Still Life - Page 97/115

‘Yeah?’ came the sullen answer to his tentative knock.

‘May I come in? I’d like to talk with you. No yelling. Just clear the air, OK?’

‘Whatever.’

‘Philippe,’ Matthew sat on the chair by the desk and turned to face the boy, who was lying on his crumpled bed. ‘I’ve done something that’s hurt you. My problem is I don’t know what it is. I’ve racked my brains. Is it the basement? Are you angry about having to clean up the basement?’

‘No.’

‘Did I yell at you, or say something to hurt your feelings? If I did please tell me. I won’t be angry. I just need to know and then we can talk about it.’

‘No.’

‘Philippe, I’m not angry about what you did. I never have been. I was hurt and confused. But not angry at you. I love you. Can you talk to me? Whatever it is, you can tell me.’

Matthew looked at his son and for the first time in almost a year he saw his sensitive, thoughtful, kind boy. Philippe looked at his father and longed to tell him. And he almost did. Almost. He stood at the cliff, his toes over the edge, and he looked into oblivion. His father was inviting him to step over and trust that it would be all right. He would catch him, wouldn’t let him fall. And to give Philippe credit, he considered it. Philippe yearned to close his eyes, take that step and fall into his father’s arms.

But in the end he couldn’t. Instead he turned his face to the wall, put his headphones back on, and retreated.

Matthew dropped his head and looked down at his dirty old work boots and saw in excruciating detail the mud and bits of leaves stuck there.

Gamache was sitting in Olivier’s Bistro, by the fireplace, waiting to be served. He’d just arrived, and the people who’d been in the choice location had just left, their tip still on the table. Gamache had the momentary desire to pocket the money himself. Another bit of weirdness from the long house.

‘Hi, may I join you?’

Gamache rose and bowed slightly to Myrna, then indicated the sofa facing the fireplace. ‘Please.’

‘Quite a lot of excitement,’ said Myrna. ‘I hear Jane’s home is wonderful.’

‘You haven’t seen it?’

‘No. I wanted to wait until Thursday.’

‘Thursday? What’s happening Thursday?’

‘Clara hasn’t asked you?’

‘Are my feelings going to be hurt? Sûreté homicide officers are notoriously sensitive. What’s happening on Thursday?’

‘Thursday? Are you going too?’ Gabri asked, standing over them wearing a little apron and channeling Julia Child.

‘Not yet.’

‘Oh well, never mind. I hear Hurricane Kyla’s hit land in Florida. Saw it on Méteo Media.’

‘I saw that, too,’ said Myrna. ‘When’s it supposed to get here?’

‘Oh, a few days. ’Course it’ll be a tropical storm by then, or whatever they call it by the time it hits Quebec. Should be quite a storm.’ He looked out the window as though he expected to see it looming over the nearby mountain. He looked worried. Storms were never good.

Gamache toyed with the price tag dangling from the coffee table.

‘Olivier’s put price tags everywhere,’ confided Gabri, ‘including our private toilet, thank you very much. Fortunately I have enough elegance and good taste to overcome this one flaw of Olivier’s. Greed, I think it’s called. Now, can I interest you in a glass of wine, or perhaps a chandelier?’

Myrna ordered a red wine while Gamache took a Scotch.

‘Clara’s organising Jane’s party for Thursday, just the way Jane had planned,’ said Myrna, once the drinks had arrived. A couple of licorice pipes also appeared. ‘After the vernissage at Arts Williamsburg. Now, if Clara asks, you have to say you tortured me.’

‘Trying to get me suspended again? The Sûreté torturing a black woman?’

‘Don’t they promote you for that?’

Gamache caught and held Myrna’s eye. Neither smiled. They both knew the truth in that. He wondered whether Myrna knew his particular role in the Arnot case, and the price he’d paid. He thought not. The Sûreté was good at finding other people’s secrets, and keeping its own.

‘Wow,’ said Clara, taking the big chair on the other side of the fireplace. ‘This feels good. Nice to be out of the stink of the mineral spirits. I’m on my way home to make supper.’

‘Isn’t this a little out of your way?’ asked Myrna.