How the Light Gets In
“Bonjour?” he called and waited. Nothing.
Stairs led from the back of the bookstore into Myrna’s apartment above. He was about to call up when Lacoste noticed a scribbled note by the cash register.
Back in ten minutes. Leave money if you buy anything. (Ruth, this means you.)
It wasn’t signed. No need. But there was a time written at the top. 11:55.
Lacoste checked her watch while Gamache turned to the large clock behind the desk. Noon almost exactly.
They wandered for a few minutes, up and down the aisles. There were equal parts French and English books. Some new, but most used. Gamache became absorbed in the titles, finally selecting a frayed book on the history of cats. He took off his heavy coat and poured himself and Lacoste mugs of tea.
“Milk, sugar?” he asked.
“A bit of both, s’il vous plaît,” came her reply from across the room.
He sat down by the woodstove and opened his book. Lacoste joined him in the other easy chair, sipping her tea.
“Thinking of getting one?”
“A cat?” He glanced at the cover of the book. “Non. Florence and Zora want a pet, especially after the last visit. They fell for Henri’s charms and now want a German shepherd of their own.”
“In Paris?” asked Lacoste, with some amusement.
“Yes. I don’t think they quite realize they live in Paris,” laughed Gamache, thinking of his young granddaughters. “Reine-Marie told me last night that Daniel and Roslyn are considering getting a cat.”
“Madame Gamache is in Paris?”
“For Christmas. I’ll be joining them next week.”
“Bet you can hardly wait.”
“Oui,” he said, and went back to his book. Hiding, she thought, the magnitude of his longing. And how much he was missing his wife.
The sound of a door opening brought Gamache out of the surprisingly riveting history of the tabby. He looked up to see Myrna coming through the door connecting her bookstore to the bistro.
She carried a bowl of soup and a sandwich, but stopped as soon as she saw them. Then her face broke into a smile as bright as her sweater.
“Armand, I didn’t expect you to actually come down.”
Gamache was on his feet, as was Lacoste. Myrna put the dishes on her desk and hugged them both.
“We’re interrupting your lunch,” he said apologetically.
“Oh, I only nipped out quickly to get it, in case you called back.” Then she stopped herself and her keen eyes searched his face. “Why’re you here? Has something happened?”
It was a source of some sadness for Gamache that his presence was almost always greeted with anxiety.
“Not at all. You left a message and this is our answer.”
Myrna laughed. “What service. Did you not think to phone?”
Gamache turned to Lacoste. “Phone. Why didn’t we think of that?”
“I don’t trust phones,” said Lacoste. “They’re the devil’s work.”
“Actually, I believe that’s email,” said Gamache, returning to Myrna. “You gave us an excuse to get out of the city for a few hours. And I’m always happy to come here.”
“Where’s Inspector Beauvoir?” Myrna asked, looking around. “Parking the car?”
“He’s on another assignment,” said the Chief.
“I see,” said Myrna, and in the slight pause Armand Gamache wondered what she saw.
“We need to get you both some lunch,” said Myrna. “Do you mind if we eat it here? More private.”
A bistro menu was produced, and before long Gamache and Lacoste also had the spécial du jour, soup and a sandwich. Then all three sat in the light of the bay window, Gamache and Lacoste on the sofa and Myrna in the large easy chair, which retained her shape permanently and looked like an extension of the generous woman.
Gamache stirred the dollop of sour cream into his borscht, watching the deep red turn soft pink and the chunks of beets and cabbage and tender beef mix together.
“Your message was a little vague,” he said, looking up at Myrna across from him.
Beside him, Isabelle Lacoste had decided to start with her grilled tomato, basil, and Brie sandwich.
“I take it that was intentional,” said the Chief.
He’d known Myrna for a number of years now, since he’d first come to the tiny village of Three Pines on a murder investigation. She’d been a suspect then, now he considered her a friend.
Sometimes things changed for the better. But sometimes they didn’t.