But Ruth hadn’t given up hope.
Sitting quietly on the bench, Gamache remembered why that phrase from the Dickinson poem was so familiar. Opening the book still in his hands he looked down at the words highlighted by a dead woman.
Hearts are broken. Sweet relationships are dead.
Then he noticed someone watching them from the bistro. Olivier.
“How’s he doing?” Gamache asked, gesturing slightly toward the bistro.
“Who?”
“Olivier.”
“I don’t know. Who cares?”
Gamache was quiet for a moment. “He’s a good friend of yours, as I remember,” said the Chief Inspector.
Ruth was silent, her face immobile.
“People make mistakes,” said Gamache. “He’s a good man, you know. And I know he loves you.”
Ruth made a rude noise. “Look, all he cares about is money. Not me, not Clara or Peter. Not even Gabri. Not really. He’d sell us all for a few bucks. You should know that better than most.”
“I’ll tell you what I know,” said Gamache. “I know he made a mistake. And I know he’s sorry. And I know he’s trying to make it up.”
“But not to you. He barely looks at you.”
“Would you? If I arrested you for a crime you hadn’t committed, would you forgive?”
“Olivier lied to us. To me.”
“Everyone lies,” said Gamache. “Everyone hides things. His were pretty bad, but I’ve seen worse. Much worse.”
Ruth’s already thin lips all but disappeared.
“I’ll tell you who did lie,” she said. “That man you were just speaking to.”
“François Marois?”
“Well, I don’t know his fucking name. How many men were you just talking to? Whatever his name was, he wasn’t telling you the truth.”
“How so?”
“The young fellow wasn’t ordering all the drinks. He was. Long before the young guy showed up the other fellow was drunk.”
“Are you sure?”
“I have a nose for booze, and an eye for drunks.”
“And an ear for lies, apparently.”
Ruth cracked a smile that surprised even her.
Gamache got up and cast a look toward Olivier, before bowing slightly to Ruth and whispering so that only she could hear,
“Now here’s a good one:
you’re lying on your deathbed.
You have one hour to live.”
“Enough,” she interrupted him, her bony hand up and in his face. Not quite touching it, but close enough to block the words. “I know how it ends. And I wonder if you really know the answer to the question?” She looked at him hard. “Who is it, exactly, you have needed all these years to forgive, Chief Inspector?”
He straightened up and left her, walking toward the bridge over the Rivère Bella Bella, lost in thought.
“Chief.”
He turned to see Inspector Beauvoir striding toward him from the Incident Room.
He knew that look. Jean Guy had news.
TWENTY-ONE
All Clara Morrow wanted was to be left alone. But instead she found herself in her kitchen, listening to Denis Fortin. Looking more boyish than ever. More contrite.
“Coffee?” she asked, then wondered why she’d offered. All she wanted was for Fortin to leave.
“No, merci,” he smiled. “I really don’t want to disturb you.”
But you already are, thought Clara, and knew it was uncharitable. She was the one who’d opened the door. She was beginning to dislike doors. Closed or open.
If someone had said a year ago that she’d long for this prestigious gallery owner to leave her home, she’d never have believed it. Her whole effort, the efforts of every artist she knew, including Peter, was to get Fortin’s attention.
But all she could think about was getting rid of him.
“I suspect you know why I’m here,” said Fortin, with a grin. “I’d actually hoped to speak with both you and Peter. Is he home?”
“No, he’s not. Do you want to come back when he’s here?”
“I don’t want to waste your time,” he said, getting up. “I realize we got off to a terrible start. All my fault. I wish I could change all that. I was very, very stupid.”
She started to say something and he put up his hand and smiled.
“You don’t have to be nice, I know what an ass I was. But I’ve learned, and I won’t be like that again. To you or to anyone else, I hope. I’d like to just say this once, and leave. Let you and maybe your husband think about it. Is that OK?”