Jean Guy had gone to open it, but Gamache had lain a gloved hand on his arm. And together in the bitter cold they’d waited. Waited. For Olivier to make the move.
After what seemed an age, but was probably only a few heartbeats, Olivier reached out, paused for one more moment, then opened the door.
“I wish I could’ve seen Gabri’s face,” said Reine-Marie, imagining the large, expressive man seeing his partner returned.
Gamache had described it all to Reine-Marie, when he’d returned home. But he knew that no matter how much ecstasy Reine-Marie imagined, the reality was even greater. At least on Gabri’s part. The rest of the villagers were elated to see Olivier too. But—
“What is it?” Reine-Marie asked.
“Well, Olivier didn’t kill the man, but as you know a lot of unpleasant things about him came out in the trial. Olivier had certainly stolen from the Hermit, taken advantage of their friendship and the man’s frail state of mind. And it turned out that Olivier had used the stolen money to secretly buy up a lot of property in Three Pines. Gabri didn’t even know about that.”
Reine-Marie was quiet, considering what she’d just heard.
“I wonder how his friends feel about that,” said Reine-Marie at last.
So did Gamache.
* * *
“Olivier is the one who hates my father?” asked Annie. “But how could that be? Dad got him out of prison. He took him back to Three Pines.”
“Yes, but the way Olivier sees it, I got him out of prison. Your father put him in.”
Annie stared at Beauvoir, then shook her head.
Beauvoir went on. “Your father apologized, you know. In front of everyone in the bistro. He told Olivier he was sorry for what he did.”
“And what did Olivier say?”
“That he couldn’t forgive him. Not yet.”
Annie thought about that. “How did Dad react?”
“He didn’t seem surprised, or upset. In fact, I think he’d have been surprised had Olivier suddenly decided all was forgiven. He wouldn’t have really meant it.”
Beauvoir knew the only thing worse than no apology was an insincere one.
Jean Guy had to give Olivier that. Instead of appearing to accept the apology, Olivier had finally told the truth. The hurt went too deep. He wasn’t ready to forgive.
“And now?” asked Annie.
“I guess we’ll see.”
TWO
“Remarkable, don’t you think?”
Armand Gamache turned to the distinguished older man beside him.
“I do,” nodded the Chief Inspector. Both men were silent for a moment, contemplating the painting in front of them. All around was the hubbub of the party in full swing, talking, laughing, friends getting caught up, strangers being introduced.
But the two men seemed to have formed a separate peace, a quiet little
In front of them on the wall was, either intentionally or naturally, the centerpiece of Clara Morrow’s solo show. Her works, mostly portraits, hung all around the white walls of the main gallery of the Musee d’Art Contemporain. Some were clustered close together, like a gathering. Some hung alone, isolated. Like this one.
The most modest of the portraits, on the largest of the walls.
Without competition, or company. An island nation. A sovereign portrait.
Alone.
“How do you feel when you look at it?” the man asked and turned his keen gaze on Gamache.
The Chief Inspector smiled. “Well, it isn’t the first time I’ve seen it. We’re friends of the Morrows. I was there when she first brought it out of her studio.”
“Lucky man.”
Gamache took a sip of the very good red wine and agreed. Lucky man.
“Francois Marois.” The older man put out his hand.
“Armand Gamache.”
Now his companion looked more closely at the Chief and nodded.
“
“Not at all. I’m always happier when people don’t,” smiled Gamache. “Are you an artist?”
