WINTER WONDERLAND

by Belinda Jones

‘Eww!’

  ‘That’s what we call window shopping.’

  ‘Ohhh!’ I laugh. ‘Actually, I need to do a shopping section for the website – you know, special Quebec buys?’

  ‘Yes, I remember from your email. I have a list of places to show you.’

  ‘See how professional you are?’

  ‘Oh!’ she blushes then looks at her watch. ‘We should go! Many of the shops close at five p.m.’

  ‘Just like the good old days back in England,’ I smile.

  As we make our way to the car, we pass Jacques on the path.

  I take a moment to stop and thank him again for being so obliging at such a busy time.

  ‘It was my pleasure.’

  And then he hands me a card. ‘This is Sebastien’s number, so you can make the arrangements for Montreal.’

  ‘Great!’ I say, though I am a little dismayed that he hasn’t added his own. I don’t even know when our next encounter will be. ‘Well, I’d better go.’

  As I turn to leave he says, ‘See you at the Bain de Neige.’

  I switch back around. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘The Bain de Neige – Gilles said you’ll all be there.’

  ‘You’re not doing it?’

  ‘No, no. I’m actually helping the police with something.’

  ‘Catching Malhomme?’

  He purses his lips. ‘All I can say is that I inherited a sniffer dog from a friend of mine and they want me to bring him along to the event.’

  I wonder if I should tell him about the Staring Man at Auberge Saint-Antoine? I open my mouth to speak but Annique overrides me with a honking horn. No worries, it can wait until tomorrow. Everything can.

  Right now I’m going to set aside all complex concerns and indulge in some all-consuming consumerism …

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  We start at Artisans Canada – a pleasing emporium for local crafts, gifts and apparel, all made in Quebec ‘avec fierté’ – with pride. They even stock a clothing range by former Cirque du Soleil costume designer Rosie Godbout. Her garments are predominantly black with intricately entwined swatches of colour and, though the voluminous coats are a little eccentric-art-teacher for my readers, I am immediately drawn to the nearby rail of patchwork sweaters in a rather more rustic palette …

  ‘These are really unusual,’ I say, holding up one asymmetrical top with a man’s tie re-purposed as shoulder straps. ‘I like the mix of textures and patterns.’

  'They also sell them at the Hôtel de Glace,' Annique informs me.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t see them – I was up and out before the gift shop opened.’

  ‘Krista,’ Gilles beckons me. ‘Hold this up in front of you.’

  He’s finally getting my vibe – a T-shirt with a cartoon beaver and the words ‘Dam it!’

  We peruse every trinket and tchotchke in the place, but my most highly recommended purchase leads us back to Cirque du Soleil – jewellery by young designer Anne-Marie Chagnon.

  The woman behind the glass display tells us that Cirque du Soleil creator and founder Guy Laliberté saw her designs and pretty much declared, ‘I want your work in every one of our boutiques around the world.’

  She’s been creating exclusive collections for them every year for the past ten.

  Can you imagine that warp level of success? One minute you’re tinkering with your mini blowtorch and a heap of metal alloys, the next you’ve been discovered …

  I immediately fall for a cool, chunky pewter ring with a geometric slice of honey-coloured glass. This is the first time I have seen my hands displaying anything since I removed my wedding ring. And what a different message it sends, I think as I hold out my right hand to admire it. My wedding set was classic, traditional; this is a whole lot edgier and more independent.

  ‘And the prices are not too much.’ Annique shows me the tag which works out at about £50.

  I am sorely tempted but this being our first shop, I decide to hold back. For now.

  Next is Simons department store – founded in 1840! – which Annique suggests I explore at my leisure, but we peek inside the old-fashioned doors so she can show me the sale they have on gloves, hats and scarves. Definitely the place to come for bright red mittens and stripy beanies with fleece linings.

  ‘I’ve just realised we’re on the Côte de la Fabrique!’ I point up at the street sign when we step back outside. ‘How appropriate!’

