The Long Way Home(3)

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.