The Long Way Home
“I want to sit in our garden and hear about her year, and tell her about mine,” he finally said. “I want to hear all about her art. And how she paints and how she feels. Oh, God, what’ve I done?”
* * *
Clara grabbed Peter’s rolled-up paintings. “I can’t wait any longer.”
“Sit down,” Myrna commanded. “Sit.”
“Could we at least call them?” Clara pulled out her device.
“Give me that,” said Myrna, holding out her hand. “Give it.”
“But—”
“Now. Lives might be at stake. We don’t know what’s happening and we can’t interrupt. Armand said to wait for him.”
“I can’t.”
“You have to. This is what he does. What they both do. Leave them.”
Their coffees were cold and the lemon meringue pie sat untouched in the middle of the table.
“Do you think they’ve found Peter?” Clara asked.
“I hope so.” Myrna looked out the window and couldn’t imagine what might be beyond this place. Where else could they look? Where else could he hide?
“Does the Muse live here?” Clara asked. Of Chartrand.
“Why do you ask me?”
“Because you’ve been here before.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Are you sure?” Clara’s eyes held his, and wouldn’t let them drop.
“I’ve never been here in my life,” said Chartrand. “But I’m glad I’m here now.”
“Why?” asked Clara.
He smiled weakly, got up, and left. They could see him through the window of the diner, his hands shoved into his pockets, his collar turned up against the wind. He stood hunched, staring out at the water.
Clara clasped one hand tightly in the other under the table. How long would she have to wait? How long could she wait? She looked at the Bakelite clock on the diner wall. But while it told time, it wasn’t helpful. Clocks were meaningless here.
Time seemed measured in other terms. Here.
The clock said they’d been in the diner for three quarters of an hour, but Clara knew it was really an eternity.
* * *
“Why did you come here?” Gamache asked.
“To find the tenth muse?” asked Beauvoir.
“You know about that?” asked Peter, and when they said nothing he went on. “No. I came to tell Norman what a shit he was. When I visited Professor Massey at the art college, it all came back to me. I’d always regretted not telling Norman about the damage he’d done.”
“With the Salon des Refusés,” said Gamache.
“Yes. He’d hurt Clara, and I’d said nothing at the time. When I left Three Pines, I had no idea how she would feel about me when I returned. I suspected she’d want to end our marriage for good, and I couldn’t blame her. But I wanted to take her one special thing. A gift. I thought and thought about it, and realized what a coward I’d been all our lives. Never defending her or her art. Letting everyone criticize and belittle. And finally even doing it myself when I realized how brilliant she really was. I tried to ruin her art, Armand.”
He looked down at his hands, as though he had blood all over them. The hollow gaze of a sin-sick soul.
“When Professor Massey mentioned Norman, I remembered the Salon des Refusés and knew what I could give her,” said Peter, raising his eyes again. “My apology. But not just words. A deed. Even if I had to go to hell and back, I’d find Professor Norman, and confront him. Only then could I go home. And face her.”
“You’d bring her the head of Professor Norman,” said Gamache.
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
When Gamache continued to stare at him, Peter blanched.
“You don’t still think—” He waved toward the bed.
“Go on,” said Gamache, not taking his eyes off Peter.
“I went to Baie-Saint-Paul, where the files said Norman’s last check had been mailed, years ago. He wasn’t there, but it was so beautiful, and peaceful, and I’d been on the road for so long. So I rented a room and caught my breath. It was only then I remembered the paintings from my mother’s house. The ones I’d stared at for hours. Wishing myself into them. The Clarence Gagnons. They were done in Baie-Saint-Paul. So I found the Galerie Gagnon, and when I wasn’t painting I spent hours staring at them.”
“Why?” asked Beauvoir.
“Have you seen them?” Peter asked. Beauvoir nodded. “How did they make you feel?”