The Long Way Home (5 page)

“They made a promise to each other. No contact for a year, but on the first anniversary of his leaving, Peter would come back and they’d see where they were.”

Beauvoir leaned back in the armchair and crossed his legs, unconsciously mirroring the man facing him.

He thought about what Gamache had just said. “But Peter didn’t come back.”

*   *   *

“I waited.”

Clara held her mug, no longer hot but warm enough to be comforting. The evening was cool and still and she could smell the chamomile rising from her tea. And while Clara couldn’t see Myrna beside her, she could sense her. And smell the warm mint.

And Myrna had the sense to be silent.

“The anniversary was actually a few weeks ago,” said Clara. “I bought a bottle of wine and two steaks from Monsieur Béliveau, and made that orange, arugula, and goat cheese salad Peter likes. I lit the charcoals in the barbeque. And waited.”

She didn’t mention that she’d also bought croissants from Sarah’s boulangerie, for the next morning. In case.

She felt such a fool, now. She’d imagined him arriving, seeing her and taking her in his arms. Actually, in her more melodramatic moments, she saw him bursting into tears and begging her forgiveness for being such a shit.

She, of course, would be cool and contained. Cordial, but no more.

But the truth was, Clara always felt like a Beatrix Potter creation in Peter’s familiar embrace. Mrs. Tiggy-winkle, in her funny little home. She’d found shelter in his arms. That was where she belonged.

But that life had proven a fairy tale, an illusion. Still, in a moment of weakness, delusion, or hope, she’d bought those croissants. In case dinner became breakfast. In case nothing had changed. Or everything had changed. Or Peter had changed, and was no longer such a
merde
.

She’d imagined them sitting in these very chairs, resting their coffee mugs in the rings. Eating the flaky croissants. Talking quietly. As though nothing had happened.

But a lot had happened in that year, to Clara. To the village. To their friends.

But what preoccupied her now was what had happened to Peter. The question occupied her head, then took over her heart, and now it held her completely hostage.

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” asked Myrna. The question, Clara knew, wasn’t a criticism. There was no reproach or judgment. Myrna simply wanted to understand.

“At first I thought I might have had the date wrong. Then I got mad and thought, Fuck him. That was good for a couple of weeks. Then…”

She lifted her hands, as though in surrender.

Myrna waited, sipping her tea. She knew her friend. Clara might pause, might hesitate, might stumble. But she never surrendered.

“Then I got scared.”

“Of what?” Myrna’s voice was calm.

“I don’t know.”

“You know.”

There was a long pause. “I was afraid,” said Clara at last, “that he was dead.”

And still Myrna waited. And waited. And rested her mug in the circles. And waited.

“And,” said Clara, “I was afraid he wasn’t. That he hadn’t come home because he didn’t want to.”

*   *   *

“Salut
,” said Annie as her husband joined them on the porch. She patted the seat next to her on the swing.

“Can’t right now,” said Jean-Guy. “But save my place. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“I’ll be in bed by then.”

Beauvoir was on the verge of saying something, then remembered where they were, and who was with them.

“Are you off?” Reine-Marie asked Armand as she stood and he put his arm around her waist.

“Not for long.”

“I’ll keep a candle in the window,” she said, and saw him smile.

She watched as Armand and their son-in-law strolled across the village green. At first she thought they were going to the bistro for a nightcap, but then they veered to the right. To the light of Clara’s cottage.

And Reine-Marie heard them knock on her door. A soft, soft, insistent knocking.

*   *   *

“You told him?”

Clara looked from Gamache to Jean-Guy.

She was livid. Her face was livid, as though she’d fallen face-first onto one of her own palettes. Magenta with a blotch of dioxazine purple seeping up from her neck.

“It was private. What I told you was private.”

“You asked for my help, Clara,” said Gamache.

“No I didn’t. In fact, I told you not to help. That I’d take care of it. This is my life, my problem, not yours. Do you think every damsel is in distress? Did I become just a problem to be solved? A weakling to be saved? Is that it? The great man steps in to take care of things. Are you here to tell me not to worry my pretty little head?”

Even Myrna’s eyes widened at this description of Clara’s head.

