The Brutal Telling
“You’re a nasty, demented, drunken old fart,” said Myrna.
“I’m not drunk, yet.”
They finished their drinks and left, but not before Ruth handed Gamache a piece of paper, carefully, precisely folded, the edges sharpened. “Give this to that little fellow who follows you around.”
Olivier kept looking out into the village where Rosa was sitting quietly on the village green, waiting for Ruth. There was no sign of the one not there, the one Olivier longed to see.
Gabri was mostly curious to meet the saint. Vincent Gilbert. Myrna was in awe of him, and she wasn’t in awe of many people. Old Mundin and The Wife said he’d changed their lives with his book Being, and his work at LaPorte. And by extension, he’d changed little Charlie’s life.
“Bonsoir,” said Gabri, nervously. He looked over to Vincent Gilbert. Growing up in the Catholic Church he’d spent endless hours staring at the gleaming windows showing the wretched lives and glorious deaths of the saints. When Gabri had wandered from the Church he’d taken one thing with him. The certainty that saints were good.
“What do you want?” Marc Gilbert asked. He stood with his wife and mother by the sofa. Forming a semicircle. His father a satellite off to the side. Gabri waited for Vincent Gilbert to calm his son, to tell him to greet their guest nicely. To invite Marc to be reasonable.
Gilbert said nothing.
“Well?” said Marc.
Marc snorted. “The Welcome Wagon’s already left us our package.”
“Marc, please,” said Dominique. “He’s our neighbor.”
“Not by choice. If he had his way we’d be long gone.”
And Gabri didn’t deny it. It was true. Their troubles arrived with the Gilberts. But here they were and something had to be said.
“I came to apologize,” he said, standing to his full six foot one. “I’m sorry I haven’t made you feel more welcome. And I’m very sorry about the body.”
Yes, that definitely sounded as lame as he’d feared. But he hoped it at least sounded genuine.
“Marc, really,” said Dominique. “Can’t you see how difficult this is for him?”
“Olivier’s not a psycho,” said Gabri, feeling a kind of trill inside as his patience unraveled. “He’s a wonderful man. You don’t know him.”
“You’re the one who doesn’t know him if you think he’s wonderful. Does a wonderful man dump a body at a neighbor’s home?”
“You tell me.”
The two men advanced on each other.
“I didn’t take the body into a private home to scare the occupants half to death. That was a terrible thing to do.”
“Olivier was pushed to it. He tried to make friends when you first arrived but then you tried to steal our staff and open this huge hotel and spa.”
“Ten guest rooms isn’t huge,” said Dominique.
“Not in Montreal, but out here it is. This’s a small village. We’ve been here for a long time living quietly. You come here and change all that. Made no effort to fit in.”
“No, I mean being respectful of what’s here already. What people’ve worked hard to establish.”
“You want to raise the drawbridge, don’t you?” said Marc in disgust. “You’re in and you want to keep everyone else out.”
“That’s not true. Most of the people in Three Pines have come from somewhere else.”
“But you only accept people who follow your rules. Who do as you say. We came here to live our dream and you won’t let us. Why? Because it clashes with yours. You’re threatened by us and so you need to run us out of town. You’re nothing but bullies, with big smiles.”
Marc was almost spitting.
Gabri stared at him, amazed. “But you didn’t really expect us to be happy about it, did you? Why would you come here and deliberately upset people who were going to be your neighbors? Didn’t you want us as friends? You must’ve known how Olivier would react.”
“What? That he’d put a body in our home?”