THIRTEEN
Olivier and Gabri brought the luggage in and took it to the bedrooms, then left.
“Merci, patron.” Gamache stepped onto the cold verandah with them.
“You’re welcome,” said Olivier. “You played your role well on the phone. I almost believed you were annoyed.”
“And you were very convincing,” said Gamache. “Worthy of the Olivier award.”
“Well, as luck would have it,” said Gabri, “I planned to reward him tonight.”
Gamache watched them cross to the bistro, then he closed the door and faced the room. And smiled.
He could finally relax.
Thérèse and Jérôme were safe.
And Jean-Guy was safe. He’d monitored the Sûreté frequency the entire drive down and heard no calls for ambulances. Indeed, what chatter he picked up led him to believe the bunker had been abandoned. The Rock Machine was no longer there.
The informant had lied. Or, more likely, there was no informant.
Gamache was both relieved and grim as he absorbed that news.
Jean-Guy was safe. For now.
Gamache looked at Emilie Longpré’s home.
Two sofas faced each other on either side of the stone fireplace. They were slip-covered in faded floral fabric. A pine blanket box sat in the space between them. On it was a game of cribbage and some playing cards.
A couple of armchairs were tucked in a corner, a table between them and a hassock in front, to be shared by weary feet. A standing lamp with tasseled shade was on and held the chairs in soft light.
The walls were painted a soothing light blue, and one had floor-to-ceiling bookcases.
It felt quiet and calm.
Olivier had spent the morning finding out who now owned Emilie’s home, and whether he could rent it. Seemed a distant niece in Regina owned the home and hadn’t yet figured out what to do with it. She readily agreed to rent it over Christmas.
Olivier then called Gamache and gave him the agreed-upon phrase—Gabri asked me to call to make sure you still want your room for tonight—that would tell Gamache he could have Emilie’s home.
Then Olivier had rounded up others in the village to help. The result was this.
Sheets had been pulled off the furniture, beds were made and clean towels put out, the home was vacuumed and dusted and polished. A fire was laid in the grate, and judging by the aroma, dinner was warming in the oven.
It was as though he and the Brunels had just stepped out for a few hours and were returning home.
Two of Sarah’s fresh-baked baguettes sat in a basket on the marble kitchen counter, and Monsieur Béliveau had stocked the pantry and fridge with milk and cheese and butter. With homemade jams. Fruit sat in a wooden bowl on the harvest table
There was even a Christmas tree, decorated and lit.
Gamache loosened his tie, knelt down and struck a match to the wood and paper in the hearth, watching mesmerized as it caught and flared.
He exhaled. It felt as though a cloak, like the ghostly sheets over the furniture, had been lifted from him.
“Thérèse,” he called. “Jérôme.”
“Oui?” came the distant response.
“I’m going out.”
He put on his boots and coat and walked quickly through the crisp evening, toward the little cottage with the open gate and winding path.
* * *
“Armand,” said Clara, opening the door to his knock. Henri was so excited he didn’t know whether to jump up or curl into a ball at Gamache’s feet. Instead, the shepherd threaded his way in and out and around Gamache’s legs, crying with excitement.
“I beat him, of course,” said Clara, looking with mock disgust at Henri.
Gamache knelt down and played with Henri for a moment.
“You look like you could use a Scotch,” said Clara.
“Don’t tell me I look like Ruth,” said Gamache, and Clara laughed.
“Just around the edges.”
“Actually, I don’t need anything, merci.” He took off his coat and boots and followed her into the living room, where a fire was lit.
“Thank you for looking after Henri. And thank you for helping to get Emilie’s home ready for us.”
There was no way to explain how that home looked to weary travelers who’d come to the end of the road.
He wondered, in a moment that startled him, whether that’s what this little village was. The end of the road? And, like most ends, not an end at all.
“A pleasure,” said Clara. “Gabri combined it with a rehearsal for the Christmas concert and had us sing ‘The Huron Carol’ over and over. I suspect if you hit one of the pillows that song will come out.”
