A Trick of the Light (46 page)

“Chiaroscuro,” said Thierry Pineault, falling into step beside Gamache as he took his morning walk. Leaves and small branches were scattered around the village green and front gardens, but no trees were down from the storm.

“Pardon?”

“The sky.” Pineault pointed. “A contrast of dark and light.”

Gamache smiled.

They strolled together in silence. As they walked they noticed Ruth leaving her home, shutting her little gate and limping along a well-worn path to the bench. Giving a cursory wipe of her hand on the wet wood she sat, staring into the distance.

“Poor Ruth,” said Pineault. “Sitting all day on that bench feeding the birds.”

“Poor birds,” said Gamache and Pineault laughed. As they watched, Brian came out of the B and B. He waved to the Chief Justice, nodded to Gamache, then walked across the green to sit beside Ruth.

“Does he have a death wish?” asked Gamache. “Or is he drawn to wounded things?”

“Neither. He’s drawn to healing things.”

“He’d fit in well here,” said the Chief Inspector, looking around the village.

“You like it here, don’t you,” said Thierry, watching the large man beside him.

“I do.”

The two men stopped and watched Brian and Ruth sitting side-by-side, apparently in their own worlds.

“You must be very proud of him,” said Gamache. “It’s incredible that a boy with such a background could get clean and sober.”

“I’m happy for him,” said Thierry. “But not proud. Not my place to be proud of him.”

“I think you’re being modest, sir. Not every sponsor has such success, I imagine.”

“His sponsor?” said Thierry. “I’m not his sponsor.”

“Then what are you?” Gamache asked, trying not to show his surprise. He looked from the Chief Justice to the pierced young man on the bench.

“I’m his sponsee. He’s my sponsor.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Gamache.

“Brian’s my sponsor. He’s eight years sober, I’m only two.”

Gamache looked from the elegant Thierry Pineault, in gray flannels and light cashmere sweater, to the skinhead.

“I know what you’re thinking, Chief Inspector, and you’re right. Brian is pretty tolerant of me. He gets a lot of grief from his friends when he’s seen with me in public. My suits and ties and all. Very embarrassing,” Thierry smiled.

“That wasn’t exactly what I was thinking,” said Gamache. “But close enough.”

“You didn’t really think I sponsored him, did you?”

“Well I certainly didn’t think it was the other way around,” said Gamache. “Isn’t there—”

“Anyone else?” asked Thierry P. “Lots of others, but I have my reasons for choosing Brian. I’m very grateful he agreed to sponsor me. He saved my life.”

“In that case, I’m grateful to him as well,” said Gamache. “My apologies.”

“Is that an amend, Chief Inspector?” Thierry asked with a grin.

“It is.”

“Then I accept.”

They continued their walk. It was worse than Gamache had feared. He’d wondered who the Chief Justice’s sponsor might be. Someone in AA, obviously. Another alcoholic, with great influence over a greatly influential man. But it never occurred to Gamache that Thierry Pineault would choose a Nazi skinhead as a sponsor.

He must have been drunk.

“I realize I’m over-stepping my bounds—”

“Then don’t do it, Chief Inspector.”

“—but this is no ordinary situation. You’re an important man.”

“And Brian isn’t?”

“Of course he is. But he’s also a convicted felon. A young man with a record of drug abuse and alcoholism, who killed a little girl while driving drunk.”

“What do you know of that case?”

“I know he admits it. I heard his share. And I know he went to prison for it.”

They walked in silence around the village green, the rain from the day before rose in a mist as the morning warmed up. It was early yet. Few had risen. Just the mist, and the two men, walking around and around the tall pine trees. And Ruth and Brian on the bench.

“The little girl he killed was my granddaughter.”

Gamache stopped.

“Your granddaughter?”

Thierry stopped too and nodded. “Aimée. She was four years old. She’d be twelve now. If it hadn’t happened. Brian went to prison for five years. The day he got out he came over to our house. And apologized. We didn’t accept, of course. Told him to go away. But he kept coming back. Mowing my daughter’s lawn, washing their car. I’m afraid a lot of the chores had sort of fallen by the wayside. I was drinking heavily and wasn’t much help. But then Brian started doing all those things. Once a week he showed up and did chores, for her and for us. He never spoke. Just did them and left.”

Thierry began walking again, and Gamache caught up with him.

“One day, after about a year, he started talking to me about his drinking. About why he drank and how he felt. It was exactly how I felt. I didn’t admit it of course. Didn’t want to admit I had anything in common with this horrible creature. But Brian knew. Then one day he told me we were going for a drive. And he took me to my first AA meeting.”

They were back at the bench.

“He saved my life. I’d gladly trade that life for Aimée. I know Brian would too. When I was a few months sober he came to me again and asked my forgiveness.”

Thierry stopped on the road.

“And I gave it.”

*   *   *

“Clara, no. Please.”

Peter stood in their bedroom, wearing just his pajama bottoms.

Clara looked at him. There wasn’t a single spot on that beautiful body she hadn’t touched. Stroked. Loved.

And didn’t, she knew, love still. His body wasn’t the issue. His mind wasn’t the issue. It was his heart.

“You have to go,” she said.

“But why? I’m doing my best, I really am.”

“I know you are, Peter. But we need time apart. We both have to figure out what’s important. I know I do. Maybe this’ll make us appreciate what we have.”

“But I already do,” Peter pleaded. He looked around in panic. The thought of leaving terrified him. Leaving this room, this home. Their friends. The village. Clara.

Going up that road and over that hill. Out of Three Pines.

Where to? What place could be better than this?

“
Oh, no no no,
” he moaned.

But he knew if Clara wanted this, then he had to go. Had to leave.

“Just for a year,” said Clara.

