Chapter 17: Torn

I didn't go to the office.

I sat on Lise's wet floor and made myself stay there.

"Go," Lise said.

"No."

"You want to know what he's doing."

"I want to know if he's selling," I said. "And if he is, I don't want to watch him do it."

At four o'clock the shipping clerk texted again.

"He came out. Luc came out laughing."

At five, a notice went up on the door of every building on the island, on company letterhead.

ALL-HANDS. BOTTLING HOUSE. WEDNESDAY 7 A.M. ATTENDANCE REQUIRED.

Lise read it off the café door with her hands on her hips.

"Attendance required," she said. "I'm going. I'm not even on the payroll. I'm going to sit in the front row with a coffee."

The bottling house still had plywood over half its windows.

Two hundred people stood between the silent conveyor lines in boots and blue shirts and field hats.

The bottles stood behind them on the belts.

Lise and I stood at the back, by the door.

Mémère sat in a folding chair at the front, in her cardigan, her cane across her knees.

Luc stood on a pallet so everybody could see him, in his navy suit.

Mireille stood beside the pallet with a clipboard and a fresh piece of gum.

"Good morning, Arceneaux family," Luc said.

He gave a beautiful speech.

He talked about the storm and the roof and the insurer.

Then he said "strategic partner," and "Houston," and "growth," and "nobody in this room needs to worry about their job."

He said that last part looking right at the foreman.

The foreman looked back at him with his arms crossed.

"Questions?" Luc said, already stepping down.

"One," said a voice from the side.

Etienne walked out from between the conveyor lines.

He was in muddy work clothes, with the envelope in his hand.

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