“Wait a minute—” Beauvoir began, his own face turning alizarin crimson, but Gamache placed a large hand on the younger man’s arm.

“No, you wait a minute,” snapped Clara, rounding on Beauvoir. Beside her, Myrna laid a soft but firm hand on her arm.

“I’m sorry if I misunderstood,” said Gamache, and he looked it. “I thought when we talked this morning that you wanted my help. Why else come to me?”

And there it was. The simple truth.

Armand Gamache was her friend. But Reine-Marie was a closer friend. Others in the village were older friends. Myrna was her best friend.

So why had she gone each morning up to the bench, to sit beside this man? And had finally unburdened herself? To him.

“Well, you were wrong,” Clara said, the purple spreading into her scalp. “If you’re bored here, Chief Inspector, go find someone else’s private life to pillage.”

Even Beauvoir gaped at that, momentarily so shocked he couldn’t find the words. And then he found them.

“Bored? Bored? Do you have any idea what he’s offering? What he’s giving up? What a selfish—”

“Jean-Guy! Enough.”

The four of them stared at each other, shocked into silence.

“I’m sorry,” said Gamache, giving Clara a small bow. “I was wrong. Jean-Guy.”

Beauvoir hurried to catch up to Gamache’s long strides as he left Clara’s home and walked toward the bistro. Once there, Gamache ordered a cognac and Beauvoir got a Coke.

Jean-Guy studied the man across from him. And slowly, slowly, it dawned on him that Gamache wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even hurt that his offer to help Clara had been turned down and he’d been personally insulted.

Beauvoir knew, as he watched the Chief sip his drink and stare ahead, that the only thing Armand Gamache felt at that moment was relief.

FIVE

The next morning dawned bright and warm.

Reine-Marie stepped out their front door onto the porch and almost trod on the moth. It had fallen on its back directly beneath the light, face up, its wings spread wide as though in ecstasy.

Armand, Reine-Marie, and Henri strolled up the hill, past the little church, past the old mill, past the Inn and Spa in the old Hadley House. Through the tunnel of trees they walked. They could see their footprints in the dirt from the day before, and the day before that.

And then their footprints stopped. But they walked on. A hundred yards farther. Always a little farther. Until they’d gone far enough and it was time to turn back.

At the bench they paused and sat down.

“It looks like a compass, doesn’t it?” said Reine-Marie.

Armand tossed the ball to the eager and tireless Henri, then considered what she’d said.

“You’re right,” he smiled. “I hadn’t seen that before.”

The village of Three Pines was built around the village green. The homes formed a circle, and out of that circle ran four roads, like the cardinal directions. Gamache now wondered if they really did head out to true north, south, east, and west.

Was Three Pines a compass? A guide for those blown off course?

“Can you tell me about Clara?” Reine-Marie asked.

“I wish I could,
mon coeur
.”

Gamache looked unhappy. He told his wife almost everything. Throughout his career he’d told her about the evidence, the suspects, his suspicions. He’d told her because he trusted her and wanted to include her in his life. They’d discussed murder cases he was working on and the books and old documents she was working on in the national archives.

But some things, some things, Gamache kept secret. Those he would tell no one. And he knew Reine-Marie had her secrets too. Confidences she would keep.

“But you told Jean-Guy.”

It wasn’t an accusation, simply a query.

“That was a mistake. When we went over to Clara’s place to discuss it, she made it clear I shouldn’t have.”

He grimaced slightly and Reine-Marie suspected Clara had been quite clear.

“But she did want your help with something.”

Her voice was calm, but her heart pounded. Reine-Marie knew if Clara was asking for help from Armand it wasn’t to set a mousetrap or cut some hedges or fix the roof. Clara could do all those things for herself.

If she turned to Armand, it was for something only he could provide.

“I thought she wanted my help.” He grinned and shook his head. “It doesn’t take long to get rusty, I guess. To miss signals.”

“It’s not getting rusty, it’s getting relaxed,” said Reine-Marie.

She looked into his bright eyes and knew that despite what her husband said, not much escaped his notice. And if he thought Clara had been asking for help, she probably was. Once again, Reine-Marie wondered why Clara wanted help, and why she’d changed her mind.

