high and breathy. “We can’t get through that.”
The plow had pushed snow across the entrance to the driveway, creating a barrier. There was no way to tell how thick, how packed it would be. Or what was on the other side.
But they had no choice. There was only one way to do this.
“Hold on,” said Armand, and pressed his foot on the gas.
“Are you sure?” said Benedict as they headed straight for the wall of snow.
“Oh shit,” said Myrna, bracing herself.
And then they hit.
The snow exploded, plastering itself against the windshield and blinding them as the car skewed violently one way, then the other.
And then, to Benedict’s horror, Armand leaned back in his seat.
“Hit the brake,” Benedict screamed.
Benedict reached for the wheel, but Armand grabbed his wrist in a grip so tight the young man flinched.
A chunk of snow flew off the windshield, and they could see the forest—trees, trunks—heading toward them.
Benedict gasped and put his hands against the dashboard while Armand stared ahead, waiting. Waiting. And then, just when it appeared too late, he gently, gently, pumped the brakes.
The car slowed. Then stopped. Its nose just touching the other bank.
There was complete silence, then long exhales.
They were right across the road, blocking it. Armand quickly looked left and right, to see if there were any oncoming cars. But the road was empty.
Only fools would be out in a blizzard.
There was quiet, giddy laughter.
“Oh shit,” sighed Myrna.
Armand backed the car up and pointed it toward home. Putting on the warning flashers, he got out to inspect for damage.
“What the fuck was that?” demanded Benedict, marching around the car to confront Armand. “You gave up. You almost killed us.”
Armand gestured with both hands toward the car.
“Yeah,” shouted Benedict. “Dumb luck.”
“There was that.” Had there been another vehicle coming or the plow returning—
“You froze,” shouted Benedict as Armand began digging snow out of the grille of the car. “I saw you.”
“What I did and what you saw seem to be two different things. Sometimes the best thing we can do is nothing.”
“What sort of Zen bullshit is that?”
Snow whipped around Benedict, his fists clenched as he stared at Gamache.
“You want to know why I did what I did?”
“You panicked.”
“Did no one teach you how to drive in snow?” Gamache shouted into the blizzard.
“I can do it better than you.”
“Then you can give me a lesson. But perhaps not today.”
They got back into the car, and Gamache put it in gear.
“And,” he said, concentrating on the road, “just so you know. I never give up.”
“Where’re we going?” asked Lucien from the backseat.
“Home,” said Myrna.
CHAPTER 6
“Are we there?” asked the notary. Again.
“Oui.”
“Really?”
The answer was so unexpected it silenced him. Lucien used his sleeve to wipe the condensation from the car window and peered out. And saw … nothing.
And then the blowing snow momentarily shifted, and for a split second, through a tear in the blizzard, he could see a house. A home.
It was made of fieldstone, and there was soft light coming through the mullioned windows.
And then it was gone, swallowed by the storm. The sighting was so brief, Lucien wondered if desperation and imagination had conjured a fairy-tale cottage.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Pretty sure.”
* * *
Less than an hour later, Armand and his guests were showered and changed into clean, dry clothing. Except Lucien, who’d refused all offers.
They were seated at the long pine table in the kitchen while the woodstove pumped out heat at the far end of the room. Snow had piled up on the frames of the windows on either side of the fireplace, making it difficult to see out.
Benedict wore a borrowed T-shirt, sweater, and slacks and had calmed down since the drive. The hot shower and the promise of food had lulled him.
He looked around.
This place didn’t shudder, the windows didn’t rattle, despite the fury outside. It had been built to last, and lasted it had. He figured it was more than one hundred, perhaps even two hundred years old.
Even if he tried, if he really, really tried, he doubted he could build a home this solid.
He looked across the room, at Madame Gamache serving up soup and Armand cutting bread. Occasionally consulting. Their bodies just touching in an act both casual and intimate.
Benedict wondered if he tried, really, really tried, if he could build a relationship that solid.
He scratched his chest and winced.
A few minutes earlier, while standing under the hot stream of the shower, Armand had asked Reine-Marie, “Does the name Bertha Baumgartner mean anything to