‘Upstairs,’ said Beauvoir. ‘They’re here.’
Gamache and Clara had never heard such beautiful words.
A week later they were gathered in Jane’s living room, which was beginning to feel like home to all of them, including Gamache. They looked like a Fife and Drum Corps, Gamache’s leg in a cast, Beauvoir bent over with broken ribs, Peter’s head bandaged and Clara’s hand in plaster.
Upstairs, Gabri and Olivier could be heard quietly singing ‘It’s Raining Men’. From the kitchen came the sounds of Myrna humming while preparing fresh bread and home-made soup. Outside snow was falling, huge wet flakes that melted almost as soon as they landed and felt like horse kisses when they touched a cheek. The last of the autumn leaves had blown off the trees and the apples had fallen from the orchards.
‘I think it’s beginning to stick on the ground,’ said Myrna, bringing in cutlery and setting up TV tables around the crackling fire. From upstairs they could hear Gabri exclaiming over things in Jane’s bedroom.
‘Greed. Disgusting,’ said Ruth and made her way quickly to the stairs and up.
Clara watched as Peter got up and stirred the perfectly fine fire. She’d held him that night as he sprawled on the dirt floor. That had been the last time she’d gotten that close. Since the events of that horrible night he’d retreated completely on to his island. The bridge had been destroyed. The walls had been constructed. And now Peter was unapproachable, even by her. Physically, yes, she could hold his hand, hold his head, hold his body, and she did. But she knew she could no longer hold his heart.
She watched his handsome face, lined with care now, and bruised by the fall. She knew he’d been hurt the worst, perhaps beyond repair.
‘I want this,’ said Ruth, coming down the stairs. She waved a small book then tucked it into a huge pocket in her worn cardigan. Jane in her will had invited each of her friends to choose an item from her home. Ruth had made her choice.
‘How’d you know it was Ben?’ Myrna asked, taking a seat and calling the boys down to lunch. Bowls of soup had been put out and baskets of fresh rolls steamed on the blanket box.
‘At the party here it came to me,’ said Clara.
‘What did you see we didn’t?’ Olivier asked, joining them.
‘It’s what I didn’t see. I didn’t see Ben. I knew Fair Day was a tribute to Timmer. All the people who were important to Timmer were in it—’