The Long Way Home

Olivier laughed as he moved away to serve other patrons of his bistro.

Reine-Marie Gamache sat in her habitual seat. She hadn’t meant to make it a habit, it just happened. For the first few weeks after she and Armand had moved to Three Pines, they’d taken different seats at different tables. And each seat and table really was different. Not simply the location in the old bistro, but the style of furniture. All antiques, all for sale, with price tags hanging from them. Some were old Québec pine, some were overstuffed Edwardian armchairs and wing chairs. There was even a smattering of mid-century modern pieces. Sleek and teak and surprisingly comfortable. All collected by Olivier and tolerated by his partner, Gabri. As long as Olivier kept his finds in the bistro and left the running, and decorating, of the bed and breakfast to Gabri.

Olivier was slim, disciplined, aware of his country-casual image. Each piece of his wardrobe was curated to fit the impression he needed to make. Of a relaxed and gracious and subtly affluent host. Everything about Olivier was subtle. Except Gabri.

Oddly, thought Reine-Marie, while Olivier’s personal style was restrained, even elegant, his bistro was a mad mix of styles and colors. And yet, far from feeling claustrophobic or cluttered, the bistro felt like visiting the home of a well-traveled and eccentric aunt. Or uncle. Someone who knew the conventions and chose not to follow them.

Huge stone fireplaces anchored either end of the long, beamed room. Laid with logs but unlit now in the midsummer warmth, in winter the flames crackled and danced and defied the darkness and bitter cold. Even today Reine-Marie could catch a hint of wood smoke in the room. Like a ghost or guardian.

Bay windows looked onto the homes of Three Pines, their gardens full of roses and daylilies and clematis and other plants she was just learning about. The homes formed a circle, and in its center was the village green. And in the center of that were the pine trees that soared over the community. Three great spires that inspired the name. Three Pines. These were no ordinary trees. Planted centuries ago, they were a code. A signal to the war-weary.

They were safe. This was sanctuary.

It was hard to tell if the homes were protecting the trees, or the trees guarding the homes.

Reine-Marie Gamache picked up her bowl of café au lait and sipped as she watched Ruth and Rosa, apparently muttering together on the bench in the shade of the pines. They spoke the same language, the mad old poet and the goose-stepping duck. And each knew, it seemed to Reine-Marie, only one phrase.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

We love life, thought Reine-Marie as she watched Ruth and Rosa sitting side by side, not because we are used to living, but because we are used to loving.

Nietzsche. How Armand would kid her if he knew she was quoting Nietzsche, even to herself.

“How often have you teased me for producing some quote?” he’d laugh.

“Never, dear heart. What was it Emily Dickinson said about teasing?”

He’d look at her sternly, then make up some nonsense he’d attribute to Dickinson or Proust or Fred Flintstone.

We are used to loving.

Finally they were together and safe. In the protection of the pines.

Her gaze traveled, inevitably, up the hill to the bench where Armand and Clara sat quietly. Not talking.

“What do you think they’re not talking about?” asked Myrna.

The large black woman took the comfortable wing chair across from Reine-Marie and leaned back. She’d brought her own mug of tea from her bookstore next door, and now she ordered Bircher muesli and fresh-squeezed orange juice.

“Armand and Clara? Or Ruth and Rosa?” asked Reine-Marie.

“Well, we know what Ruth and Rosa are talking about,” said Myrna.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” the two women said in unison and laughed.

Reine-Marie took a forkful of French toast and looked again at the bench on the top of the hill.

“She sits with him every morning,” said Reine-Marie. “Even Armand’s baffled.”

“You don’t think she’s trying to seduce him, do you?” Myrna asked.

Reine-Marie shook her head. “She’d have taken a baguette with her if she was.”

“And cheese. A nice ripe Tentation de Laurier. All runny and creamy—”

“Have you tried Monsieur Béliveau’s latest cheese?” asked Reine-Marie, her husband all but forgotten. “Le Chèvre des Neiges?”

“Oh, God,” moaned Myrna. “It tastes like flowers and brioche. Stop it. Are you trying to seduce me?”

“Me? You started it.”

Olivier placed a glass of juice in front of Myrna and some toast for the table.

“Am I going to have to hose you two down again?” he asked.

“Désolé, Olivier,” said Reine-Marie. “It was my fault. We were talking about cheeses.”

“In public? That’s disgusting,” said Olivier. “I’m pretty sure it was a photo of Brie on a baguette that got Robert Mapplethorpe banned.”

“A baguette?” asked Myrna.

“That would explain Gabri’s fondness for carbs,” said Reine-Marie.