a carriage awaited them at the curb, drawn by two chestnut horses in creamy harness with plumes mounted between their ears. The driver was a stocky, genial woman dressed in a top hat, in light clothing meant to emulate a formal suit. ("I will not trade my health in this hot weather for the tourists' satisfaction," she told them jauntily.) She was to give the Gorens and Noémie a complete tour of the city, and, at Laurent's insistence, a light wheelchair had been provided for Noémie (over her objections), but both Bobby and Alex had concurred.

"You know that both the midwife and Dr. Brough have told you to rest," Laurent wheedled. "It is not just me. He says if you have not begun labor by Monday, we might think about inducement." He pushed his nose against his wife's hair. "I wish you and notre enfant to be safe. Please, mon coeur."

"Tu es un garçon doux," Noémie murmured, kissing him.

"What kind of boy?" Randall whispered, and when Olivia answered, he rolled his eyes.

"Now onward," Laurent said briskly, "and enjoy your tour. I will see you after work. I hope I have traded days well."

"And here we go!" the carriage driver said genially, and jiggled the reins so that the well-trained chestnuts moved on.

"What are your horses' names?" Olivia asked, and after that, the questions never stopped as Louise Fontaine skillfully guided her team—and her tongue—from one site to another: from the Citadel to Chateau de Frontenac to a long stop along the St. Lawrence where she gave Romulus and Remus a scant taste of warm water ("Warm so they won't get colic!" Olivia told Randall.) and related the history of the Seaway, and then to the overlook of the Plains of Abraham and the fateful battle led by Montcalm and Wolfe.

The final tour stop was at the Parliament House, and Olivia couldn't restrain an "Oh!" when they came abreast of a gated entrance where two Royal Mounted Police Officers in formal dress, seated at attention on two bay horses, flanked the gates. Even more thrilling for her, Madame Fontaine politely addressed one of the Mounties, only to have him smile and nod at her, then speak into a small radio.

A moment later, a blood-bay horse clopped along the cobbled drive and through the gate, its rider posting smoothly at a trot and carrying a flagstaff with a pennant of fleur de lis on it, and came directly up to the carriage, so close that the horse dipped his velvet nose into Olivia's lap. The rider, a beaming young woman with blond hair tucked under her hat, said, "I hear there is someone who wanted to speak to 'a real Mountie'!"

Olivia's face lit up, and when she glanced at Bobby in confirmation, he explained, "The CFO of Laurent's firm has a friend in the RCMP."

Olivia burst into a cascade of French so swift that Noémie would say later that she missed a few words herself. The Mountie, Constable Jeanne Vannier, introduced herself and her horse, Bayard, and continued to answer questions in English for a few minutes. She was recounting some of her duties when Alex, having kept a weather eye on Noémie, saw her sit back and her face twist in pain. She almost started to speak, but Constable Vannier beat her to it. "Madame! Are you unwell?"

Olivia, turning to check her sister-in-law, put her hand down on the seat, then lifted it in surprise. "It's wet–"

Vannier turned her horse smartly to face one of the guards. "Sergeant Le Tellier, please contact 911 immediately. Your maternity hospital, Madame?"

"Hôpital Saint-François d'Assise," Noémie gasped. "But I cannot...and Madame Fontaine, your seat–"

"It's a little late for 'I cannot,'" Alex advised. "The baby's calling the shots now."

"And the seat will clean, Madame," Fontaine chuckled.

"Is Noémie sick?" Randall asked, confused by the hubbub, for Constable Vannier had asked through her radio that someone run ice chips outside to the gate, and a long-legged man in a suit had jogged up with a paper cup.

"Her labor's started," Alex told the boy with a hug. "She's having the baby."

"You would like a taxi to the hospital, Monsieur Goren?" Fontaine asked, pulling out her cell phone.

"Yes, please," Bobby answered, then smiled at Alex. "What do you think, Eames? 'Just an ordinary day with the Gorens'?"

Noémie smiled at them wanly. "But today not for the Pepins."

               ***June 28, 2025***

"Alex? You awake?" Bobby yawned, stretching out his legs gingerly from his upright position on the waiting-room sofa, averse to waking up Randall, whose head was pillowed in his lap. Olivia was curled up on his opposite side, her head leaning on his arm.

"I wasn't," Alex said, lifting her head from the armchair with an impish smile.

"I think I fell asleep, too. Did you hear from Abbi?"

"She's holding the fort another day," Alex said, leaning her head on her right hand. "It must have been a noisy week: she swears she heard Bandit say, '¡Niños, silencio!'"

Bobby's quiet guffaw woke Olivia, who blinked, stretched, and yawned. "What time is it?"

"About two a.m.," Alex said, consulting her Fitbit.

"How long does it take to have a baby?" the girl complained.

"A first child sometimes takes up to 24 hours." Alex didn't add, "Or more."

"Twenty-four?" and that exclamation woke Randall abruptly.