  Gilles dutifully snaps the sign and then asks, somewhat plaintively, ‘Is anyone getting hungry?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ we girls chorus, with Annique adding, ‘Let me just show you one more place – Harricana; it’s on the way … ’

  I love the window display – everything looks fluffy, strokeable, and slip-off-your-shoulder sexy. Thick knits, chunky boots and pristine, shiny-shiny furs.

  And therein lies the problem. The fur is real.

  ‘No, no, this is different,’ Annique insists as I explain that this just isn’t cool in England. ‘Everything here is recycled.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘In Quebec everyone’s grandmother owned a fur coat, so they collected up all the ones that had been left in storage or rejected in favour of modern fabrics and they created something entirely new. See this?’ She reaches for a cropped, collarless jacket and then points to a photograph showing the original long, voluminous form.

  ‘Quite the transformation!’ I note, also clocking a selection of furry bags, Yeti leg warmers and nifty capelets.

  I must confess that, in my more shivery moments, I have wondered what it would be like to be enrobed in luxurious mink, but ultimately I came to the conclusion that it would be better to persuade the live animal to cosy up around your neck and shoulders, then you could trade off each other’s body heat.

  As it happens now, I’m too hot. Shopping here comes with an inbuilt time limit – you are blown in through the door with an icy gust, so happy to be greeted with abundant warmth, and then gradually the chill leaves your body and the heat seeps in and then you start to sweat and that’s when you’ve got to get out. Purchase or no purchase.

  Of course it’s different in a restaurant because you can relax and take off your coat and selective layers, which is what we do at Les Frères de la Côte.

  I like this place straight away. An eclectic bistro with ketchup-red walls, multi-era memorabilia and a wine list penned on the mirror behind the bar. The waitresses look as if they’ve seen it all, but whereas in England they’d sling the menus on the table without even looking in your direction, here even the most jaded face softens into a smile.

  ‘You know, I’m starting to notice a trend … ’ I muse as our particular server heads off to place our order. ‘Everyone here in Quebec looks at you like they really see you.’

  Annique and Gilles look bemused.

  ‘I mean, they’re not glazed or distant; everyone here seems present. And they are all so nice.’

  I leave it at that, but what I’m really thinking is that this is what life could be like if no one had any hang-ups, just an easy-breezy openness. It’s certainly extremely validating when people take the trouble to have a genuine interaction. It makes you feel better about yourself and thus you are more inclined to pay that pleasantness forward …

  ‘Oooh, food! Merci!’

  As Gilles turns a snap of my quiche-salad-fries combo into a work of art, I ask him how he got into photography. Unsurprisingly he tells us that his interest was first piqued when he was working as a model.

  ‘I used to stay on in the studio after the shoot, asking questions, watching and learning; then I started assisting, and one day I got my first commission,’ he shrugs. ‘It is my love.’

  My eyes flick to Annique, who is looking on with admiration.

  ‘Did you ever model?’ I ask her.

  ‘One campaign,’ she takes a sip of water. ‘For my ex’s company. That is how we met. My first and last job.’

  I wonder if I’m detecting regret in her voice but then she adds. �
��But for me, a tour guide is best.’

  Better than jetting between Paris, New York and Milan?

  ‘Modelling is a lot of judgement and a lot of introspection. I like to look at the beauty around me, in the buildings, in the landscape. I like to see people’s faces light up when they first see my city.’

  ‘Like the view from the Hilton?’ I think of my own reaction.

  She nods. ‘It is a privilege to share this place with visitors.’

  I believe in her job satisfaction. And she’s certainly a people-person. So naturally charming in her every interaction, chatting and laughing with the waitress when she comes back with the bill.

  ‘We will have our dessert elsewhere,’ she whispers for our ears only. ‘Something very particular.’

  We’re about to leave when Gilles excuses himself to go the bathroom. Finally!

  ‘Annique,’ I hiss, motioning for her to meet me halfway across the table. ‘You said there was more to Jacques’ story … ?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ She sighs. ‘Apparently one of the hardest things for Jacques was not just losing his best friend but also his second family … ’

  ‘Second family?’

  ‘Well, now this I heard directly from Lucy.’

