“What does he do? Restore it?”
“No, that’s way too specialized. He helps when I have some furniture to make. Mostly staining.”
They chatted about local events, about renovation projects and the antiques waiting to be restored. Beauvoir pretended to be interested in seeing Old Mundin’s furniture and almost bought a bookcase thinking he could pass it off as his own creation. But he knew even Enid wouldn’t believe that.
“Would you like to stay for dinner?” The Wife asked when Beauvoir said he had to go.
“Merci, but no. I just wanted to stop by and see your furniture.”
They stood by the back door, waving to him. He’d been tempted to accept their invitation to join their little family. As he drove away he thought again about what Old had said so innocently about Havoc and his skill as a whittler, which rivaled Charlie’s. On arriving back in Three Pines he went across to the bistro and ordered a tarte au sucre and a cappuccino. Myrna joined him with her éclair and café au lait. They chatted for a few minutes then Beauvoir made notes and Myrna read the London Sunday Times Travel Magazine, moaning occasionally over the éclair and over the descriptions of the spa getaways.
“Do you think it’s worth a twelve-hour flight to go here?” She turned the magazine round and showed him soft white beaches, thatched huts, nubile young men, shirtless, carrying drinks with fruit in them.
“Where is it?”
“Mauritius.”
“How much?”
Myrna checked. “Five thousand two hundred.”
“Dollars?” Beauvoir almost gagged.
“Pounds. But it includes the flight. My budget today is five thousand pounds so it’s a little over that.”
“Book business must be good.”
Myrna laughed. “I could sell every book in my place and still not be able to afford that.” She put her large hand on the shiny picture. Outside the frosted window, kids were arriving home from school. Parents waited for them to come down the snowy, icy road from where the bus dropped them off, all red faced, bundled up, distinguishable only by the color of their bulbous snowsuits. They looked like giant, colorful balls cascading down the hill.
“This is fantasy money for a fictional trip. Cheap, but fun.”
“Did someone say cheap but fun?” Gabri joined them and Beauvoir closed his notebook. “Where’re we going this week?”
“He’s also fictional, you know.” Myrna indicated Gabri with her head.
“I am sometimes made-up,” Gabri admitted.
“I’m considering Mauritius.” She handed a magazine to Gabri and offered one to Beauvoir. He hesitated then noticed the icicles hanging from the homes, the snow piled on the roofs, the people bent against the wind and rushing for warmth.
He took one.
“Vacation porn,” whispered Gabri. “Complete with rubber suits.” He flashed an image of a muscular man wearing a tight scuba outfit.
Beauvoir gave himself a fictional budget of five thousand dollars then lost himself in Bali, in Bora-Bora, in St. Lucia.
“Have you been on a cruise?” he asked Myrna.
“Was on one earlier in the week. Upgraded to the Princess Suites. Next time I think I might upgrade all the way.”
“I’m considering the owner’s suite.”
“Can you afford it?”
“True, I might go fake broke but I think it’s worth it.”
“God, I could use a cruise,” said Gabri, lowering his magazine.
“Tired?” Myna asked. Gabri looked it.
“Très fatigué.”
“It is true.” Ruth plopped down in the fourth chair, knocking everyone with her cane. “He is a fatty gay.”
The other two ignored her, but Beauvoir couldn’t hide a small laugh. Before long the other two left, Myrna back to her quiet bookstore and Gabri to tend to a couple customers.
“So, why’re you really here?” Ruth leaned forward.
“For your cheerful company, you old hag.”
“Besides that, numb nuts. You never liked it here. Gamache does, I can tell. But you? You despise us.”
Every hour of every day Jean-Guy Beauvoir searched for not just facts, but truth. He hadn’t appreciated, though, how terrifying it was being with someone who spoke it, all the time. Well, her truth anyway.
“I don’t,” he said.
“Bullshit. You hate the country, you hate nature, you think we’re hicks, idiots. Repressed, passive-aggressive and English.”
“I know you’re English,” he laughed. She didn’t.
“Don’t fuck with me. I don’t have that much time left and I refuse to waste it.”
“Then go away if you think I’m such a waste of time.”
They glared at each other. He’d opened up to her the other night, told her things few others knew. He’d been afraid that might lead to some awkwardness but sure enough, when they’d met the next morning she’d looked at him as though he was a stranger.
“I know why you’re here,” he said at last. “For the rest of the story. You just want to hear all the gory details. You feed on it, don’t you? Fear and pain. You don’t care about me or the Chief or Morin or anyone else, all you want from me is the rest of the story, you sick old crone.”
“And what do you want?”
What do I want? he thought.
I want to tell it.