The Long Way Home

He closed his eyes and turned his face to the fresh morning sun. Those days were behind him now. Now he could rest. In the hollow of the hand. And worry about his own soul.

No need to explore. He’d found what he was looking for here in Three Pines.

Aware of the woman beside him, he opened his eyes but kept them forward, watching the little village below come to life. He saw his friends and new neighbors leave their homes to tend to their perennial gardens or go across the village green to the bistro for breakfast. He watched as Sarah opened the door to her boulangerie. She’d been inside since before dawn, baking baguettes and croissants and chocolatine, and now it was time to sell them. She paused, wiping her hands on her apron, and exchanged greetings with Monsieur Béliveau, who was just opening his general store. Each morning for the past few weeks, Armand Gamache had sat on the bench and watched the same people do the same thing. The village had the rhythm, the cadence, of a piece of music. Perhaps that’s what Henri heard. The music of Three Pines. It was like a hum, a hymn, a comforting ritual.

His life had never had a rhythm. Each day had been unpredictable and he had seemed to thrive on that. He’d thought that was part of his nature. He’d never known routine. Until now.

Gamache had to admit to a small fear that what was now a comforting routine would crumble into the banal, would become boring. But instead, it had gone in the other direction.

He seemed to thrive on the repetition. The stronger he got, the more he valued the structure. Far from being limiting, imprisoning, he found his daily rituals liberating.

Turmoil shook loose all sorts of unpleasant truths. But it took peace to examine them. Sitting in this quiet place in the bright sunshine, Armand Gamache was finally free to examine all the things that had fallen to the ground. As he had fallen.

He felt the slight weight and bulk of the book in his pocket.

Below them, Ruth Zardo limped from her run-down cottage, followed by Rosa, her duck. The elderly woman looked around, then glanced up the dirt road out of town. Up, up the dusty path, Gamache could see her old steel eyes travel. Until they met his. And locked on.

She lifted her veined hand in greeting. And, like hoisting the village flag, Ruth raised one unwavering finger.

Gamache bowed slightly in acknowledgment.

All was right with the world.

Except—

He turned to the disheveled woman beside him.

Why was Clara here?

* * *

Clara looked away. She couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. Knowing what she was about to do.

She wondered if she should speak to Myrna first. Ask her advice. But she’d decided not to, realizing that would just be shifting responsibility for this decision.

Or, more likely, thought Clara, she was afraid Myrna would stop her. Tell her not to do it. Tell her it was unfair and even cruel.

Because it was. Which was why it had taken Clara this long.

Every day she’d come here, determined to say something to Armand. And every day she’d chickened out. Or, more likely, the better angels of her nature were straining on the reins, yanking her back. Trying to stop her.

And it had worked. So far.

Every day she made small talk with him, then left, determined not to return the next day. Promising herself, and all the saints and all the angels and all the gods and goddesses, that she would not go back up to the bench the next morning.

And next morning, as though by magic, a miracle, a curse, she felt the hard maple beneath her bum. And found herself looking at Armand Gamache. Wondering about that slim volume in his pocket. Looking into his deep brown, thoughtful eyes.

He’d gained weight, which was good. It showed Three Pines was doing its job. He was healing here. He was tall, and a more robust frame suited him. Not fat, but substantial. He limped less from his wounds, and there was more vitality to his step. The gray had left his face, but not his head. His wavy hair was now more gray than brown. By the time he was sixty, in just a few years, he’d be completely gray, Clara suspected.

His face showed his age. It was worn with cares and concerns and worries. With pain. But the deepest crevices were made by laughter. Around his eyes and mouth. Mirth, etched deep.

Chief Inspector Gamache. The former head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec.

But he was also Armand. Her friend. Who’d come here to retire from that life, and all that death. Not to hide from the sorrow, but to stop collecting more. And in this peaceful place to look at his own burdens. And to begin to let them go.

As they all had.

Clara got up.

She couldn’t do it. She could not unburden herself to this man. He had his own to carry. And this was hers.

“Dinner tonight?” she asked. “Reine-Marie asked us over. We might even play some bridge.”

