know what it’s like, to have your heart broken and then to be around people who’re happy.”
He looked at Jean-Guy.
“You. Your wife. Ray-Ray. Monsieur and Madame Gamache. You have what I want, what I wanted. And lost. I couldn’t take it anymore. It hurt too much. I had to leave.”
Benedict’s eyes were wide. Pleading.
For what? Jean-Guy wondered. Understanding? Forgiveness?
No, he thought. He wants what I wanted, when I was heartbroken. He wants me to stop poking the wound.
“I understand,” he said. “No more lies, right?”
“I promise.”
Beauvoir turned to face the young man and stared him squarely in the eyes.
“Why do you think Madame Baumgartner put you on as a liquidator of her will?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must’ve thought about it. Come on, Benedict. Why would she do that? You must’ve known her.”
“I didn’t. I swear. I never met the woman. The Baroness. You can give me a lie detector. Do they still do lie detectors? I should ask Ruth.”
Beauvoir sighed. “She’s a lie manufacturer. She knows nothing about detecting them.”
“But if you make something, wouldn’t you normally recognize them?” asked Benedict.
It was, Jean-Guy had to admit, insightful. And true. Ruth was an expert in lies. It was the truth that sometimes eluded her. And, perhaps, eluded this pleasant young man.
* * *
Across the room, Clara was watching the conversation between Jean-Guy and Benedict.
“What’re you thinking?” Reine-Marie asked her.
“That I’d like to paint that young man.”
“Why?”
“There’s something about him. He’s both transparent and … what’s the word?”
“Dense?” ventured Reine-Marie.
Clara laughed. “Well, yes. And yet…”
And yet, thought Reine-Marie, watching her houseguest. And yet not.
* * *
As they left, Ruth handed Jean-Guy a gift.
“A poetry book,” she said. “One you might appreciate. But don’t read it to my godson.”
“Why not?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
“You’ll see.”
“One of yours?” Annie asked, looking at the gift, wrapped in old newspaper.
“No.”
“One of mine?” asked Myrna.
“None of your business,” said Ruth.
“I bet it is my business,” muttered Myrna as she put her boots on.
At the door the two women embraced and Myrna offered to walk Ruth home.
“We’ll see her home,” said Olivier.
Out of the darkness, just as she closed the door against the biting cold, Clara heard Gabri say, “Oh look. An ice floe. Come on, Ruth. It has your name on it.”
“Fag.”
“Hag.”
And a sleepy, soft “Fuck, fuck, fuck” as the door closed.
* * *
Armand greeted them at the door.
“Have fun?”
“Ruth was there,” said Jean-Guy.
Armand smiled. Understanding.
“You’ve probably already eaten,” said Reine-Marie. “But in case you’re still hungry.”
She offered him the container.
“Oh you savior. I’m starving.” Armand kissed his wife and took the container into the kitchen.
“Did you manage to translate the email?” Jean-Guy asked.
“Yes, I think so. At least the gist of it.”
“Which was?”
Armand was about to tell him but could see that Annie was waiting for her husband to join her.
“I’ll tell you in the morning. Do you mind if I drive into Montréal with you?”
It was meant to be a rhetorical question, but, to his surprise, Jean-Guy hesitated.
“I don’t have to,” said Armand. “I’m sure someone else—”
“Non, non, of course I’ll drive you. It’s just that I’m not coming back out, and I have an early meeting. We’ll have to leave here early.”
“I can drive you in, sir,” said Benedict. He’d had his head in the fridge and now came out with pie. “If you don’t mind my using your car. I really need fresh clothes and should check on the apartment building. Then I can drive you back out. My truck might be ready by then.”
“That would be perfect,” said Armand. “Merci.”
“Why’re you going in?” asked Reine-Marie.
“I’m having lunch with Stephen Horowitz.” He turned to Jean-Guy. “Horowitz Investments.”
Jean-Guy nodded. Hugo Baumgartner’s firm.
Annie and Jean-Guy said their good-nights, and Benedict took a huge slice of pie and a glass of milk to his room.
“Anthony Baumgartner must’ve been an interesting man,” said Reine-Marie as the leftover coq au vin warmed up.
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, because Jean-Guy told us that he had Clara’s painting in his study.”
“Yes. Quite unexpected.”
Armand thought about the email he’d spent the evening translating.
Like the painting, it was infused with bitterness. But there was also hope. Though a different kind from the one in Clara’s painting.
This was hope of revenge. Of retribution. It reeked of greed. And delusion. And profound optimism that something horrible would happen to someone else.
And it had.
Hope itself wasn’t necessarily kind. Or a good thing.
Armand wondered what Baumgartner saw when he stood in front of the painting and looked into the eyes of the Virgin.
Did he see redemption