The Long Way Home
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For Michael
Surprised by Joy
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While essentially a solitary undertaking, I find that when I write there is a parade of people, of events, of memories keeping me company. And never more so than with
The Long Way Home
.
I won’t discuss the themes here, or the reasons I wrote this book in this way, but I do want to mention a few influences, including Joseph Conrad’s
Heart of Darkness
and Homer’s
Odyssey.
And the remarkable Marilynne Robinson’s book
Gilead.
As well as the old spiritual “Balm in Gilead.”
And, as always, I have been inspired by the setting, by the history and geography and nature of Québec. And, specifically, by memories of my travels along the glorious St. Lawrence River. By the haunting coastline of the Lower North Shore. And the villages and villagers there. I have traveled a lot in my life, as a journalist and as a private person, but I have never, ever met kindness so profound, and integrity so deep, as I did in kitchens and porches and front rooms along that coast.
Thank you to the people of Mutton Bay, La Tabatière, St. Augustine, Harrington Harbour, and so many other ports. People who asked for so little and gave so much.
I have also been fortunate to spend time in Charlevoix, an area so beautiful it almost defies reason. Now, having said that, I recognize that the Baie-Saint-Paul of this book is not a completely accurate reflection of the actual town. I hope those of you who live there, or visit that lovely area, forgive me some artistic license. Especially the gracious owners of the Auberge La Muse and the Galerie Clarence Gagnon.
This book owes more than I feel I want to admit to my remarkable editor at Minotaur Books/St. Martin’s Press in the United States, Hope Dellon. And to Andrew Martin, Sarah Melnyk, Paul Hochman, Cassie Galante, and David Rotstein.
In the UK, I am indebted to the wise counsel of my editor, Lucy Malagoni, and publisher, David Shelley, at Little, Brown.
Many thanks to Jamie Broadhurst and the people at Raincoast Books, for introducing Gamache et al. to so many Canadians.
Many of you found me through my newsletter and website. They’re designed and constructed and maintained by the remarkable Linda Lyall. We’ve been together since before
Still Life
was published. And we’ve never met. I live in Québec and Linda lives in Scotland. But we’ve developed as close a bond as any colleagues who share an office.
Thank you to Teresa Chris, who is both my agent and my friend. It feels as though Fate brought us together ten years ago. Actually, the first time we met I almost ran her over with a car. Shhhh. I’m not sure she realizes that.
Thank you to Susan McKenzie, for being a constructive, kind, and thoughtful first reader. And a loving friend.
To my brother Doug, who is also a first reader and tireless champion. Funny, I spent much of my childhood wishing he would go away. And now I cherish his company.
Endless thanks to My Assistant, Lise Desrosiers, who is so much more than an assistant. A sister, a friend, a help-mate, a confidante.
Merci, ma belle.
And finally, to Michael. Who made all my dreams come true. He is my heart and my home.
It’s my turn now, dear Michael.
CONTENTS
ONE
As Clara Morrow approached, she wondered if he’d repeat the same small gesture he’d done every morning.
It was so tiny, so insignificant. So easy to ignore. The first time.
But why did Armand Gamache keep doing it?
Clara felt silly for even wondering. How could it matter? But for a man not given to secrets, this gesture had begun to look not simply secretive, but furtive. A benign act that seemed to yearn for a shadow to hide in.
And yet here he was in the full light of the new day, sitting on the bench Gilles Sandon had recently made and placed on the brow of the hill. Stretched out before Gamache were the mountains, rolling from Québec to Vermont, covered in thick forests. The Rivière Bella Bella wound between the mountains, a silver thread in the sunlight.
And, so easy to overlook when faced with such grandeur, the modest little village of Three Pines lay in the valley.
Armand was not hiding from view. But neither was he enjoying it. Instead, each morning the large man sat on the wooden bench, his head bent over a book. Reading.
As she got closer, Clara Morrow saw Gamache do it again. He took off his half-moon reading glasses, then closed the book and slipped it into his pocket. There was a bookmark, but he never moved it. It remained where it was like a stone, marking a place near the end. A place he approached, but never reached.
Armand didn’t snap the book shut. Instead he let it fall, with gravity, closed. With nothing, Clara noticed, to mark his spot. No old receipt, no used plane or train or bus ticket to guide him back to where he’d left the story. It was as though it didn’t really matter. Each morning he began again. Getting closer and closer to the bookmark, but always stopping before he arrived.
And each morning Armand Gamache placed the slim volume into the pocket of his light summer coat before she could see the title.
She’d become slightly obsessed with this book. And his behavior.