It was always the plan, and yet they rarely seemed to get to it, preferring to talk or sit quietly in the Gamaches’ back garden as Myrna walked among the plants, explaining which were weeds and which were perennials, coming back year after year. Long lived. And which flowers were annuals. Designed to die after a magnificent, short life.

Gamache rose to his feet, and as he did Clara saw again the writing carved into the back of the bench. It hadn’t been there when Gilles Sandon had placed the bench. And Gilles claimed not to have done it. The writing had simply appeared, like graffiti, and no one had owned up to it.

Armand held out his hand. At first Clara thought he wanted to shake it good-bye. A strangely formal and final gesture. Then she realized his palm was up.

He was inviting her to place her hand in his.

She did. And felt his hand close gently. Finally, she looked into his eyes.

“Why are you here, Clara?”

She sat, suddenly, and felt again the hard wood of the bench, not so much supporting her as stopping her fall.

TWO

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Olivier placed the order of French toast, with fresh-picked berries and maple syrup, in front of Reine-Marie.

“Astrophysics would be my guess,” she said, looking up into his handsome face. “Or perhaps Nietzsche.”

Olivier followed her gaze out the mullioned window.

“You do know I was talking about Ruth and the duck,” he said.

“As was I, mon beau.”

Olivier laughed as he moved away to serve other patrons of his bistro.

Reine-Marie Gamache sat in her habitual seat. She hadn’t meant to make it a habit, it just happened. For the first few weeks after she and Armand had moved to Three Pines, they’d taken different seats at different tables. And each seat and table really was different. Not simply the location in the old bistro, but the style of furniture. All antiques, all for sale, with price tags hanging from them. Some were old Québec pine, some were overstuffed Edwardian armchairs and wing chairs. There was even a smattering of mid-century modern pieces. Sleek and teak and surprisingly comfortable. All collected by Olivier and tolerated by his partner, Gabri. As long as Olivier kept his finds in the bistro and left the running, and decorating, of the bed and breakfast to Gabri.

Olivier was slim, disciplined, aware of his country-casual image. Each piece of his wardrobe was curated to fit the impression he needed to make. Of a relaxed and gracious and subtly affluent host. Everything about Olivier was subtle. Except Gabri.

Oddly, thought Reine-Marie, while Olivier’s personal style was restrained, even elegant, his bistro was a mad mix of styles and colors. And yet, far from feeling claustrophobic or cluttered, the bistro felt like visiting the home of a well-traveled and eccentric aunt. Or uncle. Someone who knew the conventions and chose not to follow them.

Huge stone fireplaces anchored either end of the long, beamed room. Laid with logs but unlit now in the midsummer warmth, in winter the flames crackled and danced and defied the darkness and bitter cold. Even today Reine-Marie could catch a hint of wood smoke in the room. Like a ghost or guardian.

Bay windows looked onto the homes of Three Pines, their gardens full of roses and daylilies and clematis and other plants she was just learning about. The homes formed a circle, and in its center was the village green. And in the center of that were the pine trees that soared over the community. Three great spires that inspired the name. Three Pines. These were no ordinary trees. Planted centuries ago, they were a code. A signal to the war-weary.

They were safe. This was sanctuary.

It was hard to tell if the homes were protecting the trees, or the trees guarding the homes.

Reine-Marie Gamache picked up her bowl of café au lait and sipped as she watched Ruth and Rosa, apparently muttering together on the bench in the shade of the pines. They spoke the same language, the mad old poet and the goose-stepping duck. And each knew, it seemed to Reine-Marie, only one phrase.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

We love life, thought Reine-Marie as she watched Ruth and Rosa sitting side by side, not because we are used to living, but because we are used to loving.

Nietzsche. How Armand would kid her if he knew she was quoting Nietzsche, even to herself.

“How often have you teased me for producing some quote?” he’d laugh.

“Never, dear heart. What was it Emily Dickinson said about teasing?”

He’d look at her sternly, then make up some nonsense he’d attribute to Dickinson or Proust or Fred Flintstone.

We are used to loving.

Finally they were together and safe. In the protection of the pines.