“Would you have given it to her?” she asked.

Gamache opened, then shut, his mouth. He knew what the right answer was. But he also knew the truthful answer. He wasn’t sure the two aligned.

“How could I not?” Then realizing how ungracious that sounded, he went on. “Well, it’s academic now. She doesn’t want anything from me.”

“Maybe she just wanted you to listen.” Reine-Marie placed her hand on his knee and got up. “Not your body and soul,
mon vieux
. Just an ear.”

She bent to kiss him. “I’ll see you later.”

Armand watched her and Henri walk down the hill. Then he pulled the book from his pocket, put on his half-moon reading glasses and, opening to the bookmark, hesitated, went back to the very beginning, and started again.

*   *   *

“You haven’t got very far.”

Gamache closed the book and looked up over his glasses. Clara was standing in front of him holding two mugs of
café au lait
. And a bag of croissants.

“A peace offering,” she said.

“Like the Paris Conference,” he said, accepting it. “If this is about partition, I get Myrna’s bookstore and the bistro.”

“Leaving me with the bakery and the general store?” Clara considered. “I predict war.”

Gamache smiled.

“I’m sorry about last night.” She sat down. “I shouldn’t have said all that. You were kind to offer to help.”

“No, it was presumptuous. No one knows better than me that you can take care of yourself, and then some. You were right—I think I’m so used to being presented with problems that need solving, I just assume that’s what people want.”

“Must be difficult, being the oracle.”

“You have no idea.” He laughed and felt lighter. Maybe she did want him to simply listen. Maybe nothing more would be expected of him.

They ate their croissants, the flakes falling to the ground beneath their feet.

“What’re you reading?” she asked. It was the first time she’d been so clear in her questioning.

Gamache kept his large hand splayed over the cover of the book, forcing it shut as though trapping the story inside.

Then he lifted his hand and showed it to her, but when she reached out for it, Gamache drew it back. Not far, barely noticeable. But far enough.

“
The Balm in Gilead
,” she read the title, and searched her memory. “There’s a book called
Gilead.
I read it a few years ago. By Marilynne Robinson. Won the Pulitzer.”

“Not the same one,” Gamache assured her, and Clara could see that it wasn’t. The one that was in his hand, that he was now placing in his pocket, was thin and old. Worn. Read and reread.

“One of Myrna’s?” Clara asked.

“
Non
.” He examined her. “Do you want to talk about Peter?”

“No.”

The Paris Peace Conference had hit a stalemate. He sipped his coffee. The morning mist had almost burned away and the forest spread green as far as he could see. These were old-growth trees, not yet discovered and felled by the lumber industry.

“You never finish the book,” she said. “Is it difficult to read?”

“For me, yes.”

She was quiet for a moment. “When Peter left, I was sure he’d come back. I was the one who forced the issue, you know. He didn’t want to go.” She lowered her head and studied her hands. As hard as she scrubbed, she couldn’t seem to get the paint out of her cuticles. It was as though the paint was part of her. Had fused there. “And now, he doesn’t want to come home.”

“Do you want him back?”

“I don’t know. I won’t know until I see him, I think.” She looked at the book just poking out of his pocket. “Why’s it so difficult for you to read? It’s in English, but I know you read English as well as French.”

“
C’est vrai
. The words I understand, it’s the emotions in the book that I struggle with. Where it takes me. I find I need to tread carefully.”

Clara looked at him full on. “Are you all right?”

He smiled. “Are you?”

Clara pushed her large hands through her hair, leaving croissant flakes behind. “May I see it?”

Gamache hesitated, then tugged the book out of his pocket and gave it to her, watching closely, his body suddenly taut as though he’d handed her a loaded gun.

It was a slender hardback, the cover worn. She turned it over.

“
There is a balm in Gilead
,” she read from the back, “
to make the wounded whole
—”

“There’s power enough in Heaven / To cure a sin-sick soul
.” Armand Gamache finished the phrase. “It’s from an old spiritual.”

Clara stared at the back cover. “Do you believe it, Armand?”