“Haven’t we said enough?” she asked, exhausted. She hadn’t slept all night. The power had finally come back on at two thirty, and she’d still been awake. After shutting off the lights and going to the bathroom she’d crawled back to bed.
And watched Peter sleep. Watched him breathe, his cheek smushed into the pillow. His long lashes resting together. His hands relaxed.
She studied that face. That lovely body, beautiful into its fifties.
And now the moment had come to let it go.
“No, I need to tell you something,” he said.
She looked at him, and waited.
“I’m sorry that Lillian wrote that terrible review back at school.”
“Why are you telling me this now?” Clara asked, puzzled.
“It’s just that I was standing close to her when they were looking at your work and I think I—”
“Yes?” Clara asked, guarded.
“I should have told her how great I thought it was. I mean, I told her I loved your art, but I think I could have been clearer.”
Clara smiled. “Lillian was Lillian. You couldn’t have changed her mind. Don’t worry about it.”
She took Peter’s hands and rubbed them softly, then she kissed him on his lips.
And left. Walking through their gate, down their path, and through her door.
Just before it closed Peter remembered something else. “Arisen,” he called. “Hope takes its place among the modern masters.” He stared at the closed door, sure he’d called out in time. Sure she’d heard. “I memorized the reviews, Clara. All the good ones. I know them by heart.”
But Clara was inside her home. Leaning against her door.
Her eyes closed, she fished in her pocket and brought out the coin. The beginner’s chip.
She grasped it so tightly a prayer became printed on her palm.
* * *
Jean Guy picked up the phone, and began dialing. Two, three, four numbers. Further than he’d ever been before hanging up. Six, seven numbers.
Sweat sprung to his palms and he felt light-headed.
Out the window he watched the Chief Inspector toss his bag into the back of the car.
* * *
Chief Inspector Gamache closed the back door to the car and turned round, watching Ruth and Brian.
Then someone else came into his field of vision.
Olivier walked slowly as though approaching a landmine. He paused just once, then kept going, stopping only when he reached the bench, and Ruth.
She didn’t move, but continued to stare into the sky.
“She’ll sit there forever, of course,” said Peter, coming up beside Gamache. “Waiting for something that won’t happen.”
Gamache turned to him. “You don’t think Rosa will come back?”
“No, I don’t. And neither do you. There’s no kindness in false hope.” His voice was hard.
“You aren’t expecting a miracle today?” Gamache asked.
“Are you?”
“Always. And I’m never disappointed. I’m about to go home to the woman I love, who loves me. I do a job I believe in with people I admire. Every morning when I swing my legs out of bed I feel like I walk on water.” Gamache looked Peter in the eyes. “As Brian said last night, sometimes drowning men are saved.”
As they watched, Olivier sat on the bench and joined Ruth and Brian staring up at the sky. Then he took off his blue cardigan and draped it over Ruth’s shoulders. The old poet didn’t move. But after a moment she spoke.
“Thank you,” she said. “Numb nuts.”
* * *
Eleven numbers.
The phone was ringing. Jean Guy almost hung up. His heart was beating so hard he thought for sure he’d never hear if anyone answered. And probably pass out if they did.
“Oui, âllo?” came the cheerful voice.
“Hello?” he managed. “Annie?”
* * *
Armand Gamache watched Peter Morrow drive slowly along du Moulin, and out of Three Pines.
As he turned back to the village he saw Ruth get to her feet. She was staring into the distance. And then he heard it. A far cry. A familiar cry.
Ruth searched the skies, a veined and bony hand at her throat clutching the blue cardigan.
The sun broke through a small crack in the clouds. The embittered old poet turned her face to the sound and the light. Straining to see into the distance, something not quite there, not quite visible.
And in her weary eyes there was a tiny dot. A glint, a gleam.