“I don’t expect you to do anything. I don’t want you to. It’s nothing, really. I can handle it on my own. Forget I said anything.”

But it was too late. She could not stop now.

“Never mind,” she said, her voice firm.

Armand smiled. It reached the deep crevices around his eyes and Clara saw, with relief, that there was no longer any fear there.

“I mind, Clara.”

She walked back down the hill, the sun on her face and the slight scent of roses and lavender in the warm air. At the village green she paused and turned. Armand had sat back down. She wondered if he would pull out that book, now that she was gone, but he didn’t. He just sat there, legs crossed, one large hand holding the other, self-contained and apparently relaxed. He stared across the valley. To the mountains beyond. To the outside world.

It’ll be fine, she thought as she made her way home.

But Clara Morrow knew deep down that she had set something in motion. That she’d seen something in those eyes. Deep down. She hadn’t, perhaps, so much placed it there as awakened it.

Armand Gamache had come here to rest. To recover. They’d promised him peace. And Clara knew she’d just broken that promise.

THREE

“Annie called,” said Reine-Marie, accepting the gin and tonic from her husband. “They’re running a little late. Friday night traffic out of Montréal.”

“Are they staying the weekend?” Armand asked. He’d started the barbeque and was jostling with Monsieur Béliveau for position. It was a losing battle, since Gamache had no intention of winning but felt he should at least appear to put up a fight. Finally, in a formal gesture of surrender, he handed the tongs over to the grocer.

“As far as I know,” said Reine-Marie.

“Good.”

Something in the way he said it caught her ear, and then was gone, carried away on a burst of laughter.

“I swear to God,” said Gabri, raising a plump hand in an oath, “this is designer.”

He turned so that they could appreciate his full splendor. He had on a pair of baggy slacks and a loose lime-green shirt that billowed slightly as he turned.

“I got it from one of the outlets last time we were in Maine.”

In his late thirties and slightly over six feet tall, Gabri had passed paunchy a few mille-feuilles back.

“I didn’t know Benjamin Moore had a line of clothing,” said Ruth.

“Har dee har har,” said Gabri. “This happens to be very expensive. Does it look cheap?” he implored Clara.

“It?” asked Ruth.

“Hag,” said Gabri.

“Fag,” said Ruth. The elderly woman clutched Rosa in one hand and what Reine-Marie recognized as one of their vases filled with Scotch in the other.

Gabri helped Ruth back to her chair. “Can I get you something to eat?” he asked. “A puppy or perhaps a fetus?”

“Oh, that would be nice, dear,” said Ruth.

Reine-Marie moved among their friends, who were scattered around the garden, catching bits of conversations in French, in English, most in a mélange of the two languages.

She looked over and saw Armand listening attentively as Vincent Gilbert told a story. It must have been funny, probably self-deprecating, because Armand was smiling. Then he talked, gesturing with his beer as he spoke.

When he finished the Gilberts laughed, as did Armand. Then he caught her eye, and his smile broadened.

The evening was still warm but by the time the lamps in the garden were lit, they’d need the light sweaters and jackets now slung over the backs of chairs.

People wandered in and out of the home as though it was their own, placing food on the long table on the terrace. It had become a sort of tradition, these informal Friday evening barbeques at the Gamache place.

Though few called it the Gamache place. It was still known in the village, and perhaps always would be, as Emilie’s place, after the woman who’d lived there and from whose estate the Gamaches had bought the home. While it might be new to Armand and Reine-Marie, it was in fact one of the oldest houses in Three Pines. Made of white clapboard, there was a wide verandah around the front of the house, facing the village green. And in the back there was the terrace and the large neglected garden.

“I left a bag of books for you in the living room,” Myrna said to Reine-Marie.

“Merci.”

Myrna poured herself a white wine and noticed the bouquet in the center of the table. Tall, effusive, crammed with blooms and foliage.

Myrna wasn’t sure if she should tell Reine-Marie they were mostly weeds. She could see all the usual suspects. Purple loosestrife, bishop’s weed. Even bindweed that mimicked morning glory.