She’d even asked him about it, a week or so earlier, when she’d first joined him on the new bench overlooking the old village.
“Good book?”
“Oui.”
Armand Gamache had smiled as he said it, softening his blunt answer. Almost.
It was a small shove from a man who rarely pushed people away.
No, thought Clara, as she watched him in profile now. It wasn’t that he’d shoved her. Instead, he’d let her be, but had taken a step back himself. Away from her. Away from the question. He’d taken the worn book, and retreated.
The message was clear. And Clara got it. Though that didn’t mean she had to heed it.
* * *
Armand Gamache looked across to the deep green midsummer forest and the mountains that rolled into eternity. Then his eyes dropped to the village in the valley below them, as though held in the palm of an ancient hand. A stigmata in the Québec countryside. Not a wound, but a wonder.
Every morning he went for a walk with his wife, Reine-Marie, and their German shepherd Henri. Tossing the tennis ball ahead of them, they ended up chasing it down themselves when Henri became distracted by a fluttering leaf, or a black fly, or the voices in his head. The dog would race after the ball, then stop and stare into thin air, moving his gigantic satellite ears this way and that. Honing in on some message. Not tense, but quizzical. It was, Gamache recognized, the way most people listened when they heard on the wind the wisps of a particularly beloved piece of music. Or a familiar voice from far away.
Head tilted, a slightly goofy expression on his face, Henri listened, while Armand and Reine-Marie fetched.
All was right with the world, thought Gamache as he sat quietly in the early August sunshine.
Finally.
Except for Clara, who’d taken to joining him on the bench each morning.
Was it because she’d noticed him alone up here, once Reine-Marie and Henri had left, and thought he might be lonely? Thought he might like company?
But he doubted that. Clara Morrow had become one of their closest friends and she knew him better than that.
No. She was here for her own reasons.
Armand Gamache had grown increasingly curious. He could almost fool himself into believing his curiosity wasn’t garden-variety nosiness but his training kicking in.
All his professional life Chief Inspector Gamache had asked questions and hunted answers. And not just answers, but facts. But, much more elusive and dangerous than facts, what he really looked for were feelings. Because they would lead him to the truth.
And while the truth might set some free, it landed the people Gamache sought in prison. For life.
Armand Gamache considered himself more an explorer than a hunter. The goal was to discover. And what he discovered could still surprise him.
How often had he questioned a murderer expecting to find curdled emotions, a soul gone sour? And instead found goodness that had gone astray.
He still arrested them, of course. But he’d come to agree with Sister Prejean that no one was as bad as the worst thing they’d done.
Armand Gamache had seen the worst. But he’d also seen the best. Often in the same person.
He closed his eyes and turned his face to the fresh morning sun. Those days were behind him now. Now he could rest. In the hollow of the hand. And worry about his own soul.
No need to explore. He’d found what he was looking for here in Three Pines.
Aware of the woman beside him, he opened his eyes but kept them forward, watching the little village below come to life. He saw his friends and new neighbors leave their homes to tend to their perennial gardens or go across the village green to the bistro for breakfast. He watched as Sarah opened the door to her boulangerie. She’d been inside since before dawn, baking baguettes and croissants and
chocolatine,
and now it was time to sell them. She paused, wiping her hands on her apron, and exchanged greetings with Monsieur Béliveau, who was just opening his general store. Each morning for the past few weeks, Armand Gamache had sat on the bench and watched the same people do the same thing. The village had the rhythm, the cadence, of a piece of music. Perhaps that’s what Henri heard. The music of Three Pines. It was like a hum, a hymn, a comforting ritual.
His life had never had a rhythm. Each day had been unpredictable and he had seemed to thrive on that. He’d thought that was part of his nature. He’d never known routine. Until now.
Gamache had to admit to a small fear that what was now a comforting routine would crumble into the banal, would become boring. But instead, it had gone in the other direction.
He seemed to thrive on the repetition. The stronger he got, the more he valued the structure. Far from being limiting, imprisoning, he found his daily rituals liberating.
Turmoil shook loose all sorts of unpleasant truths. But it took peace to examine them. Sitting in this quiet place in the bright sunshine, Armand Gamache was finally free to examine all the things that had fallen to the ground. As he had fallen.
He felt the slight weight and bulk of the book in his pocket.
Below them, Ruth Zardo limped from her run-down cottage, followed by Rosa, her duck. The elderly woman looked around, then glanced up the dirt road out of town. Up, up the dusty path, Gamache could see her old steel eyes travel. Until they met his. And locked on.