  ‘You did better than me,’ I note. ‘I couldn’t get anything out of her the other day.’

  ‘Well turns out she used to work with Mason – my ex – there on the island so … ’

  ‘ … a trust was established.’

  ‘Actually, a mutual dislike of my ex.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Anyway. She said that Jacques used to be so close with Rémy’s family – the boys had grown up together and Jacques was inside their house every Sunday into adulthood, even when his friend moved to Montreal to join the riot police.’

  ‘Riot police?’ I repeat. ‘So he survived all manner of clash and conflict only to lose his life joy riding?’

  ‘I think that’s what must have blown the mother’s mind. She was always worrying about him when he was gone and so when he came home she thought she could exhale for a moment and it really caught her unaware.’

  ‘And she holds Jacques responsible?’

  ‘It sounds that way – immediately after the accident he sold all the snowmobile machines and equipment and tried to give her the money but she would not accept a penny and she has not spoken a word to him since.’

  All I can think is, there has to be a way to reconcile them. Maybe if they had a mediator? Or perhaps a neutral party could test the water, see if perhaps time had mellowed her a little and really the rift was nothing more than a habit now.

  ‘It’s so sad all round,’ Annique sighs. ‘Apparently Rémy had just met a new girl too. Life is messed up sometimes.’

  ‘Ready to go?’ Gilles is back.

  As we make our way out of the restaurant and up Rue Saint-Jean, I pay little attention to the boutiques and focus instead on sending a discreet text to Laurie:

  ‘Totally random but can you try and find the surname of guy named Rémy who died in a snowmobiling accident on the Île d’Orléans about a year ago? He was in the police. Probably aged between 30-40. I’m trying to find his family.’

  ‘Anything for you Sherlock.’

  My heart is beating a little faster. I know this is a delicate undertaking and any approach from me could be most unwelcome, but it has to be worth a try. I’d feel so much better leaving for Montreal if I knew the mother had extended the olive branch to Jacques. It would surely mean so much to him.

  ‘Alors!’ Annique comes to a halt. ‘I think the boutiques are a little more chic on Le Petit Champlain but that is in Lower Town and it is nearly four p.m., so what I think is nice right now is to introduce you to a world of maple syrup.’

  Before I can question how this qualifies as shopping, Annique shows me every feasible maple product from maple coffee to maple mustard, even maple exfoliators and lip balms.

  Like I don’t already stuff my face with enough sugary items.

  Les Delices de L’Érable – or Maple Delights – is also a gelateria and café, with every cake, sorbet and beverage sweetened with maple syrup.

  ‘Which has fewer calories than honey,’ Annique tells me.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It really helped me to lose weight,’ she insists. ‘And it has potassium and calcium and magnesium!’

  ‘So, in a roundabout way, it’s healthy!’ I decide as I point to my pastry of choice and then add a book entitled ‘Cooking with Quebec Maple Syrup’ for Laurie.

  ‘Upstairs they have a quaint little Maple Syrup Museum.’

  ‘Mmm-hmm,’ I say, I mean, how much does anyone really want to know about maple syrup beyond its taste?

  But then she adds, ‘You know Jacques is part of the co-op that produces maple syrup for Quebec?’

  ‘I did not know that.’

  ‘The work is seasonal so he runs the dog-sledding business in the winter and does maple-syrup tapping in the spring.’

  Suddenly I want to know everything there is to know.

  ‘I’ll just take a quick look,’ I say, heading for the stairs.

  I’m up there half an hour.

  It turns out that maple syrup was first discovered by the Amerindians who would cut a V-shape in the tree with their tomahawks and then insert concave pieces of bark to collect its sap. Most modern-day tappers use a high-tech tree-tubing system that runs the sap directly back to the sugar shack, but part of me hopes Jacques does it the old-fashioned way – with a wooden spout and a metal bucket and a horse-drawn sled. I can just see myself out in the woods in a jaunty headsquare, gingham shirt and denim capris, or perhaps luring Jacques back home with wafts of orchard fruit pie, served à la nude – in bed with two spoons.

