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.
‘
‘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.
‘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, Maitre 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.
‘
‘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
