The Long Way Home

“Oh, that would be nice, dear,” said Ruth.

Reine-Marie moved among their friends, who were scattered around the garden, catching bits of conversations in French, in English, most in a mélange of the two languages.

She looked over and saw Armand listening attentively as Vincent Gilbert told a story. It must have been funny, probably self-deprecating, because Armand was smiling. Then he talked, gesturing with his beer as he spoke.

When he finished the Gilberts laughed, as did Armand. Then he caught her eye, and his smile broadened.

The evening was still warm but by the time the lamps in the garden were lit, they’d need the light sweaters and jackets now slung over the backs of chairs.

People wandered in and out of the home as though it was their own, placing food on the long table on the terrace. It had become a sort of tradition, these informal Friday evening barbeques at the Gamache place.

Though few called it the Gamache place. It was still known in the village, and perhaps always would be, as Emilie’s place, after the woman who’d lived there and from whose estate the Gamaches had bought the home. While it might be new to Armand and Reine-Marie, it was in fact one of the oldest houses in Three Pines. Made of white clapboard, there was a wide verandah around the front of the house, facing the village green. And in the back there was the terrace and the large neglected garden.

“I left a bag of books for you in the living room,” Myrna said to Reine-Marie.

“Merci.”

Myrna poured herself a white wine and noticed the bouquet in the center of the table. Tall, effusive, crammed with blooms and foliage.

Myrna wasn’t sure if she should tell Reine-Marie they were mostly weeds. She could see all the usual suspects. Purple loosestrife, bishop’s weed. Even bindweed that mimicked morning glory.

She’d been through the flower beds with Armand and Reine-Marie many times, helping to bring order to the tangled mess. She thought she’d been clear about the difference between the flowers and the weeds.

Another lesson was in order.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Reine-Marie said, offering Myrna a morsel of smoked trout on rye.

Myrna smiled. City folk.

Armand strolled away from the Gilberts and was scanning the gathering to make sure everyone had what they needed. His eye fell on an unlikely grouping. Clara had joined Ruth and was now seated with her back to the party, as far from the house as possible.

She hadn’t said a word to him since she’d arrived.

That didn’t surprise him. What did was her decision to sit with Ruth and her duck, though it often struck Gamache as more accurate to describe the couple as Rosa and her human.

There could be only one reason Clara, or anyone, would seek out Ruth. A profound and morbid desire to be left alone. Ruth was a social stink bomb.

But they weren’t completely on their own. Henri had joined them and was staring at the duck.

It was puppy love, in the extreme. A love not shared by Rosa. Gamache heard a growl. From Rosa. Henri quacked.

Gamache took a step back.

That noise, from Henri, was never a good sign.

Clara stood up, to get away. She moved toward Gamache before changing direction.

Ruth wrinkled her nose as rotten egg settled around them. Henri was looking innocently around as though trying to find the source of the foul odor.

Ruth and Rosa were now looking at the shepherd with something close to awe. The old poet took a deep breath, then exhaled, turning the toxic gas into poetry.

“You forced me to give you poisonous gifts,” she quoted from her famous work.

I can put this no other way.

Everything I gave was to get rid of you

As one gives to a beggar: There. Go away.

But Henri, the brave and gaseous shepherd, did not go away. Ruth looked at him in disgust, but offered one withered hand to Henri, to lick.

And he did.

Then Armand Gamache went in search of Clara. She’d wandered over to the two Adirondack chairs, side by side on the lawn. Their wide wooden arms were stained with rings from years, decades, of drinks taken in the quiet garden. Emilie’s rings had been added to, and overlaid, by the Gamaches’ morning mugs and afternoon apéritifs. Peaceful lives intertwined.

There were two almost identical chairs in Clara’s garden. Turned slightly toward each other, looking over the perennial borders, the river, and into the woods beyond. With rings on the wooden arms.

He watched as Clara grasped the back of a chair and leaned into it, pressing against the wooden slats.

He was close enough to see her shoulders rise and her knuckles whiten.

“Clara?” he asked.

“I’m fine.”

But she wasn’t. He knew it. And she knew it. She’d thought, hoped, that in finally talking to Armand that morning, the worry would go away. A problem shared …