Not everyone was made for this work.
Elliot wasn’t.
“I was just having some fun.”
Elliot said it as though it were reasonable to stand in the middle of the crowded, busy kitchen mocking the guests, and the maître d’ was the unreasonable one. Pierre could feel his rage rising. He looked around.
The large old kitchen was the natural gathering place for the staff. Even the gardeners were there, eating cakes and drinking tea and coffee. And watching his humiliation at the hands of a nineteen-year-old. He’s young, Pierre said to himself. He’s young. But he’d said it so often it had become meaningless.
He knew he should let it go.
“You were making fun of the guests.”
“Only one. Oh, come on, she’s ridiculous. Excusez-moi, but I think he got more coffee than I did. Excusez-moi, but is this the best seat? I asked for the best seat. Excusez-moi, I don’t mean to be difficult, but I did order before they did. Where’s my celery stick?”
Titters, quickly stifled, filled the warm kitchen.
It was a good imitation. Even in his anger the maître d’ recognized Sandra’s smooth, cool whine. Always asking for a little bit more. Elliot might not be a natural waiter, but he had an uncanny ability to see people’s faults. And magnify them. And mock them. It was a gift not everyone would find attractive.
“Look who I found,” said Julia cheerfully as they stepped into the Great Room.
Reine-Marie smiled and rose to kiss her husband, holding out a bulbous cognac glass. The rest looked up, smiled, and returned to what they were doing. Julia stood uncertain on the threshold, then picked up a magazine and sat in a wing chair.
“Feeling better?” Reine-Marie whispered.
“Much,” he said and meant it, taking the glass warmed by her hands and following her to a sofa.
“Bridge later?” Thomas stopped playing the piano and wandered over to the Gamaches.
“Merveilleux. Bonne idée,” said Reine-Marie. They’d played bridge most nights with Thomas and his wife Sandra. It was a pleasant way to end the day.
“Find any roses?” Thomas asked Julia as he walked back to his wife. There was a rat-tat-tat of laughter from Sandra as though he’d said something witty and brilliant.
“Some Eleanor roses, you mean?” Marianna asked from the window seat beside Bean, a look of great amusement on her face. “They are your favorites, aren’t they, Julia?”
“I thought they were more along your line.” Julia smiled. Marianna smiled back and imagined one of the wooden beams falling and crushing her older sister. It wasn’t as much fun having her back as Marianna had hoped. In fact, quite the opposite.
“Time for bed, old Bean,” said Marianna and put her heavy arm round the studious child. Gamache had never known a ten-year-old so quiet. Still, the child seemed content. As they walked by he caught Bean’s bright blue eyes.
“What’re you reading?” he asked.
Bean stopped and looked at the large stranger. Though they’d been together in the Manoir for three days they hadn’t really spoken, until now.
“Nothing.”
Gamache noticed the small hands close more tightly over the hardcover book, and the loose shirt fold as the book was pressed closer to the childish body. Through the small, tanned fingers Gamache could read only one word.
Myths.
“Come on, slowpoke. Bed. Mommy needs to get drunk and can’t before you’re in bed, now you know that.”
Bean, still looking at Gamache, suddenly smiled. “May I have a martooni tonight, please,” Bean said, leaving the room.
“You know you’re not allowed until you’re twelve. It’ll be Scotch or nothing,” they heard Marianna say, then footsteps on the stairs.
“I’m not completely convinced she’s kidding,” said Madame Finney.
Gamache smiled over to her but his smile faded as he saw the stern look on her face.
“Why do you let him get to you, Pierre?”
Chef Véronique was putting hand-made truffles and chocolate-dipped candied fruit on small plates. Her sausage fingers instinctively placed the confections in an artistic pattern. She took a sprig of mint from the glass, shook the water from it and clipped a few leaves with her nails. Absently she chose some edible flowers from her vase and before long a few chocolates had become a lovely design on the white plate. Straightening up, she looked at the man opposite her.
They’d worked together for years. Decades, come to think of it. She found it odd to think she was over sixty and knew she looked it, though happily in the wilderness it didn’t seem to matter.
