The Long Way Home

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