Home Is Where The Heart Lies

By Anabel David

As a hot-headed college senior who's led a privileged life, Rachel is particularly frustrated when she's forced to serve community service over the holidays at a soup kitchen in 2007 Montreal. 

Yet the experience starts opening her eyes to a world she had previously disdained, especially when she meets Ben, a former Iraq war vet. Fascinated, intrigued, and admittedly attracted, she can't help but want to dig deeper into the mysterious artist/poet. But a broken man with PTSD and personal trauma who has given up on life is not easily won, despite the help she tries to give him.

Will Rachel be able to convince Ben he's worth so much more than he believes? Or will a life-threatening emergency have to tip his heart?(41k words)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anabel David
• Release date: Dec 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215051962

Anabel David

Anabel David is a Canadian author born and raised in Montreal, Quebec, where she lived most of her life. She has occupied many jobs and trades including communications technician in the Reserves, fashion store clerk, homemaker and computer technician.  She now resides near Quebec City, where she has peace and quiet to write her books. 

Book preview

Prologue

Rachel Johnson, you’re a hot-headed fool.

She stood before the cracked store-front window, and picked the brick up before throwing it a second time at the spot that seemed most vulnerable. This time, the glass did shatter and fall on the pavement in a satisfying crash of shards.

But you go all out.

Her work done, Rachel grabbed her pack and ran home, the alarm’s ring fading in the background as she turned the next corner and slowed to a discreet walk. She had a spring in her step and was almost whistling with glee. No one touches my friend like that. Especially not her boss. What a pig. All men are pigs.

RACHEL JOHNSON, DO you understand the charges brought against you?

Yes, Your Honour.

Alright, since this appears to be your first offence, I sentence you to a 500$ fine and sixty hours of community service. The clerk will set you up.

But—

Miss Johnson, I understand your motivations, but what happened to your roommate was no excuse to vandalize private property and playing vigilante is not the way to make things right.

But—

Not another word from you, young lady, or I will double the time.

"Yes, Your Honour." 

BON, MADAME RACHEL Johnson, on vous attend à la soupe populaire—

— In English, please, moi pas bien compris. S’il vous plaît.

The clerk, a woman in her thirties, looked Rachel up and down at her pressed slacks and her artisan-crafted leather bag, then audibly sighed before starting again.

"Alright, Miss Johnson, you are expected at the Soupe Populaire et Popote Roulante du Quartier Centre-Sud at 9am sharp on December 22nd." The clerk told her in a thick Québécois accent.

That’s during the holidays!

The woman gave her a look that brooked no arguing.

I suppose that’s better than during the semester. A soup kitchen? Was there any other assignment available?

They need a concierge at the shelter in the same area: wash floors, the showers...

Yuck, no. Maybe the kitchen will need someone to help with their administration? That’s what I’m good at.

The clerk suppressed a smirk. Maybe they do. During the busiest time of the year..., she deadpanned.

The tall brunette, duly convicted, bit her lip. By the address, she could tell that the soup kitchen proposed was down the hill and a few blocks east of the brownstone townhouse where she lived with her roommate, Rose, but she was sure no one she knew would see her work there. I suppose community service is better than a criminal record and being sent home, she sighed to herself, as she exited the ugly courthouse they called ‘modern’, and walked to the café where her friend Rose was supposed to meet her.

Rose arrived after Rachel had finished her coffee.

Sorry I’m late! How did it go? She asked after the customary greeting kisses. Rachel, born and raised in Fulham, England, had taken up the habit fairly quickly. It was part of the warmth and hospitality of the French Canadians: the quick hug-and-kisses-on-the-cheeks. Rose Ty-Cho had followed her parents’ move to British Columbia in her teens, but had moved back to study at McGill University, where Rachel also studied.

About as well as can be expected. Rachel shared the details of the judge’s sentence with her roommate.