Her gaze traveled, inevitably, up the hill to the bench where Armand and Clara sat quietly. Not talking.

“What do you think they’re not talking about?” asked Myrna.

The large black woman took the comfortable wing chair across from Reine-Marie and leaned back. She’d brought her own mug of tea from her bookstore next door, and now she ordered Bircher muesli and fresh-squeezed orange juice.

“Armand and Clara? Or Ruth and Rosa?” asked Reine-Marie.

“Well, we know what Ruth and Rosa are talking about,” said Myrna.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” the two women said in unison and laughed.

Reine-Marie took a forkful of French toast and looked again at the bench on the top of the hill.

“She sits with him every morning,” said Reine-Marie. “Even Armand’s baffled.”

“You don’t think she’s trying to seduce him, do you?” Myrna asked.

Reine-Marie shook her head. “She’d have taken a baguette with her if she was.”

“And cheese. A nice ripe Tentation de Laurier. All runny and creamy—”

“Have you tried Monsieur Béliveau’s latest cheese?” asked Reine-Marie, her husband all but forgotten. “Le Chèvre des Neiges?”

“Oh, God,” moaned Myrna. “It tastes like flowers and brioche. Stop it. Are you trying to seduce me?”

“Me? You started it.”

Olivier placed a glass of juice in front of Myrna and some toast for the table.

“Am I going to have to hose you two down again?” he asked.

“Désolé, Olivier,” said Reine-Marie. “It was my fault. We were talking about cheeses.”

“In public? That’s disgusting,” said Olivier. “I’m pretty sure it was a photo of Brie on a baguette that got Robert Mapplethorpe banned.”

“A baguette?” asked Myrna.

“That would explain Gabri’s fondness for carbs,” said Reine-Marie.

“And mine,” said Myrna.

“I’m coming back with the hose,” said Olivier as he left. “And no, that’s not a euphemism.”

Myrna spread a thick piece of toast with melting butter and jam and bit into it while Reine-Marie took a sip of coffee.

“What were we talking about?” Myrna asked.

“Cheeses.”

“Before that.”

“Them.” Reine-Marie Gamache nodded in the direction of her husband and Clara sitting silently on the bench above the village. What were they not talking about, Myrna had asked. And every day Reine-Marie had asked herself the same thing.

The bench had been her idea. A small gift to Three Pines. She’d asked Gilles Sandon, the woodworker, to make it and place it there. A few weeks later an inscription had appeared on it. Etched deeply, finely, carefully.

“Did you do that, mon coeur?” she’d asked Armand on their morning walk, as they paused to look at it.

“Non,” he’d said, perplexed. “I thought you’d asked Gilles to put it on.”

They’d asked around. Clara, Myrna, Olivier, Gabri. Billy Williams, Gilles. Even Ruth. No one knew who’d carved the words into the wood.

She passed this small mystery every day on her walks with Armand. They walked past the old schoolhouse, where Armand had almost been killed. They walked through the woods, where Armand had killed. Each of them very aware of the events. Every day they turned around and returned to the quiet village and the bench above it. And the words carved into it by some unknown hand—

Surprised by Joy

* * *

Clara Morrow told Armand Gamache why she was there. And what she wanted from him. And when she was finished she saw in those thoughtful eyes what she most feared.

She saw fear.

She’d placed it there. She’d taken her own dread, and given it to him.

Clara longed to take back the words. To remove them.

“I just wanted you to know,” she said, feeling her face redden. “I needed to tell someone. That’s all—”

She was beginning to blather and that only increased her desperation.

“I don’t expect you to do anything. I don’t want you to. It’s nothing, really. I can handle it on my own. Forget I said anything.”

But it was too late. She could not stop now.

“Never mind,” she said, her voice firm.

Armand smiled. It reached the deep crevices around his eyes and Clara saw, with relief, that there was no longer any fear there.

“I mind, Clara.”

She walked back down the hill, the sun on her face and the slight scent of roses and lavender in the warm air. At the village green she paused and turned. Armand had sat back down. She wondered if he would pull out that book, now that she was gone, but he didn’t. He just sat there, legs crossed, one large hand holding the other, self-contained and apparently relaxed. He stared across the valley. To the mountains beyond. To the outside world.

