A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15) - Louise Penny Page 0,93

with clean modern lines.

Oriental rugs, hand-tied, were scattered on the wide-plank floors. The walls were freshly plastered and painted a shade that contrasted nicely with the warm wood and stone.

She looked up.

Nothing hung from the sturdy beams.

The bistro smelled of rich coffee and subtle maple smoke from the fieldstone fireplaces at either end of the room.

It was a place of confidences. Of companionship. Where secrets were exchanged and yearnings admitted. Where children grew into adults, into seniors. Where homecomings were celebrated and lives celebrated by those left behind.

It was a place where both grandmother and granddaughter would feel at home.

“Bonjour,” said a young woman coming from behind the long bar to greet her. “Une table? C’est votre choix.”

She smiled at Dominica, as though dreadlocked New York critics were their regular customers, and pointed to the near-empty room. It was midafternoon, between rushes.

The few other customers had glanced at her, then gone back to their conversations. Showing little interest and no fear.

“Ummm,” said Oddly, not at all sure what the young woman had said.

“Oh, sorry. English. Sit anywhere you like. The fireplace has just come open. I’ll clean the table for you.”

The young woman spoke in slightly accented English. As Oddly followed her to the large armchair by the fire, she thought she might have to do something rare for her.

Reconsider her opinion.

This was no France wannabe. This was genuine Québec. With its own history, etched into flesh and bone, into stone and wood. Into the cushions of the armchairs and sofas, retaining the impressions of warm bodies who’d sat there before her. Eating, talking, commiserating, laughing. For generations.

This was no imitation, but the real thing.

By the time Clara found her, Dominica had enjoyed a glass of red wine and a delicious buttery Riopelle de l’Isle. A cheese made on a tiny Québec island, and named after one of her favorite artists. Jean-Paul Riopelle. Dominica hadn’t realized that the abstract expressionist painter came from Québec. And lived, worked, and died on a small island.

She smeared the cheese on a baguette fresh from the bakery next door, and looked at the village, framed by the mullioned windows.

She was wondering how much homes around the village green cost, and if any of her subscribers would notice, or care, if she decamped to Canada.

Though, looking at Clara Morrow’s face, she knew one person who might not be pleased.

* * *

Vivienne’s father closed his eyes and, bringing his hand to his heart, made a sound.

Gamache, sitting across from him, watched closely. It wasn’t clear if Homer was sighing or moaning. Whether he was relieved or having a heart attack.

Armand noticed that the hand over his heart was crunched into a fist. But not tight. Not in pain. At least not physical pain. His heart, under attack for days, might just, with the news of the imminent arrest of Carl Tracey, finally be fighting back.

“I know you’re not messing with me, Armand, but I need to hear it again. You’re arresting him. For what he did.”

“Yes. I’ll be going with Chief Inspector Beauvoir. We’ll be bringing him in probably within the hour. You’re free to go, but, Homer”—it was the first time he’d used the man’s first name to his face—“I’d like Agent Cloutier to drive you back to Three Pines.”

“To get my things.”

“No. To stay with us. Just for a few days. You shouldn’t be alone.”

“No. I want to go home. I need to be with…” He made a vague gesture. “Alone.”

Armand knew he’d feel the same way, if Annie … If Reine-Marie … If Daniel …

It was instinctive. A badly wounded animal, crawling off alone. To lick wounds. Or, if they proved too deep, to die.

Gamache had seen it more than once. People died from grief.

Carl Tracey had killed the daughter. Gamache was damned if he’d let him kill the father, too.

“You don’t have to be social, but you shouldn’t be alone.” Armand leaned forward and touched Homer’s hand, lightly, and whispered, “Please.”

He saw Agent Cloutier bristle a bit. Perhaps annoyed that it was not she who was comforting Homer.

But that’s why Gamache had asked her to drive Homer down to Three Pines, so that Homer would have the company of someone he knew and trusted. Someone he felt comfortable with. It might even be the bonding experience they both needed.

“I can leave your place whenever I want?” Homer asked. “And go home?”

“Yes, of course,” said Armand. “Lysette will stay with you until I get there.”

That served several purposes. It kept Homer company, kept