Like you said, better than being sent home with your tail between your legs. Honestly, Rachel, what did you think would happen? That my boss would apologize or something? That you wouldn’t get caught? At least you owned up to it.

I— didn’t think that far.

Obviously. Well. You’re gonna get your hands dirty now.

Montreal, Dec 22nd, 2007

S o, you’ve got sixty hours to do? That’s it? The manager of the soup kitchen she had been assigned to was sitting down at a cluttered, brown wooden desk.

Rachel looked down at the man. He looked unkempt: not so much dirty as out of shape, with old clothes a bit tight over his potbelly. His thinning hair was long-overdue for a haircut. The office looked about the same: this cheap desk, mismatched chairs, old computer equipment. Everything looked as if at the end of its useful life. The chair he’d offered her looked dirty; she’d preferred to stand.

Listless, she barely stifled a sigh. Yes, sir, she answered, finally resigned to her plight. 

He looked up from the paperwork. We’re open here every day, even during the holiday. Day off on the 26th and New Year’s Day. It’s a six-hour shift, beginning at 9 am. Lunch is served from 11h30 to 13h30, but we adapt to the weather and the clientele. If you’re late, I’ll dock those hours, and you’ll have to catch up. If you’re always late or don’t show up, I’ll send the report back saying so, and you’ll have to do something else, but you won’t do it with us. Alright?

Rachel nodded.

You can do one or two days a week, or you can do it all at once.

Rachel groaned audibly. The man stood up. So, what is it?

She straightened. Seriously, Sir, I’m between semesters at school. I’m available all week, so we can get it over with all at once.

Ten days, she thought to herself.

Christmas day too? That’s our busiest time. It’ll count double.

With her parents home in England and her roommate out of town to visit with her family in Vancouver, Rachel could go to her uncle’s family for Christmas.

I’ve been invited somewhere.

The manager, Pierre-Luc Tremblay, walked around the desk to reopen the office door to let them out. Alright. Let me know if you change your mind. Now, let me show you the ropes.

He led her to the kitchen, where people were already bustling about. She’d come in early, as requested, but now everything was overwhelming. Her previous job was in her uncle’s bookstore, but he’d closed last year, unable to compete with online distribution. She’d also worked in an office, doing some clerical work, but that wasn’t the type of work she would do here.

Everyone, this is Rachel Johnson, Pierre-Luc — Pierre for short — announced. She will be helping us this week. Welcome to the Soupe Populaire et Popote Roulante du Quartier Centre-Sud, Rachel. Hope we make it worth your trouble.

People turned from their tasks to greet her; some waved or gave her a nod and a welcoming smile. She smiled back; her professional smile, the kind of smile she plastered on that helped her get over her shyness. She has sixty hours to do with us, Pierre-Luc specified. So, this is just temporary help: you know the sort. Thérèse, will you get her started?

A middle-aged woman wearing a short-sleeved flowery blouse under her apron and bright turquoise earrings stepped forward. Ok, Boss. Rachel? Tu parles-tu français?

Un petit peu française, pas très bonne. Oh, no, she thought, I wasn't ready for French immersion.

At her speech, the older woman looked up. From Westmount? She frowned. Non... British?

Rachel nodded.

Ça fait loin pour causer du trouble. (That’s a long way to come to cause trouble.) Bon, c’est pas grave (well, no problem), don’t worry. My name is Thérèse. The woman switched back to English, much to Rachel’s relief. She introduced the others: Pauline, the desert specialist, and Éric, a jack-of-all-trades. Two more people were expected later. All but the manager were volunteers, though their transport fees were reimbursed as a stipend.

Do you know enough to understand if someone asks you for ‘Soupe poulet’ ou ‘légumes’? Thérèse inquired.

Soup... chicken or vegetables, right? I can understand fine; I just don’t speak it well.

Ok, check with us to be sure, then. There’s a big difference between ‘haché’ and ‘tranché’ when it comes to food prep. Show me your hands.  Thérèse grasped one hand and looked at her manicure, humphed and let it go. That’s ‘chopped’ and ‘sliced’. Have you worked in a kitchen before?

