A Trick of the Light

“Well, first we have to find ourselves. Somewhere along the way we got lost. Ended up wandering around in a confusion of drugs and alcohol. Getting further and further away from who we really are.” She turned to him, a smile on her face again. “But some of us find our way back. From the wilderness.” Suzanne looked up from Gamache’s deep brown eyes, from the village green and homes and shops, to the forest and mountains surrounding them. “Getting sloshed was only part of the problem. This is a disease of the emotions. Of perception.” She tapped her temple a few times. “We get all screwy in how we see things, how we think. We call it stinking thinking. And that affects how we feel. And I can tell you, Chief Inspector, that it’s very hard and very scary to change our perceptions. Most can’t do it. But a lucky few do. And in doing that, we find ourselves and,” she looked around, “we find home.”

“You have to change your head to change your heart?” Gamache asked.

Suzanne didn’t answer. Instead she continued to gaze at the village. “How interesting that no cell phones work here. And not a car has come by since we’ve been walking. I wonder if the outside world even knows it’s here.”

“It’s an anonymous village,” said Gamache. “Not on any map. You have to find your own way here.” He turned to his companion. “Are you sure Lillian had actually stopped drinking?”

“Oh, yes, from her first meeting.”

“And when was that?”

Suzanne considered for a moment. “About eight months ago.”

Gamache did the calculation. “So she arrived in AA in October. Do you know why?”

“You mean, did anything happen? No. For some, like Brian, something terrible happens. The world falls apart. They shatter. For others it’s quieter, almost imperceptible. More a crumble. Inside. That’s what happened to Lillian.”

Gamache nodded. “Had you ever been to her home?”

“No. We always met in a café or at my place.”

“Had you seen her art?”

“No. She told me she’d started painting again but I didn’t see it. Didn’t want to.”

“Why not? As an artist yourself I’d have thought you’d be interested.”

“I was, actually. I’m afraid I’m pretty nosy. But it seemed a no-win. If it was great I might become jealous, and that wouldn’t be good. And if it sucked, what would I say? So no, I hadn’t seen her art.”

“Would you really have been jealous of your sponsee? That doesn’t sound like the relationship you described.”

“That was an ideal. I’m close to perfection, as you’ve no doubt noticed, but not quite there yet,” Suzanne laughed at herself. “It’s my only flaw. Jealousy.”

“And nosiness.”

“My two flaws. Jealousy and nosiness. And I’m bossy. Oh, God. I really am fucked up.”

She laughed.

“And I understand you’re in debt.”

That stopped Suzanne in her tracks. “How’d you know that?” She stared at him and when Gamache didn’t respond she gave a resigned nod. “Of course you’d find out. Yes, I’m in debt. Never was good with money and now that apparently I’m not allowed to steal, life is much more difficult.”

She gave him a disarming smile. “Another flaw to add to the growing list.”

A growing list indeed, thought Gamache. What else was she not telling him? It struck him as strange that two artists wouldn’t compare work. That Lillian wouldn’t show her paintings to her sponsor. For approval, for feedback.

And what would Suzanne do? She’d see their brilliance, and then what? Kill Lillian in a jealous rage?

It seemed unlikely.

But it did seem strange that in eight months of an intimate relationship Suzanne had never once visited Lillian’s place. Never seen her art.

Then something else occurred to Gamache. “Was AA the first time you met, or did you know each other before that?”

He could tell he’d hit on something. The smile never wavered, but her eyes grew sharper.

“As a matter of fact, we did know each other. Though ‘know’ isn’t quite right. We’d bump into each other at shows years ago. Before she left for New York. But we were never friends.”

“Were you friendly?”

“After a few drinks? I was more than friendly, Chief Inspector.” And Suzanne laughed.

“But not, presumably, with Lillian.”

“Well, not in that way,” agreed Suzanne. “Look, the truth is, I wasn’t worth her while. She was the big, important critic for La Presse and I was just another drunken artist. And between us? That was just fine with me. She was such a bitch. Famous for it. No amount of booze would make approaching Lillian a good idea.”

Gamache thought for a moment, then resumed walking.

“How long have you been in AA?” he asked.

“Twenty-three years last March eighteenth.”

“Twenty-three years?” He was astonished, and it showed.

“You should have seen me when I first came in,” she laughed. “Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. What you see is the result of twenty-three years of hard labor.”

They passed the front of the terrasse. Beauvoir gestured toward his beer and Gamache nodded.

“Twenty-three years,” repeated Gamache when they resumed their walk. “You stopped drinking about the time Lillian left for New York.”

“I guess I did.”

“Was that just coincidence?”