All the Devils Are Here (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #16) - Louise Penny Page 0,150

sure Annie’s all right with you coming back?”

“From Paris? There was no question. This’s where we belong. This’s where we want to raise our children. Here, in Québec.”

“I meant with you coming back to the Sûreté,” Armand clarified. “To homicide.”

Jean-Guy smiled. “Do you think I’d be doing it if Annie didn’t agree? It was her idea. She said we were meant to be together. You and me. She says it’s fate.”

“Do you believe that?”

“In fate?” Jean-Guy considered, then nodded.

Though he couldn’t quite bring himself to say it out loud, his actions had spoken.

“I was thinking about the Tremblay case …”

They continued their stroll around the village green, talking about murder, while the dogs, and Gracie, romped and rolled in the fresh snow.

Annie, holding Idola, along with Roslyn and Reine-Marie, had gone over to the bistro, and were visible through the window, sitting with Clara, Myrna, and Ruth by the roaring fire.

Wedges of lemon meringue pie sat in front of each of them.

“Before you go,” said Stephen as Daniel put his coat on. “Can you help me with something?”

Stephen gripped Daniel’s hand as they walked slowly down the hall to his bedroom on the main floor. His suitcases were there, partially unpacked. Digging through one, he brought out a bulky sweater. Unwrapping it, he revealed the small watercolor.

“There, please.” Stephen pointed.

Daniel hammered a picture hook into the wall, then picked up the painting.

“No,” said Stephen, taking it from him. “I’ll hang it. You go outside.”

After Daniel left, he turned the painting around and saw Arlette’s writing.

For Armand, with love.

Bringing out a pen he carefully added two words, so that it now read, For Armand, my son, with love.

Then Stephen Horowitz hung the watercolor where he could see it first thing in the morning and at the end of the day. The end of his days.

And know that, while he’d taken the long way, he was finally home.

“Want to go in?” Jean-Guy asked as they looked through the bistro window.

“Non, I’m heading home,” said Armand. “We left Daniel alone with Stephen.”

“And his cane,” said Jean-Guy, who’d received more than one whack.

Armand watched his son-in-law join the others around the bistro fire. He could read Ruth’s lips as she greeted him: “Hello, numbnuts.”

Reine-Marie put her head back and laughed.

Armand smiled, then turned full circle.

His gaze took in the dark forests and luminous homes, the three huge pines and the soft snow falling from the sky, as though the Heavens had opened, and all the angels were joining them. Here. Here.

“Dad.”

Armand turned.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Michael took me to Paris for the first time back in 1995. I was thirty-six years old and we’d been seeing each other for five months. He was invited to give a talk on childhood leukemia to a conference in Toulouse, and asked if I’d like to go along. When I regained consciousness I said, yes, yes, yes please!

We flew out of Montréal in a snowstorm, almost missing the flight. Michael was, to be honest, a little vague on details, like departure times of planes, trains, buses. In fact, almost all appointments. This was the trip where I realized we each had strengths. Mine seemed to be actually getting us to places. His was making it fun once there.

On our first night in Paris we went to a wonderful restaurant, then for a walk. At some stage he said, “I’d like to show you something. Look at this.”

He was pointing to the trunk of a tree.

Now, I’d actually seen trees before, but I thought there must be something extraordinary about this one.

“Get up close,” he said. “Look at where I’m pointing.”

It was dark, so my nose was practically touching his finger, lucky man.

Then, slowly, slowly, his finger began moving, scraping along the bark. I was cross-eyed, following it. And then it left the tree trunk. And pointed into the air.

I followed it.

And there was the Eiffel Tower. Lit up in the night sky.

As long as I live, I will never forget that moment. Seeing the Eiffel Tower with Michael. And the dear man, knowing the magic of it for a woman who never thought she’d see Paris, made it even more magical by making it a surprise.

C. S. Lewis wrote that we can create situations in which we are happy, but we cannot create joy. It just happens.

That moment I was surprised by complete and utter joy.

A little more than a year earlier I knew that the best of life was behind me. I could not have been more wrong. In that year