"Wha' happened?" he asked blurrily. "Is there a baby yet?"

"Mama said it might take a whole day!"

Randall covered his head with his arm. "Well, wake me up then, 'kay?"

Alex stifled laughter. "Go back to sleep, Min."

"Not tired," muttered Olivia, but when Bobby put his arm around her, she soon dozed off. The adults appeared to join them in dreamland, but about an hour later, Alex murmured, "The chicken place across the street was good."

"Poulet Rouge? Mmmn. Yes."

"I think you need to learn to make poutine."

Bobby smiled down at Randall. "Two bowls," he marveled in a low voice. "And all that barbecue chicken besides."

"Growth spurt, here we come," said Alex fondly.

The automatic double doors from the delivery wing opened, and a smiling Nurse Mallais, a ruddy-faced, short woman with close-cropped dark hair, dressed in scrubs, bustled into the waiting room. She shared a wink with the adults, then tapped Olivia on the shoulder. The girl turned her head away from Bobby's arm and blinked sleepily at the woman.

"Tantine Olivia," she said, "your new family member is here."

Olivia bit her lip as she met the midwife's dancing eyes with a grin.

Bobby gently shook Randall's shoulder. "Wake up, Uncle Randall. You're official now."

"You may all come in," Mallais continued, "but–" and she solemnly faced a beaming Olivia and a yawning Randall, "–you must be very quiet."

"Oui, madame," Olivia said soberly. "Noémie must be very tired."

But Noémie didn't look tired as they walked into the cozy yellow birthing room with its subdued lighting and soft pastel modern art prints; in fact, she was happily chatting on her cell phone, waggling fingers at them in greeting. From her words, it was evident she was speaking to her father in Paris. Laurent turned then, with a bundle wrapped in a violet receiving blanket cradled in his arms.

"Tantine Olivia, Oncle Randall..." he said formally, bowing his head, and tilted the blanketed form toward them. The baby, still flushed from birth, blinked unfocused eyes at them, then scrunched them closed again.

Randall blurted out, "Are babies always that tiny and wrinkly?"

Olivia nudged him hard. "Hard to believe, but you were si petit, too—and prob'ly wrinklier!"

"From my presence here, I do not believe the child felt so tiny coming out," Laurent said with a teasing grin over his shoulder. Noémie paused with an "Attendez, Papa," before answering sarcastically, "Pas du tout!"

"I'm sure I didn't look as good as Noémie does now," Alex said with a smile, "when I gave birth to my nephew. So, Papa Laurent, is this to be a mystery novel where we have to wait for the surprise ending?"

"Stop teasing them, Lauré," Noémie said, laughing. "Ma bonne famille, we present our daughter."

Olivia solemnly curtsied to the violet bundle. "Bienvenue dans la famille, mademoiselle!"

Laurent continued soberly, "I must explain something before we go forward. We decided to be old-fashioned and not know our child's sex before birth. It did not matter to us, so long as le jeune was healthy. We chose names for both outcomes, names chosen because we loved them, but also they had special meaning."

He swallowed, gently rocking his new daughter for silent seconds. "Robert, Alexandra, we have not forgotten how our lives came to this. How you distanced me from my maman when her desires began to choke out my life. How I was at a crossroads and could have been tarnished by her racist worldview. How my drinking–" His face softened. "How you sent mon meilleur ami Sébastien, who knew the right things to say–"

"Laurent–" Bobby protested, coloring.

"There's no need," Alex added hastily.

"There is certainly 'need,'" Laurent insisted. "You have made my life."

"And mine," Noémie interjected, setting her phone down. "And you must swear that you will go back to the house now and have a proper meal and some good sleep before you get on the road tomorrow."

"It's a deal," Alex said, hugging Randall, but Bobby winked at Olivia, and they locked little fingers. "Pinky swear," Olivia said with a grin.

Laurent held his daughter up proudly. "Then a proper introduction is in order: dis bonjour à Mademoiselle Françoise Élisabeth Marielle Pepin."

Bobby started as he recognized his mother's name.

"Now we are all ohana," Laurent finished. He motioned with his hand. "Shoo! Leave me with ma belle fille et ma femme fatiguée. I have already called you a taxi." He glanced at his phone. "They are almost here and will meet you out front. I'll see you tonight."

"I'm afraid," Noémie apologized, "that I will have to wish you bon voyage tomorrow from my bed."

"We'd rather have been here for this!" insisted Olivia as they hugged one more time, then headed for the door.

"So, mon mari, I look tired?" Noémie objected playfully.

"Tired, sweet girl, mais belle."

The pneumatic door closed slowly, so they could hear the teasing bickering continue as Bobby and Alex shepherded the newly-energized children toward the elevators with Olivia bursting out eagerly, "The minute we get into the taxi, I'm posting on my blog–"

"Dad," Randall asked more practically, "you think Mrs. Beauvais might make poutine?"