She knew what they thought. That she was cold. Couldn’t feel. But in fact she felt too much. Too deeply.
But she was raised never to admit a flaw, a failing, a feeling.
She looked over at Peter. Holding her valise. She opened her mouth, but the car appeared just then. She stepped back from the void.
‘Here he is.’
Without a backward glance she got in the car and left.
You can’t get milk from a hardware store.
Mariana had told Peter about the note Father had left her. Maybe, thought Peter, if we put all our notes together, the code would be complete. But then he smiled and shook his head. Old habits. There was no code, and he had his answer.
His father had loved him.
As he watched his mother disappear into the woods he wondered if he could ever bring himself to believe that she loved him too. Perhaps one day, but not today.
He walked back to Clara, knowing not everything had left. One thing remained.
Reine-Marie found her husband on the dock, his floppy hat restored, his slacks rolled up and his feet dangling in the clear cool waters.
‘I almost lost you today, didn’t I?’ She sat beside him, catching the aroma of rosewater and sandalwood.
‘Never. Like the Manoir, I’m built to last.’
She smiled and patted his hand, and tried not to think about it.
‘I finally got through to Daniel in Paris,’ said Gamache. ‘I apologized.’
And he’d meant it.
‘I told him if he wanted to name his son Honoré he had my blessing. He was right. Honoré is a good name. Besides, his child will make his own way. Like Bean. I’d thought it cruel naming the child Bean, that it helped explain the child’s unhappiness. But Bean isn’t unhappy at all.’
‘It could have been worse,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘Mariana could have married David Martin.’
‘How would that make it worse?’
‘Bean Martin?’
Gamache laughed, low and rumbling. ‘It’s an amazing thing to know your child has more courage than you.’
‘He’s his father’s son.’
They looked across the lake, lost in their own thoughts.
‘What are you thinking?’ she asked quietly after a few moments.
‘I’m counting my blessings,’ he whispered, looking at her in her floppy hat. ‘Daniel told me something else. They found out today the sex of their child and they’ve decided on a name.’
‘Honoré?’
‘Zora.’
‘Zora,’ said Reine-Marie. She reached for his wounded hand and together they did their sums. It took some time.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have a few people to thank for this book. The first and foremost, as always, is my kind and gentle husband Michael. It took me a lot longer than it should have to realize that Armand Gamache isn’t simply my fictional husband, he’s my real husband. Indeed, without even realizing it I based Chief Inspector Gamache on Michael. A man who is content and knows great joy, because he’s known great sorrow. And mostly, he knows the difference.
I’d also like to thank Rachel Hewitt who curates the sculpture collection at the Royal Academy in London.
Hope Dellon, of St Martin’s Minotaur and Sherise Hobbs of Headline are my editors and worked to make this book what it is. I owe them both a huge debt, as I do the most wonderful agent in the world, Teresa Chris. She is very wise.
I owe a great debt to Lise Page, my assistant, who patiently tends gardens in the summer and tends to us the rest of the year. Everything she touches flourishes. And she rarely finds the need to use fertilizer.
And finally Jason, Stephen and Kathy Stafford who own and run Manoir Hovey in the village of North Hatley, Quebec. The Manoir Bellechasse is inspired by Hovey Manor, and by the many, many wonderful days and nights we’ve spent there. If you read this book and then visit Hovey you’ll notice that it is far from an exact replica – of the Inn or the lake. But I hope I have, at least, captured the feel of Manoir Hovey. In fact, Michael and I love it so much we got married in the tiny Anglican Chapel in North Hatley many years ago, then had a two-day wedding party at Hovey.
Bliss.
Though, as Stephen has pointed out, they happily do not have nearly the number of blackflies as the fictional Manoir Bellechasse. Nor, it must be said, nearly the number of murders.
Louise Penny, The Murder Stone
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