And yet Old Mundin chose to do it anyway. Unusual for a young man these days.
“How can we help?” The Wife asked, smiling warmly. She had very dark hair, cut short to her head, and large, thoughtful, eyes. Her clothing was layered and looked both comfortable and bohemian. An earth mother, thought Gamache, married to a carpenter.
“I have a few questions, but tell me about your furniture. It’s beautiful.”
“Merci,” said Mundin. “I spend most of the year making pieces to sell at the fair.”
Gamache ran his large hand over the smooth surface of a chest of drawers. “Lovely polish. Paraffin?”
“Not unless we want them to burst into flames,” laughed Old. “Paraffin’s highly flammable.”
“Varathane?”
Old Mundin’s beautiful face crinkled in a smile. “You are perhaps mistaking us for Ikea. Easy to do,” he joked. “No, we use beeswax.”
We, thought Gamache. He’d watched this young couple for just a few minutes but it seemed clear they were a team.
“Do you sell much at the fair?” he asked.
“This’s all we have left,” The Wife said, indicating the few exquisite pieces around them.
“They’ll be gone by the end of the fair tonight,” said Old Mundin. “Then I need to get going again. Fall’s a great time of year to get into the forests and find wood. I do most of my woodwork through the winter.”
“I’d like to see your workshop.”
“Any time.”
“How about now?”
Old Mundin stared at his visitor and Gamache stared back.
“Now?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Well . . .”
“It’s okay, Old,” said The Wife. “I’ll watch the booth. You go.”
“Is it okay if we take Charles?” Old asked Gamache. “It’s hard for The Wife to watch him and look after customers.”
“I insist he comes along,” said Gamache, holding out his hand to the boy, who took it without hesitation. A small shard stabbed Gamache’s heart as he realized how precious this boy was, and would always be. A child who lived in a perpetual state of trust.
And how hard it would be for his parents to protect him.
“He’ll be fine,” Gamache assured The Wife.
“Oh, I know he’ll be. It’s you I worry about,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” said Gamache, reaching out to shake her hand. “I don’t know your name.”
“My actual name is Michelle, but everyone calls me The Wife.”
Her hand was rough and calloused, like her husband’s, but her voice was cultured, full of warmth. It reminded him a little of Reine-Marie’s.
“Why?” he asked.
“It started out as a joke between us and then it took. Old and The Wife. It somehow fits.”
And Gamache agreed. It did fit this couple, who seemed to live in their own world, with their own beautiful creations.
“Bye.” Charles gave his mother the new one-fingered wave.
“Old,” she scolded.
“Wasn’t me,” he protested. But he didn’t rat on Ruth, Gamache noticed.
Old strapped his son into the van and they drove out of the fair parking lot.
“Is ‘Old’ your real name?”
“I’ve been called ‘Old’ all my life, but my real name is Patrick.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“In Three Pines? A few years.” He thought for a moment. “My God, it’s been eleven years. Can hardly believe it. Olivier was the first person I met.”
“How do people feel about him?”
“Don’t know about ‘people,’ but I know how I feel. I like Olivier. He’s always fair with me.”
“But not with everyone?” Gamache had noticed the inflection.
“Some people don’t know the value of what they’ve got.” Old Mundin was concentrating on the road, driving carefully. “And lots of people just want to stir up trouble. They don’t like being told their antique chest is really just old. Not valuable at all. Pisses them off. But Olivier knows what he’s doing. Lots of people set up antique businesses here, but not many really know what they’re doing. Olivier does.”
After a moment or two of silence as both men watched the countryside go by, Gamache spoke. “I’ve always wondered where dealers find their antiques.”
“Most have pickers. People who specialize in going to auctions or getting to know people in the area. Mostly elderly people who might be interested in selling. Around here if someone knocks on your door on a Sunday morning it’s more likely to be an antique picker than a Jehovah’s Witness.”
“Does Olivier have a picker?”