“You’re a nasty, demented, drunken old fart,” said Myrna.
“I’m not drunk, yet.”
They finished their drinks and left, but not before Ruth handed Gamache a piece of paper, carefully, precisely folded, the edges sharpened. “Give this to that little fellow who follows you around.”
Olivier kept looking out into the village where Rosa was sitting quietly on the village green, waiting for Ruth. There was no sign of the one not there, the one Olivier longed to see.
Gabri was mostly curious to meet the saint. Vincent Gilbert. Myrna was in awe of him, and she wasn’t in awe of many people. Old Mundin and The Wife said he’d changed their lives with his book Being, and his work at LaPorte. And by extension, he’d changed little Charlie’s life.
“Bonsoir,” said Gabri, nervously. He looked over to Vincent Gilbert. Growing up in the Catholic Church he’d spent endless hours staring at the gleaming windows showing the wretched lives and glorious deaths of the saints. When Gabri had wandered from the Church he’d taken one thing with him. The certainty that saints were good.
“What do you want?” Marc Gilbert asked. He stood with his wife and mother by the sofa. Forming a semicircle. His father a satellite off to the side. Gabri waited for Vincent Gilbert to calm his son, to tell him to greet their guest nicely. To invite Marc to be reasonable.
Gilbert said nothing.
“Well?” said Marc.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been up sooner to welcome you.”
Marc snorted. “The Welcome Wagon’s already left us our package.”
“Marc, please,” said Dominique. “He’s our neighbor.”
“Not by choice. If he had his way we’d be long gone.”
And Gabri didn’t deny it. It was true. Their troubles arrived with the Gilberts. But here they were and something had to be said.
“I came to apologize,” he said, standing to his full six foot one. “I’m sorry I haven’t made you feel more welcome. And I’m very sorry about the body.”
Yes, that definitely sounded as lame as he’d feared. But he hoped it at least sounded genuine.