How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9)

How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9) Page 43

Gamache smiled. The idea of a home infused with music appealed to him.

“It’s nice to see lights in Emilie’s home again,” said Clara.

Henri crawled onto the sofa. Slowly. Slowly. As though, if he crept up and averted his eyes, no one would see. He laid out his full length, taking up two thirds of the sofa, and slowly put his head in Gamache’s lap. Gamache looked at Clara apologetically.

“It’s OK. Peter was never a fan of the dogs getting up on the furniture, but I like it.”

This provided Gamache the opening he was hoping for.

“How are you doing without Peter?”

“It’s the strangest feeling,” she said, after a moment’s reflection. “It’s like our relationship isn’t dead, but neither is it alive.”

“The undead,” said Gamache.

“The vampire of marriages,” laughed Clara. “Without all the fun blood-sucking part.”

“Do you miss him?”

“The day he left, I watched him drive out of Three Pines and then I came back here and leaned against the door. I realized I was actually pushing against it, in case he returned and wanted back in. The problem is, I love him. I just wish I knew if the marriage was over and I needed to get on with my life,” said Clara, “or if we can repair it.”

Gamache looked at her for a long moment. Saw her graying hair, her comfortable and eclectic clothes. Her confusion.

“May I make a small suggestion?” he asked quietly.

She nodded.

“I think you might try leading your life as though it’s just you. If he comes back and you know your life will be better with him, then great. But you’ll also know you’re enough on your own.”

Clara smiled. “That’s what Myrna said too. You’re very alike, you know.”

“I’m often mistaken for a large black woman,” Gamache agreed. “I’m told it’s my best feature.”

“I never am. It’s my one great failing,” said Clara.

Then she noticed his thoughtful brown eyes. His stillness. And the hand that trembled, just a little. But enough.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He smiled, nodded, and rose. “I’m fine.”

He clipped Henri onto his leash and slung Henri’s bag over his shoulder.

They walked back across the village, man and dog, in the red and green and golden light of the three huge Christmas pines, making prints in the stained-glass snow. Gamache realized he’d just said to Clara the exact words he’d said to Annie.

When everything had failed—the counseling, the intervention, the pleas to return to treatment—Annie had asked Jean-Guy to leave their home.

Armand had sat in the car that damp autumn evening, across the street from their apartment. Wet leaves were falling from the trees, caught in gusts of wind. They scudded across the windshield and the road. He’d waited. Watched. There in case his daughter needed him.

Jean-Guy had left without needing to be forced, but as he left he’d seen Gamache, who wasn’t trying to hide. Beauvoir had stopped, in the middle of the glistening street, dead leaves swirling around him, and had poured all his venom into a look so vile it had shocked even the Chief Inspector of homicide. But it had also comforted him. Gamache knew in that moment that if Jean-Guy was going to hurt any Gamache, it would not be Annie.

It was with relief that he’d driven home that night.

That was several months ago and as far as he knew Annie had had no further contact with Jean-Guy. But that didn’t mean she didn’t miss him. The man Beauvoir once was, and might be again. Given a chance.

As Gamache entered Emilie’s home, Thérèse struggled out of her seat by the fire.

“Someone knows you well,” she said, handing a cut glass to Armand. “They left a fine bottle of Scotch on the sideboard and a couple of bottles of wine and beer in the fridge.”

“And coq au vin in the oven,” said Jérôme, coming in from the kitchen carrying a glass of red wine. “It’s just warming up.”

He raised his glass. “À votre santé.”

“To your good health,” Gamache echoed, raising his own glass to the Brunels.

Then, after Thérèse and Jérôme had resumed their seats, Gamache sat down with a grunt, trying not to spill his Scotch in the descent. A soft pillow sat on the sofa beside him and, on a whim, he fluffed it.

No sound came out, but he softly hummed the first few notes of “The Huron Carol.”

“Armand,” said Thérèse. “How did you find this place?”