It’ll be fine, she thought as she made her way home.

But Clara Morrow knew deep down that she had set something in motion. That she’d seen something in those eyes. Deep down. She hadn’t, perhaps, so much placed it there as awakened it.

Armand Gamache had come here to rest. To recover. They’d promised him peace. And Clara knew she’d just broken that promise.

THREE

“Annie called,” said Reine-Marie, accepting the gin and tonic from her husband. “They’re running a little late. Friday night traffic out of Montréal.”

“Are they staying the weekend?” Armand asked. He’d started the barbeque and was jostling with Monsieur Béliveau for position. It was a losing battle, since Gamache had no intention of winning but felt he should at least appear to put up a fight. Finally, in a formal gesture of surrender, he handed the tongs over to the grocer.

“As far as I know,” said Reine-Marie.

“Good.”

Something in the way he said it caught her ear, and then was gone, carried away on a burst of laughter.

“I swear to God,” said Gabri, raising a plump hand in an oath, “this is designer.”

He turned so that they could appreciate his full splendor. He had on a pair of baggy slacks and a loose lime-green shirt that billowed slightly as he turned.

“I got it from one of the outlets last time we were in Maine.”

In his late thirties and slightly over six feet tall, Gabri had passed paunchy a few mille-feuilles back.

“I didn’t know Benjamin Moore had a line of clothing,” said Ruth.

“Har dee har har,” said Gabri. “This happens to be very expensive. Does it look cheap?” he implored Clara.

“It?” asked Ruth.

“Hag,” said Gabri.

“Fag,” said Ruth. The elderly woman clutched Rosa in one hand and what Reine-Marie recognized as one of their vases filled with Scotch in the other.

Gabri helped Ruth back to her chair. “Can I get you something to eat?” he asked. “A puppy or perhaps a fetus?”

“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 …

But the problem, while shared, hadn’t been halved. It’d doubled. Then doubled again as the day dragged on. In talking about it, Clara had made it real. She’d given form to her fear. And now it was out. And growing.

Everything fed it. The aromas of the barbeque, the blowsy flowers, the chipped and stained old chairs. The rings, the damned rings. Like at home.

All that had been trivial, that had been comforting and familiar and safe, now seemed to be strapped with explosives.

“Dinner’s ready, Clara.” He spoke the words in his quiet, deep voice. Then she heard his step on the grass moving away from her, and she was alone.

All her friends had gathered on the deck, helping themselves to food. She stood apart, her back to them, looking into the darkening woods.

Then she felt a presence beside her. Gamache handed her a plate.

“Shall we sit?” He motioned to the chairs.

And Clara did. They ate in silence. All that needed to be said had been said.

* * *

The other guests helped themselves to steak and chutney laid out on the table. Myrna smiled at the weed centerpiece, still amused. And then she stopped smiling and noticed something. It really was beautiful.

Bowls of salad were passed around and Sarah gave Monsieur Béliveau the largest of the dinner rolls she’d made that afternoon, while he gave her the tenderest piece of steak. They leaned toward each other, not quite touching.

Olivier had left one of the waiters in charge of the bistro and had joined them. The conversation meandered and flowed. The sun set and sweaters and light summer jackets were put on. Tea lights were lit and placed on the table and around the garden, so that it looked like large fireflies had settled in for the evening.

“After Emilie died and the house was closed up, I thought we’d had our last party here,” said Gabri. “I’m glad I was finally wrong about something.”

Henri swiveled his satellite ears toward the sound of the name.

Emilie.

The elderly woman who’d found him at the shelter when he was a puppy. Who’d brought him home. Who’d named him and loved him and raised him, until the day she was no longer there and the Gamaches had come and taken him away. He’d spent months searching for her. Sniffing for her scent. Perking up his ears at the sound of every car arriving. Every door opening. Waiting for Emilie to find him again. To rescue him again, and take him home. Until one day he no longer watched. No longer waited. No longer needed rescuing.