“Promise?” he said, his eyes bright and holding hers. Afraid to blink in case she broke contact.

“Next year, on exactly this date,” Clara said.

“I’ll come home,” said Peter.

“And I’ll be waiting for you. We’ll have a barbeque, just the two of us. Steaks. And young asparagus. And baguettes from Sarah’s boulangerie.”

“I’ll bring a bottle of red wine,” he said. “And we won’t invite Ruth.”

“We won’t invite anyone,” agreed Clara.

“Just us.”

“Just us,” she said.

Then Peter Morrow dressed, and packed a single suitcase.

*   *   *

From his bedroom window Jean Guy Beauvoir could see the Chief walking slowly to their car. He knew he should hurry, shouldn’t keep the man waiting, but there was something he needed to do first.

Something he knew he could finally do.

After getting up, and taking a pill, and having breakfast Jean Guy Beauvoir knew this was the day.

*   *   *

Peter tossed the suitcase into their car. Clara was standing beside him.

Peter could feel himself teetering on the verge of the truth. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Haven’t we said enough?” she asked, exhausted. She hadn’t slept all night. The power had finally come back on at two thirty, and she’d still been awake. After shutting off the lights and going to the bathroom she’d crawled back to bed.

And watched Peter sleep. Watched him breathe, his cheek smushed into the pillow. His long lashes resting together. His hands relaxed.

She studied that face. That lovely body, beautiful into its fifties.

And now the moment had come to let it go.

“No, I need to tell you something,” he said.

She looked at him, and waited.

“I’m sorry that Lillian wrote that terrible review back at school.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” Clara asked, puzzled.

“It’s just that I was standing close to her when they were looking at your work and I think I—”

“Yes?” Clara asked, guarded.

“I should have told her how great I thought it was. I mean, I told her I loved your art, but I think I could have been clearer.”

Clara smiled. “Lillian was Lillian. You couldn’t have changed her mind. Don’t worry about it.”

She took Peter’s hands and rubbed them softly, then she kissed him on his lips.

And left. Walking through their gate, down their path, and through her door.

Just before it closed Peter remembered something else.
“Arisen,”
he called.
“Hope takes its place among the modern masters.”
He stared at the closed door, sure he’d called out in time. Sure she’d heard. “I memorized the reviews, Clara. All the good ones. I know them by heart.”

But Clara was inside her home. Leaning against her door.

Her eyes closed, she fished in her pocket and brought out the coin. The beginner’s chip.

She grasped it so tightly a prayer became printed on her palm.

*   *   *

Jean Guy picked up the phone, and began dialing. Two, three, four numbers. Further than he’d ever been before hanging up. Six, seven numbers.

Sweat sprung to his palms and he felt light-headed.

Out the window he watched the Chief Inspector toss his bag into the back of the car.

*   *   *

Chief Inspector Gamache closed the back door to the car and turned round, watching Ruth and Brian.

Then someone else came into his field of vision.

Olivier walked slowly as though approaching a landmine. He paused just once, then kept going, stopping only when he reached the bench, and Ruth.

She didn’t move, but continued to stare into the sky.

“She’ll sit there forever, of course,” said Peter, coming up beside Gamache. “Waiting for something that won’t happen.”

Gamache turned to him. “You don’t think Rosa will come back?”

“No, I don’t. And neither do you. There’s no kindness in false hope.” His voice was hard.

“You aren’t expecting a miracle today?” Gamache asked.

“Are you?”

“Always. And I’m never disappointed. I’m about to go home to the woman I love, who loves me. I do a job I believe in with people I admire. Every morning when I swing my legs out of bed I feel like I walk on water.” Gamache looked Peter in the eyes. “As Brian said last night, sometimes drowning men are saved.”

As they watched, Olivier sat on the bench and joined Ruth and Brian staring up at the sky. Then he took off his blue cardigan and draped it over Ruth’s shoulders. The old poet didn’t move. But after a moment she spoke.

“Thank you,” she said. “Numb nuts.”

*   *   *

Eleven numbers.

The phone was ringing. Jean Guy almost hung up. His heart was beating so hard he thought for sure he’d never hear if anyone answered. And probably pass out if they did.

“Oui, âllo?”
came the cheerful voice.

“Hello?” he managed. “Annie?”

*   *   *

Armand Gamache watched Peter Morrow drive slowly along du Moulin, and out of Three Pines.

As he turned back to the village he saw Ruth get to her feet. She was staring into the distance. And then he heard it. A far cry. A familiar cry.

Ruth searched the skies, a veined and bony hand at her throat clutching the blue cardigan.

The sun broke through a small crack in the clouds. The embittered old poet turned her face to the sound and the light. Straining to see into the distance, something not quite there, not quite visible.

And in her weary eyes there was a tiny dot. A glint, a gleam.

A
LSO
BY
L
OUISE
P
ENNY

Bury Your Dead

The Brutal Telling

A Rule Against Murder

The Cruelest Month

A Fatal Grace

Still Life

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

A TRICK OF THE LIGHT. Copyright © 2011 by Three Pines Creations, Inc. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.minotaurbooks.com

Excerpt from “Up” from
Morning in the Burned House
by Margaret Atwood. Copyright © 1995. Published by McClelland & Stewart in Canada, and Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company in the United States. Used with permission of the author and her publishers (in their respective territories) and the author’s agent, Curtis Brown Group Ltd., London, acting on behalf of Margaret Atwood. All rights reserved.

Excerpts from page 82 of the book
Alcoholics Anonymous,
copyright 1939, is used by kind permission of AA World Services.

“Not Waving But Drowning” by Stevie Smith from
Collected Poems of Stevie Smith,
copyright 1957 by Stevie Smith. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Penny, Louise.

A trick of the light : a Chief Inspector Gamache novel / Louise Penny. — 1st ed.