No, not really; just at home; I cook a bit.

"Ah, calvaire. You can peel potatoes?"

THEY GAVE HER A CLEAN, if stained, apron to protect her wool pants and silk blouse, but her manicure would be ruined by the end of the day. Rachel sighed. Her feet would be killing her by noon. I should have known I’d be doing manual labour, Rachel thought. Stupid idea to break that window. I shouldn’t have gotten more narked at Rose’s boss than she herself did. Now, I’m stuck here for the holidays, instead of home in London with my parents.

While she inwardly grumbled about her circumstance, another worker joined her: the older man introduced as Éric. Mid-height and wiry, he gave her a better paring knife.

What did you do to get here? he asked companionably. His near-white hair was combed over to hide his baldness.

I broke a window.

Watch for the eyes, Rachel, they ruin the taste, he commented in a kindly manner, observing her work. Sixty hours?

Still a bit prickly, Rachel answered, Big window. You?

I like it here.

Rachel looked at him. He had crinkles at the corner of his warm blue eyes; laughter had creased his cheeks. He had a toothpick tucked in one corner of his mouth and a faint smell of nicotine wafted from him. His hands were veined and a little crooked but looked strong.

He looked content, something she didn’t expect from someone working for the ‘unwashed masses’.

She gave the kitchen a better inspection. There were five of them in a space big enough to be a school cafeteria. A lot of schools had closed over the past decade. Rachel guessed this one had been repurposed for the homeless and the refugees who’d crossed into the country during the winter. It looked clean enough, despite the equipment’s worn edges, as old and used as the office furniture and the manager himself.

Of all the crew present, she was by far the youngest, but by their reaction, they had young delinquents working here fairly often. As her initial anxiety calmed, she saw the ‘regulars’ did their work simply, bantered about whose grandchild was giving their parents the most trouble and spoke softly of ailing relatives. With some effort, she could understand most of their conversation, but it was tiresome, so she concentrated on her first task while exchanging a few pleasantries with her companion.

How long have you been in Montreal?

Going on three years now, Rachel told him. She’d jumped at a chance to study in Montreal, at the same college her cousin Félix had studied — and leave her home borough in West London, Fulham — and her troubles — behind.

Rachel loved the diversity of this Canadian Metropolis. Montreal felt like her home borough now, and she thought she was adapting well to French Canadian culture. There were a few musical artists she listened to, like Arianne Moffat and Les Colocs, and some other Canadian bands that she loved as well, like Arcade Fire and Simple Plan. She loved the multiculturalism of the boutiques and the restaurants and the music festivals. It made her feel like she was part of a bigger world.

In warm tones, Éric spoke of his work at the nearby brewery during the 80s, one of the best union jobs available back then. Rachel listened to him intently. At McGill, there were few students actually from Montreal, let alone francophones, who generally attended the sister schools: UdM, Université de Montréal, or the other French one, UQAM, Université du Québec à Montréal, or Concordia, the other English university. At McGill, students came from all over the world; she didn’t know many Quebecers. Here, she sat with someone from the working class. A ‘Pure Laine’ (working-class of French descent) Québécois. She’d learned their struggles resembled those of the Irish, Catholics like them, like her family, though she didn’t go to church. 

Together, the crew, including Rachel now, made quick work of the mound of potatoes to be mashed for today’s main meal: paté Chinois, something Rachel knew as shepherd’s pie, but this version was made only here in Québec: fried ground beef, layered with creamed corn and topped with mashed potatoes. Add a sprinkling of smoked paprika for colour and a hint of flavour. The dish was baked until the top layer was a golden crust. 

Steak, blé d’Inde, patate! joked Thérèse, but Rachel didn’t quite catch the reference. Even after nearly three years in the country and living in one of Montreal Island’s more French boroughs — Plateau Mont-Royal