‘Now, you don’t expect me to tell you, do you? Besides, this person may never act.’ To Gabri’s observant eye Gamache looked unconvinced, even slightly fearful.
Just then Myrna arrived for a hot chocolate.
‘I have a question for you.’ Myrna turned to Gamache, after she’d ordered. ‘What’s with Philippe? Why’d he turn on his father like that?’
Gamache wondered how much to say. Isabelle Lacoste had sent the item she’d found taped behind a framed poster in Bernard’s room to the lab and the results had come back. Philippe’s fingerprints were all over it. Gamache hadn’t been surprised. Bernard Malenfant had been blackmailing the young man.
But Gamache knew Philippe’s behavior had changed before that. He’d gone from being a happy, kind boy to a cruel, sullen, deeply unhappy adolescent. Gamache had guessed the reason but the magazine had confirmed it. Philippe didn’t hate his father. No. Philippe hated himself, and took it out on his father.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Gamache. ‘I can’t tell you.’
As Gamache put on his coat Olivier and Gabri came over.
‘We think we know why Philippe’s been acting this way,’ said Gabri. ‘We wrote it on this piece of paper. If we’re right, could you just nod?’
Gamache opened the note and read. Then he folded it back up and put it in his pocket. As he went out the door he looked back at the two men, standing shoulder to shoulder, just touching. Against his better judgment, he nodded. He never regretted it.
They watched Armand Gamache limp to his car and drive away. Gabri felt a deep sadness. He’d known about Philippe for a while. The manure incident, perversely, had confirmed it. That’s why they’d decided to invite Philippe to work off his debt at the Bistro. Where they could watch him, but more importantly, where he could watch them. And see it was all right.
‘Well,’ Olivier’s hand brushed against Gabri’s, ‘at least you’ll have another munchkin if you ever decide to stage The Wizard of Oz.’
‘Just what this village needs, another friend of Dorothy.’
‘This is for you.’ From behind her back Clara brought a large photograph, stylised, layered by video and taken as a still off her Mac. She beamed as Peter stared at it. But slowly the smile flattened. He didn’t get it. This wasn’t unusual, he rarely understood her work. But she’d hoped this would be different. Her gift to him was both the photograph and trusting him enough to show it to him. Her art was so painfully personal it was the most exposed she could ever be. After not telling Peter about the deer blind and the trail and holding back other things she now wanted to show him that she’d been wrong. She loved and trusted him.
He stared at the weird photo. It showed a box on stilts, like a treehouse. Inside was a rock or an egg, Peter didn’t know which. So like Clara to be unclear. And the whole thing was spinning. It made him feel a little nauseous.
‘It’s the blind house,’ she said, as though that explained it. Peter didn’t know what to say. Recently, for the last week, there hadn’t been a lot to say to anyone.
Clara wondered whether she should explain about the stone and its symbolism with death. But the object might be an egg. Symbolic of life. Which was it? That was the glorious tension in the luminous work. Up until that morning the treehouse had been static, but all that talk of people being stuck had given Clara the idea of spinning the house, like a little planet, with its own gravity, its own reality. Like most homes, it contained life and death, inseparable. And the final allusion. Home as an allegory for self. A self-portrait of our choices. And our blind spots.
Peter didn’t get it. Didn’t try. He left Clara standing there with a work of art that, unbeknownst to either of them, would one day make her famous.
She watched him wander almost aimlessly into his studio and shut the door. One day she knew he’d leave his safe and sterile island and come back to this messy mainland. When he did she’d be waiting, her arms open, as always.
Now Clara sat in the living room and took a piece of paper from her pocket. It was addressed to the minister of St Thomas’s church. She crossed out the first bit of writing. Below it she carefully printed something, then she put on her coat and walked up the hill to the white clapboard church, handed the paper to the minister and returned to the fresh air.
The Revd James Morris unfolded the slip of paper and read. It was instructions for the engraving on Jane Neal’s headstone. On the top of the page was written, ‘Matthew 10:36.’ But that had been crossed out and something else had been printed underneath. He took out his Bible and looked up Matthew 10:36.
