THIRTY-THREE
‘Shouldn’t you be in the studio?’ Peter asked, pouring himself another coffee and walking to the long pine table in their kitchen. He’d promised himself he’d say nothing. And certainly not remind Clara time was slipping away. The last thing she needed to hear was that Denis Fortin would be there in just a few days. To see her still unfinished work.
‘He’ll be here in less than a week,’ he heard himself saying. It was as though something had possessed him.
Clara was staring at the morning paper. The front page talked about the terrible storm that downed trees, cut off roads, caused power failures across Quebec, and then disappeared.
The day had dawned overcast and a little drizzly. A normal day in April. The snow and hail had melted by morning and the only signs of the storm were twigs blown down and flowers flattened.
‘I know you can do it.’ Peter sat beside her. Clara looked exhausted. ‘But maybe you need a little break. Take your mind off the painting.’
‘Are you nuts?’ She looked up. Her deep blue eyes were bloodshot and he wondered if she’d been crying. ‘This is my big chance. I don’t have any time left.’
‘But if you go into your studio now you might mess it up even more.’
‘Even more?’
‘I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.’
‘God, what’m I going to do?’ She wiped her tired eyes with her hand. She’d been awake most of the night, at first lying in bed trying to get back to sleep. When that hadn’t worked she’d obsessed about the painting. She no longer knew what she was doing with it.
Was she so upset by Madeleine’s death she couldn’t clear her mind enough to create? It was a convenient and comforting thought.
Peter took her small hands and noticed they were stained with blue oils. Had she not cleaned them from yesterday or had she been in the studio already this morning? Instinctively he brought his thumb over to the oil and smeared it. It was from this morning.
‘Look, why don’t we have a little dinner party? We could invite Gamache and a few others. Bet he’s ready for a home-cooked meal.’
As the words came out he was stunned by the cruelty of each and every one of them. That was exactly the last thing Clara should be doing. She shouldn’t be distracted, she needed to work through this fear, needed to be undisturbed in her studio. A dinner party, right now, would be disastrous.
Was he nuts, Clara wondered? The painting was a mess and Peter was suggesting she hold a party? But while she seemed to have lost her talent, her muse, her inspiration, her courage, one thing she hadn’t lost was her certainty that Peter wanted the best for her.
‘Good idea.’ She tried to smile. Panic, she was discovering, was exhausting. She looked at the clock on the stove. Seven thirty. Picking up her coffee and calling to Lucy their golden retriever she put on a coat, rubber boots and a hat and went out.
The air smelled fresh and clean or if not clean, at least natural. Dirt. It smelled of fresh leaves and wood and dirt. And water. And wood smoke. The day smelled wonderful but looked like a slaughter. All the young tulips and daffodils had been flattened by the storm. Bending down she lifted one, hoping it would get the idea, but it flopped back as soon as she let go.
Clara had never really taken to gardening. All her creative energies went into her art. Happily, Myrna loved gardening, and even more happily she had no garden herself.
In exchange for meals and movies Myrna had turned Clara and Peter’s modest garden into lovely perennial beds of roses and peony, delphiniums and foxglove. But in late April only the spring bulbs dared to bloom, and look what happened to them.
Armand Gamache had awoken to a slight knocking on his door. His bedside clock said 6:10. A dull light was coming into his comfortable room. He listened and there again was the tapping. Creeping out of bed he slipped on his dressing gown and opened the door. There was Gabri, his thick dark hair standing up on one side like Gumby. He was unshaven and wore a shabby dressing gown and fluffy slippers. It seemed the more elegant and sophisticated Olivier became the more disheveled Gabri grew. The universe in balance.
Olivier must be particularly splendid today, thought Gamache.
‘Désolé,’ whispered Gabri. He lifted his hand and Gamache saw a newspaper. His heart dropped.
‘This just arrived. I thought you’d like to see it before anyone else.’
‘Anyone?’
‘Well, I saw it. And Olivier. But no one else.’
‘You’re very kind, Gabri. Merci.’
‘I’ll make coffee. Come down when you’re ready. At least the storm’s over.’
‘You think?’ said Gamache and smiled. He shut the door, put the paper on the bed then showered and shaved. Refreshed he stared down at the paper, a splotch of black and grey against the white sheets. He quickly turned the pages before his courage flagged.
And there it was. Worse than he’d expected.
His jaw clamped shut, his back teeth clenching and unclenching. He could feel himself breathing heavily as he stared at the photograph. His daughter Annie. Annie and a man. Kissing.
‘Anne Marie Gamache with her lover, Ma?tre Paul Miron of the public prosecutor’s office.’
Gamache closed his eyes. When he opened them the photograph was still there.
He read the piece, twice. Forcing himself to go slowly. To chew, swallow and digest the repugnant words. Then he sat quietly and thought.
Minutes later he called Reine-Marie, waking her up.
‘Bonjour, Armand. What time is it?’
‘Almost seven. Sleep well?’
‘Not really. I did a bit of tossing. You?’
‘Same,’ he admitted.
‘I have some bad news. Henri ate your favorite slippers, well one anyway.’
‘You’re kidding. He’s never done it before. I wonder why he’d suddenly do that.’
‘He misses you, as do I. He loves not wisely but too well.’
‘You didn’t eat my other slipper, did you?’
‘Just a little nibble round the edges. Barely noticeable.’
There was a pause then Reine-Marie said, ‘What is it?’
‘Another article.’
He could see her in their wooden bed with its simple duvet and feather pillows and clean white sheets. She’d have two pillows behind her back and the sheets up around her chest, covering her naked body. Not out of shame or bashfulness, but to keep warm.
‘Is it very bad?’
‘Bad enough. It’s about Annie.’ He thought he heard a sharp intake. ‘It shows her kissing a man they identify as Ma?tre Paul Miron. A Crown Prosecutor. Married.’
‘As is she,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘Oh, poor David. Poor Annie. It’s not true, of course. Annie would never do that to David. To anyone. Never.’
‘I agree. The gist is that I got out of being charged with murder along with Arnot because I had Annie sleep with the prosecutor.’
‘Armand! Mais, c’est épouvantable. How can they? I don’t understand how anyone can do this.’
Gamache closed his eyes and felt a hole open in his chest, where Reine-Marie should be. He wished with all his heart he was with her. Could hold her to him, could wrap his strong arms around her. And she could hold him.
‘Armand, what’re we going to do?’
‘Nothing. We stand firm. I’ll call Annie and talk to her. I spoke to Daniel last night. He seems all right.’
‘What do these people want?’
‘They want me to resign.’
‘Why?’