Gabri stood behind the bar of the bistro, dish towel in hand, wiping a glass clean. Around him his friends and clients chatted and laughed, read and sat quietly.
It was Sunday afternoon and most were still in their pajamas, including Gabri.
“I’d love to go to Venice,” said Clara.
“Too many tourists,” Ruth snapped.
“How do you know?” Myrna asked. “Have you been?”
“Don’t need to go. Everything I need is here.” She took a sip of Peter’s drink and screwed up her face. “Dear God, what is that?”
“Water.”
The friends drifted over to the fireplace to chat to Roar and Hanna Parra while Gabri took a handful of licorice allsorts from the jar on the bar and scanned the room.
His eyes caught a movement outside the frosted window. A familiar car, a Volvo, drove slowly down du Moulin into the village. The sun gleamed off the fresh snow banks and kids skated on the frozen pond on the village green.
The car stopped halfway through the village and two men got out.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir and Armand Gamache. They paused beside the car then the back door opened.
Clara turned at the sound of soft thudding at the bar. Allsorts were spilling from Gabri’s hand. The conversation in the bistro dropped then disappeared as patrons first looked at Gabri, then out the window.
Gabri continued to stare.
Surely not. He’d imagined, fantasized, pretended so many times. Had seen it clearly only to have to come back, alone, to the real world. Not taking his eyes off the sight, he walked from behind the bar. Patrons parted, making way for the large man.
The door opened, and Olivier stood there.
Gabri, unable to speak, opened his arms and Olivier fell into them. The two men hugged and rocked and wept. Around them villagers applauded and cried and hugged each other.
After a time the two men parted, wiping tears from each other’s faces. Laughing and staring at each other, Gabri afraid to look away in case it was taken away, again. And Olivier overwhelmed by all that was so familiar and beloved. The faces, the voices, the sounds he knew so well and hadn’t heard in what seemed a lifetime. The scent of maple logs in the fire, and buttery croissants, and roasted coffee beans.
All the things he remembered, and ached for.
And Gabri’s scent, of Ivory soap. And his strong, certain arms around him. Gabri. Who’d never, ever stopped believing in him.
Gabri dragged his eyes from Olivier and looked behind his partner to the two S?reté officers.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Inspector Beauvoir deserves the thanks,” said the Chief Inspector. The place was quiet again. Gamache turned to Olivier. He needed to say this for everyone to hear. In case there were any lingering doubts.
“I was wrong,” Gamache said. “I’m so sorry.”
“I can’t forgive you,” Olivier rasped, struggling to keep his emotions in check. “You have no idea what it was like.” He stopped, regained his composure then continued. “Maybe, with time.”
“Oui,” said Gamache.
As everyone celebrated, Armand Gamache walked out into the sunshine, into the sound of children playing hockey, and snowball fights, and tobogganing down the hill. He paused to watch but saw only the young man in his arms. Bullet wounds through his back.
Found, but too late.
Armand Gamache hugged Paul Morin to him.
I’m so sorry. Forgive me.
There was only silence then and, from very far away, the sound of children playing.