“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, but there is a lot to be aware of. Be careful. Véronique Langlois’s a suspect, and I’m afraid your feelings for her are blinding you.”
Gamache dropped his hand and in that instant Beauvoir longed to fall into his arms, like a child. He was deeply surprised and ashamed of the nearly overwhelming urge. It was as though a hand was shoving him firmly from behind, toward this powerful, commanding man.
“I feel nothing for her,” he said, his voice hard.
“Lying to me is one thing, Jean Guy, but I hope you’re not lying to yourself.” Gamache stared at him for a moment.
“Hello,” a cheerful voice called from down the drive.
The men turned and saw Clara and Peter walking toward them. Clara hesitated when she saw their faces.
“Are we interrupting?”
“Not at all. I was just leaving.” Beauvoir turned his back on the chief and walked swiftly away.
“Are you sure we didn’t interrupt?” Clara asked as they drove away in Gamache’s Volvo, toward Three Pines.
“No, we’d finished talking, merci. Looking forward to getting home?”
For the rest of the pleasant drive they talked about the weather and the countryside and the villagers. Anything but the case, and the Morrows they were leaving behind. Finally the car crested the hill and spread below them was Three Pines, its village green in the center with small roads radiating off it, like a compass, or beams from the sun.
They drove slowly and carefully down the hill, as villagers streamed from their homes and sun-browned children in bathing suits ran unguarded across the road and onto the green, chased by bounding dogs. A small stage had been erected off to one side and already the barbecue pit was smoldering.
“Just drop us here,” said Clara, as Gamache drove up to Gabri and Olivier’s bed and breakfast overlooking the village green. “We’ll walk over.”
She pointed, unnecessarily, to their place, a small red brick cottage across the green. Gamache knew it well. Today the low stone wall in front had rose bushes arching over it and the apple trees that lined their walk were in full leaf. On the side of the house he could see a trellis thick with sweet peas. Before he could get out of the car he saw Reine-Marie come out of the B and B. She waved at Peter and Clara then hurried down the stairs and into his arms.
They were home. He always felt a bit like a snail, but instead of carrying his home on his back, he carried it in his arms.
“Happy anniversary,” she said.
“Bonne anniversaire,” he said, and pressed a card into her hand. She led him to the swing on the wide open porch. She sat but he looked at it, then up at the hook in the clapboard ceiling, anchoring it in place.
“Gabri and Olivier sit here all the time, watching the village. How do you think they know so much?” She patted the seat beside her. “It’ll hold.”
If it held the expansive and expressive innkeeper, thought Gamache, it’ll hold me. And it did.
Reine-Marie pressed the thick handmade paper between her hands, then she opened it.
I love you, it read. And beside it was a happy face.
“Did you draw this yourself?” she asked.
“I did.” He didn’t tell her he’d worked on it most of the night. Writing verse after verse and rejecting them all. Until he’d distilled his feelings to those three words. And that silly drawing.
It was the very best he could do.
“Thank you, Armand.” And she kissed him. She slipped the card into her pocket and when she got home it would join the other thirty-four cards, all saying exactly the same thing. Her treasure.
Before long they were walking hand in hand on the village green, waving to the people tending the glowing embers around the stuffed lamb au jus wrapped in herbs and foil and buried before dawn. The meshoui, the traditional Québécois celebratory meal. For Canada Day.
“Bonjour, Patron.” Gabri clapped Gamache on the shoulder and gave him a kiss on each cheek. “I hear this is a double celebration, Canada Day and your anniversary.”
Olivier, Gabri’s partner and the owner of the local bistro, joined them.
“Félicitations,” smiled Olivier. Where Gabri was large, effusive, unkempt, Olivier was immaculate and restrained. Both in their mid-thirties, they’d moved to Three Pines to lead a less stressful life.
“Oh, for Chrissake,” an old and piercing voice shot through the celebrations. “It’s not Clouseau.”
“At your serveess, madame,” Gamache bowed to Ruth and spoke in his thickest Parisian accent. “Do you have a lee-sence for zat minky?” He pointed to the duck waddling behind the elderly poet.
