Chapter Text
***June 26, 2025***
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 day. 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."
. . . . .
"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?"
= = = = = = = = = =
The Klimt-inspired mother-and-child print in the nursery. The moment I saw this, I knew Laurent and Noémie would have it in the baby's room. I have seen this shared numerous times, but don't know the artist.
