The Long Way Home
“Is that the best route?”
As the men discussed various options, Reine-Marie stared at the dot on the map. How often had she stood in front of this very map, staring at a dot? Imagining Armand inside it. Willing him safe, willing him home.
The dot had a name. Baie-Saint-Paul.
Saint Paul. Another one who’d seen something unlikely on the road. And whose life had changed.
“We’re on the road to Damascus,” said Armand with a smile. “Or Charlevoix anyway.”
It was an area so beautiful, so unique, it had attracted visitors for centuries. At least one American president had had a summer home there. But what Charlevoix mostly attracted were artists, Québec artists, Canadian artists. Artists from around the world.
And now it had attracted Peter Morrow.
* * *
“How long will you be gone?” Reine-Marie asked a few minutes later, as she helped Armand pack a suitcase.
He paused, his hand full of socks. “Hard to say. It’ll take the better part of the day to drive there, and then we need to find out where he’s staying.”
“If he’s still there,” she said, placing shirts in the suitcase. After considering, she added one more.
Through the sitting room window, Gamache could see Jean-Guy loading two suitcases into the Volvo. Perplexed, Gamache slipped the small book into the pocket of his satchel and they went outside.
As he walked down the path, Gamache saw Clara and Myrna standing by the car. Clara had Peter’s rolled-up canvases in her hand, and Myrna had a map.
“You’re here to see us off?” asked Gamache, but he already knew that wasn’t true. Clara shook her head and looked toward their suitcases, already in the Volvo.
“You’re coming with us?” Gamache asked.
“No,” said Clara. “You’re coming with us.”
It was said with a smile, but the distinction was clear.
“I see,” said Armand.
“Good.” Clara watched him closely. “I’m not kidding, Armand. I’m going to find Peter. You can come if you’d like, but if you do, you have to agree that I make the final decisions. I don’t want this to turn into a power struggle.”
“Believe me, Clara, I have no wish for power.” He paused and became so still that Clara also stilled. “I’m not bringing any art supplies.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m not an artist.”
“And I’m not an investigator,” she said, grasping his meaning.
“You don’t know what you’ll find,” he said.
“No, I don’t. But I need to be the one looking.”
“And what will you do when we get there?” he asked.
“I’ll find out where Peter’s staying.”
“And suppose he isn’t still there?”
“Are you treating me like a child, Armand?”
“No. I’m treating you like a responsible adult, but one who’s trying to do something she’s unprepared for. Not trained for. I can’t paint a very good picture. You can’t conduct a very good investigation. This is your life, yes. But it’s what we’ve done for a living.” He paused and leaned so close to her no one else could hear. “I’m very good at it. I will find Peter.”
And she replied, so close that he felt the warm words in his ear, “You might know how to investigate, but I know Peter.”
“You knew Peter.” Gamache saw the words slap her. “You think he’s the same man, and he’s not. If you don’t accept that, you’ll go off course. Fast.”
She stepped back. “I know he’s not the same man.” She stared at him. “Peter’s changed. He’s following his heart now. That’s my territory. I can find him, Armand. I’ll know.”
Gamache and Jean-Guy simply stared at her and she felt herself getting angry. Angry at them for not understanding, and angry at herself for not being able to explain it. And angry at the fact that it sounded so fucking lame.
“You like Peter,” she finally said. “But I love him. Laugh if you want, but it makes a difference. I’ll be able to find him.”
“If love was compass enough,” said Armand quietly, “there would be no missing children.”
Clara felt the breath leave her body. There was nothing she could say to that. It was so monumentally true. And yet, and yet, Clara knew she needed to go. And not follow Gamache, but be in the lead.
She could find Peter.