  When the season is over it would be the summer and we’d go swimming in the lakes and have big sprawling picnics with our friends. Come the autumn we’d drive down to Vermont and stay in rustic-elegant B&Bs and watch the leaves change colour before our very eyes. What a life that would be! Naturally I’d end up writing one of those Year in Provence-type books entitled Miss Maple Syrup Pie or Becoming Québécoise or I Married the Wolfman, and it would become a bestseller and we’d offer themed tours and I’d read sample chapters to the person riding in my sled and we’d have a little café serving homemade goods …

  I try to stop my mind racing but on it goes:

  Gilles would do portraits of all the dogs and these would line the walls of the farmhouse reception. For our annual Christmas card he would somehow get all the dogs to look his way just as the camera clicked.

  It’s all too wonderful and then some contrary part of me says, ‘But what if he wants children?’

  To which I reply, ‘I think he has enough on his hands with the dogs.’

  ‘Are you talking to yourself?’ Annique interrupts my wild imaginings.

  ‘Oh! I was just, um, this is all so fascinating!’ I bluster. ‘I had no idea it takes thirty-two litres of maple sap to make one litre of maple syrup!’

  ‘Amazing isn’t it? Here – I bought you a cup of maple syrup tea to try.’

  ‘Oh thank you.’

  ‘I just found out that Gilles has a sweet tooth!’ She looks thrilled. ‘He’s on his third maple mousse!’

  And then my phone pings this message:

  Rémy Walker. Family live in Wendake about 20 minutes from Old Town Quebec. Mother, Johanna Laframboise, works at restaurant called La Traite.

  I look back at Annique, my heart a-flurry. ‘You know our plans for tonight?’

  ‘Yes, we watch the parade—’

  ‘I was wondering,’ I cut in. ‘If Gilles could cover that and you and I might go to dinner. Just the two of us.’

  ‘You had somewhere in mind?’

  ‘La Traite.’

  ‘La Traite?’ she repeats. ‘At Wendake?’

  ‘Yes, you know it?’

  ‘The food is meant to be exceptional. But this has to be tonight?’

  ‘Actually, yes, t
he sooner the better. And there’s another thing – I would like you to translate for me.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘When I speak to Rémy’s mother,’ I gulp. ‘She works there, at the restaurant.’

  Now she looks uncomfortable. ‘Well, I don’t know if that is possible … ’

  ‘I understand that this may seem like interfering in someone else’s business and there is a risk of upsetting two people who have already suffered enough. But I can’t help thinking it could start such a positive chain reaction – she gets back in touch with Jacques, that’s two people who feel better right there, not cured,’ I hasten to add. ‘Not absolved of grief but at least a tiny bit comforted, a tiny bit healed. And then Sebastien feels confident that his brother will be all right and he can get back to his life in Montreal… ’

  ‘It’s not that,’ Annique replies. ‘I just don’t know if I am going to be able to translate. Do you know what tribe she is?’

  ‘Tribe?’

  ‘If it’s Huron-Wendat I can help you because they speak French, but I don’t speak Cree or Iroquois or Algonquin.’

  My brow furrows.

  ‘La Traite is part of the First Nations hotel. Everyone who works there is what you would call Indian.’

  ‘So Rémy’s mother could be, for example, Mohawk?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wow.’ Now I am hesitant. I feel I need to be more respectful than ever but I’m not sure what this might mean in practical terms. ‘Do you think we should still go?’

  ‘Well,’ Annique appears to be giving the matter much consideration. ‘I have been hearing great things about the maple fondue, I’d love to try it.’

  I smile and reach for her hand. ‘Thank you. I really appreciate this. Why don’t you go home and get a few hours’ rest? We could meet again at eight p.m.?’

  She looks grateful. ‘That would be most welcome.’ And then she turns back to me. ‘Do you have any idea of what you are going to say to his mother when you see her?’

  Now it is my turn to pause. ‘No,’ I reply in a small voice.

  ‘Well then, I want you to visit this one last shop on your way back to the hotel.’

  She writes down the address and hands me the piece of paper. ‘It might help get you in the right frame of mind … ’