The Brutal Telling
And then he told her what had happened. About Gamache, about the cabin, about the Hermit and his belongings. About moving the body and owning the bistro, and the boulangerie and almost everything else in Three Pines.
Ruth didn’t care. All she could think of was what she’d give in exchange for words. To say something. The right thing. To tell Olivier that she loved him. That Gabri loved him and would never, ever leave. That love could never leave.
She imagined herself getting up and sitting beside him, and taking his trembling hand and saying, “There, there.”
There, there. And softly rubbing his heaving back until he caught his breath.
Instead she’d poured herself more cooking sherry and glared.
Now, with the sun set and Olivier gone, Ruth sat in her kitchen in the white plastic garden chair at the plastic table she’d found at the dump. Sufficiently drunk, she pulled the notebook close and with Rosa quietly quacking in the background, a small knit blanket over her, Ruth wrote:
She rose up into the air and the jilted earth let out a sigh.
She rose up past telephone poles and rooftops of houses where the earthbound hid.
She rose up but remembered to politely wave good-bye . . .
And then kissing Rosa on the head she limped up the stairs to bed.
TWENTY-EIGHT
When Clara came down the next morning she was surprised to find Peter in the garden, staring into space. He’d put on the coffee, and now she poured a couple of cups and joined him.
“Sleep well?” she asked, handing him a mug.
“Not really. You?”
“Not bad. Why didn’t you?”
It was an overcast morning with a chill in the air. The first morning that really felt as though summer was over, and autumn on the way. She loved the fall. The brilliant leaves, the lit fireplaces, the smell of woodsmoke through the village. She loved huddling at a table outside the bistro, wrapped in sweaters and sipping café au lait.
Peter pursed his lips and looked down at his feet, in rubber boots to protect against the heavy dew.
“I was thinking about your question. What to do about Fortin.”
Peter had thought about it most of the night. Had got up and gone downstairs, pacing around the kitchen and finally ending up in his studio. His refuge. It smelled of him. Of body odor, and oil paint and canvas. It smelled faintly of lemon meringue pie, which he couldn’t explain. It smelled like no other place on earth.
He’d gone into his studio last night to think, and finally to stop thinking. To clear his mind of the howl that had grown, like something massive approaching. And finally, just before sunrise, he knew what he had to say to Clara.
“I think you should talk to him.”
There. He’d said it. Beside him Clara was silent, her hands grasping the warm cup of coffee.
“Really?”
Peter nodded. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to come with you?”
“I’m not even sure I’m going yet,” she snapped and walked a couple of paces away.
Peter wanted to run to her, to take it back, to say he was wrong. She should stay there with him, should say nothing. Should just do the show.
What had he been thinking?
“You’re right.” She turned back to him, miserable. “He won’t mind, will he?”
“Fortin? No. You don’t have to be angry, just tell him how you feel, that’s all. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
“I can just say that maybe I misheard. And that Gabri is one of our best friends.”
“That’s it. Fortin probably doesn’t even remember saying it.”
“I’m sure he won’t mind.” Clara walked slowly inside to call Fortin.
“Denis? It’s Clara Morrow. Yes, that was fun. Really, is that a good price? Sure, I’ll tell the Chief Inspector. Listen, I’m going to be in Montreal today and thought maybe we could get together again. I have . . . well, a few thoughts.” She paused. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. That sounds great. Twelve thirty at the Santropole on Duluth. Perfect.”
What have I done? Peter asked himself.
Breakfast at the B and B was a somber affair of burned toast, rubber eggs and black bacon. The coffee was weak and the milk seemed curdled, as did Gabri. By mutual, unspoken consent they didn’t discuss the case, but waited until they were back at the Incident Room.
“Oh, thank God,” said Agent Lacoste, as she fell on the Tim Hortons double double coffees Agent Morin had brought. And the chocolate-glazed doughnuts. “I never thought I’d prefer this to Gabri’s breakfasts.” She took a huge bite of soft, sweet doughnut. “If this keeps up we might have to solve the case and leave.”