The Long Way Home(13)

But some things, some things, Gamache kept secret. Those he would tell no one. And he knew Reine-Marie had her secrets too. Confidences she would keep.

“But you told Jean-Guy.”

It wasn’t an accusation, simply a query.

“That was a mistake. When we went over to Clara’s place to discuss it, she made it clear I shouldn’t have.”

He grimaced slightly and Reine-Marie suspected Clara had been quite clear.

“But she did want your help with something.”

Her voice was calm, but her heart pounded. Reine-Marie knew if Clara was asking for help from Armand it wasn’t to set a mousetrap or cut some hedges or fix the roof. Clara could do all those things for herself.

If she turned to Armand, it was for something only he could provide.

“I thought she wanted my help.” He grinned and shook his head. “It doesn’t take long to get rusty, I guess. To miss signals.”

“It’s not getting rusty, it’s getting relaxed,” said Reine-Marie.

She looked into his bright eyes and knew that despite what her husband said, not much escaped his notice. And if he thought Clara had been asking for help, she probably was. Once again, Reine-Marie wondered why Clara wanted help, and why she’d changed her mind.

“Would you have given it to her?” she asked.

Gamache opened, then shut, his mouth. He knew what the right answer was. But he also knew the truthful answer. He wasn’t sure the two aligned.

“How could I not?” Then realizing how ungracious that sounded, he went on. “Well, it’s academic now. She doesn’t want anything from me.”

“Maybe she just wanted you to listen.” Reine-Marie placed her hand on his knee and got up. “Not your body and soul, mon vieux. Just an ear.”

She bent to kiss him. “I’ll see you later.”

Armand watched her and Henri walk down the hill. Then he pulled the book from his pocket, put on his half-moon reading glasses and, opening to the bookmark, hesitated, went back to the very beginning, and started again.

* * *

“You haven’t got very far.”

Gamache closed the book and looked up over his glasses. Clara was standing in front of him holding two mugs of café au lait. And a bag of croissants.

“A peace offering,” she said.

“Like the Paris Conference,” he said, accepting it. “If this is about partition, I get Myrna’s bookstore and the bistro.”

“Leaving me with the bakery and the general store?” Clara considered. “I predict war.”

Gamache smiled.

“I’m sorry about last night.” She sat down. “I shouldn’t have said all that. You were kind to offer to help.”

“No, it was presumptuous. No one knows better than me that you can take care of yourself, and then some. You were right—I think I’m so used to being presented with problems that need solving, I just assume that’s what people want.”

“Must be difficult, being the oracle.”

“You have no idea.” He laughed and felt lighter. Maybe she did want him to simply listen. Maybe nothing more would be expected of him.

They ate their croissants, the flakes falling to the ground beneath their feet.

“What’re you reading?” she asked. It was the first time she’d been so clear in her questioning.

Gamache kept his large hand splayed over the cover of the book, forcing it shut as though trapping the story inside.

Then he lifted his hand and showed it to her, but when she reached out for it, Gamache drew it back. Not far, barely noticeable. But far enough.

“The Balm in Gilead,” she read the title, and searched her memory. “There’s a book called Gilead. I read it a few years ago. By Marilynne Robinson. Won the Pulitzer.”

“Not the same one,” Gamache assured her, and Clara could see that it wasn’t. The one that was in his hand, that he was now placing in his pocket, was thin and old. Worn. Read and reread.

“One of Myrna’s?” Clara asked.

“Non.” He examined her. “Do you want to talk about Peter?”

“No.”

The Paris Peace Conference had hit a stalemate. He sipped his coffee. The morning mist had almost burned away and the forest spread green as far as he could see. These were old-growth trees, not yet discovered and felled by the lumber industry.

“You never finish the book,” she said. “Is it difficult to read?”

“For me, yes.”

She was quiet for a moment. “When Peter left, I was sure he’d come back. I was the one who forced the issue, you know. He didn’t want to go.” She lowered her head and studied her hands. As hard as she scrubbed, she couldn’t seem to get the paint out of her cuticles. It was as though the paint was part of her. Had fused there. “And now, he doesn’t want to come home.”