A Trick of the Light

“Three Graces,” said Gabri, helping himself to vegetables. “Like in your painting, Clara.”

“The Three Fates,” said Paulette.

“There’s ‘three on a match,’” said Denis Fortin. “Ready. Aim.” He looked at Marois. “Fire. But we’re not the only ones to move in threes,” said Fortin.

Gamache looked at him inquiringly.

“You do too,” said Fortin, looking from Gamache, to Beauvoir to Lacoste.

Gamache laughed. “I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s true.”

“Three blind mice,” said Ruth.

“Three pines,” said Clara. “Maybe you’re the three pines. Keeping us safe.”

“Sure made a balls-up of that,” said Ruth.

“Stupid conversation,” muttered Castonguay, and knocked his fork to the floor. He glared at it, a stupid look on his face. The room grew quiet.

“Never mind,” said Clara cheerfully. “We have plenty.”

She got up but Castonguay reached out to grab her as she passed.

“I’m not hungry,” he said, his voice loud and querulous.

Missing Clara, his hand hit Agent Lacoste beside him. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

Peter, Gabri and Paulette began speaking at once. Loudly, cheerfully.

“Don’t want any,” snapped Castonguay as Brian offered him the salmon. Then the gallery owner seemed to focus on the young man. “Jeez, who invited you?”

“The same person who invited you,” said Brian.

Peter, Gabri and Paulette spoke even more loudly. More cheerfully.

“What’re you?” slurred Castonguay, trying to focus on Brian. “Christ, don’t tell me you’re an artist too. You look fucked up enough to be one.”

“I am,” said Brian. “I’m a tattoo artist.”

“What?” demanded Castonguay.

“It’s all right, André,” said François Marois, in a soothing voice, and it seemed to work. Castonguay swayed a bit in his chair and stared down at his plate, mesmerized.

“Who wants seconds?” asked Peter, brightly.

No one put their hand up.

TWENTY-SIX

“So,” said Denis Fortin, as they stood on the covered porch with their coffees and cognacs. “Have you two had a chance to talk?”

“About what?” asked Peter, turning from surveying the wet village to surveying the gallery owner. It was still raining, a fine drizzle.

Fortin looked at Clara. “You haven’t discussed it with him?”

“Not yet,” said Clara, feeling guilty. “But I will.”

“What?” asked Peter again.

“I came by today to see if you and Clara might be interested in being represented by me. I know I screwed up the first time, and I really am sorry. I’m just…” he paused to collect his thoughts, then looked from Peter back to Clara. “I’m asking for another chance. Please let me prove that I’m sincere. I really think we’d make a great team, the three of us.”

*   *   *

“What do you think?” Chief Inspector Gamache nodded out the window toward Peter, Clara and Fortin standing on the porch.

“About them?” asked Myrna. They couldn’t hear what the three were talking about, but it was easy enough to guess.

“Will Fortin convince Clara to give him another shot?” asked the Chief, taking a sip of his double espresso.

“It’s not Fortin who needs another shot,” said Myrna.

Gamache turned to her. “Peter?”

But Myrna lapsed into silence and Gamache wondered if Peter had told Clara about his part in the scathing review years ago.

*   *   *

“I think we need time to consider it,” said Clara.

“I understand,” said Fortin, with a charming smile. “No pressure. The only thing I’ll say is that you might want to consider signing with a younger, growing gallery. Someone who won’t retire in a few years. Just a thought.”

“It’s a good point,” said Peter.

Not long ago that would have been enough for Clara to go with Fortin. Peter’s obvious enthusiasm. She’d trusted him completely to know what was best for them. For both of them. To have her best interests at heart.

Now she realized, looking at this man she’d spent the past twenty-five years with, that she had no idea what he kept in his heart. But she was pretty sure it wasn’t her best interests.

Clara didn’t know what to do. But she did know that something had to change.

Peter was trying, she knew that. He was trying so hard to change. And now, maybe, it was her turn to try too.

*   *   *

“He’s still suffering, you know,” said Myrna.

“Peter?” asked Gamache, then he followed her look. She was no longer watching the three people on the verandah. Her gaze was closer to home. She was staring at Jean Guy Beauvoir, who was standing with Ruth and Suzanne.

Ruth seemed to have quite lost her heart to the odd former drunk, who apparently had endless recipes for distilling furniture.

“I know,” said Gamache, quietly. “I spoke with Jean Guy about it this morning.”

“And what did he say?”

“That he was fine, getting better. But of course, he isn’t.”

Myrna was quiet for a moment. “No. He isn’t. Did he tell you why he’s suffering?”

Gamache studied her for a moment. “I asked, but he didn’t say. I presumed it was the combination of his wounds and losing so many colleagues.”

“It is, but I think it’s more specific than that. In fact, I know it is. He told me.”