The Long Way Home

“Agent Cohen started this morning,” said Lacoste, taking a forkful of quinoa, feta, and pomegranate salad. “I called him into the office and told him that there were four statements that lead to wisdom. I said I was only going to recite them once, and he could do with them as he wished.”


Armand Gamache lowered his fork to his plate and listened.

“I don’t know. I was wrong. I’m sorry.” Lacoste recited them slowly, lifting a finger to count them off.

“I need help,” the Chief said, completing the statements. The ones he’d taught young Agent Lacoste many years ago. The ones he’d recited to all his new agents.

And now, sitting at home in Three Pines, he said, “I need your help, Jean-Guy.”

Beauvoir grew still, alert, and gave a curt nod.

“Clara came to see me this morning. She has a…” Gamache searched for the word. “Puzzle.”

Beauvoir leaned forward.

*

Clara and Myrna sat side by side in the large wooden Adirondack chairs in Clara’s back garden. The crickets and frogs were singing and every now and then the women heard rustles in the dark woods.

Below that sound, beyond that sound, the Rivière Bella Bella burbled its way from the mountains, past the village, and out the other side. Heading home, but in no big hurry.

“I’ve been patient,” said Myrna. “Now you need to tell me what’s wrong.”

Even in the dark, Myrna knew the expression on Clara’s face as her friend turned to her.

“Patient?” asked Clara. “It’s been an hour since the party broke up.”

“Okay, ‘patient’ might be the wrong word. I’ve been worried. And it’s not just since dinner. Why have you been sitting with Armand every morning? And what happened today between you? You practically ran away from him.”

“You noticed?”

“For God’s sake, Clara, the bench is on top of the hill out of Three Pines. You might as well have been sitting on a neon sign.”

“I wasn’t trying to hide.”

“Then you succeeded.” Myrna softened her voice. “Can you tell me?”

“Can you guess?”

Myrna turned her entire body until she was facing her companion.

Clara still had paint in her wild hair, not the speckles that come from painting a wall or ceiling. These were streaks of ochre and cadmium yellow. And a fingerprint of burnt sienna on her neck, like a bruise.

Clara Morrow painted portraits. And in the process, she often painted herself.

On their way into the garden Myrna had glanced into Clara’s studio and seen her latest work on the easel. A ghostly face was just appearing, or disappearing, into the canvas.

Myrna was astonished by her friend’s portraits. On the surface they were simple representations of the person. Nice. Recognizable. Conventional. But … but if she stood in front of the work long enough, if she let her own conceptions drift away, let her defenses down, let go of all judgment, then another portrait appeared.

Clara Morrow didn’t actually paint faces, she painted emotions, feelings, hidden, disguised, locked and guarded behind a pleasant fa?ade.

The works took Myrna’s breath away. But this was the first time a portrait had actually frightened her.

“It’s Peter,” Myrna said as they sat in the cool night air.

She knew that both this conversation, and that eerie portrait, were about Peter Morrow. Clara’s husband.

Clara nodded. “He didn’t come home.”

*

“So?” said Jean-Guy. “What’s the problem? Clara and Peter are separated, aren’t they?”

“Yes, a year ago,” Gamache agreed. “Clara asked him to leave.”

“I remember. Then why would she expect him home?”

“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.