Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(130)

And yet, there it was. Holes blasted in the walls. The old bay window shattered, a makeshift replacement put in by a local contractor.

People from surrounding villages had come to help. And now, if you didn’t look too closely, the bistro was almost back to normal.

Ruth was standing in front of a painting of Jean-Guy.

There was a light, airy quality about it. Probably because the canvas wasn’t obscured by a lot of paint. In fact, there was very little.

“He’s undressed,” said Ruth. “Disgusting.”

This was not completely true. What body there was had clothes. But it was really more a suggestion of a body. A suggestion of clothing. His handsome face was detailed. But older than the man himself.

Clara had painted Jean-Guy as he might look in thirty years. There was peace in the face and something else, deep in his eyes.

They walked around, drinks in hand, staring at the walls. Staring at themselves.

Over the course of a year, Clara had painted all of them. Or most of them.

Myrna, Olivier, Sarah the baker, Jean-Guy. Leo and Gracie.

She’d even painted herself, in the long-awaited self-portrait. It looked like a middle-aged madwoman staring into a mirror. Holding a paintbrush. Trying to do a self-portrait.

Gabri had hung that near the toilets.

“But there’re no holes here,” Clara had pointed out.

“And isn’t that lucky?” said Gabri, hurrying away.

Clara smiled, and followed him into the body of the bistro, taking up a position at the bar and sipping a cool sangria.

She watched. And wondered. When they’d get it. When they’d see.

That the unfinished portraits were in fact finished. They were not, perhaps, finished in the conventional sense, but she had captured in each the thing she most wanted.

And then, she’d stopped.

If Jean-Guy’s clothes weren’t perfect, did it matter?

If Myrna’s hands were blurry, who cared?

If Olivier’s hair was more a suggestion than actual hair, what difference did it make? And his hair, as Gabri was always happy to point out, was becoming more of a suggestion every day.

Ruth was staring at the portrait of Rosa, even as she held the duck.

The Rosa in Clara’s painting was imperious. Officious. Had Napoleon been a canard, he’d have been Rosa. Clara had pretty much nailed her.

Ruth gave a small snort. Then she shuffled along to the next painting. Of Olivier. Then the next and the next.

By the time she’d done the circuit, everyone was watching her. Waiting for the explosion.

Instead she went up to Clara, kissed her on the cheek and then went back to the painting of Rosa and stood there for a very long time.

The friends stared at each other, then one by one they joined Ruth.

Reine-Marie was the next to see it. Then she went to the next painting, following Ruth’s tour of the room, going from one canvas to the next.

Then Myrna got it. And she too followed Reine-Marie around the bistro. Then Olivier saw it.

Deep in Rosa’s haughty eyes, there was another tiny perfect finished portrait. Of Ruth. She was leaning toward Rosa. Offering the nest of old flannel sheets. Offering a home.

It was a portrait of adoration. Of salvation. Of intimacy.

It was a moment so tender, so vulnerable, Reine-Marie, Myrna, Olivier felt like voyeurs. Looking into a glass home. But they didn’t feel dirty. They felt lucky. To see such love.

They went from painting to painting.

There, in each of their eyes, a loved one was perfectly reflected.

Myrna turned to Clara, across the room. Across the shattered, broken bistro. Across the lifetimes of friendship.

Clara, who knew that bodies might come and go, but love was eternal.

*

Armand had called and spoken with Reine-Marie and then Jean-Guy, telling them what the Premier Ministre had decided.

Suspended, with pay for Beauvoir, without pay for Gamache, pending an investigation. He hoped they would take their time, because Armand had unfinished business.

He had fentanyl to find.

As for Barry Zalmanowitz, the Québec Bar Association would investigate the Crown attorney. In the meantime, his cases would be taken over by another prosecutor. But he’d remain on the job.

It was the very best they could hope for, and Gamache knew that the Premier himself would come under fire from the opposition for not doing more.

“And Isabelle?” asked Jean-Guy.

“She stays as head of homicide,” said Gamache.

There had clearly been no debate about that.

“I’m heading over to the hospital now,” said Armand. “I’ll see you soon.”

Jean-Guy hung up and went out into the back garden, where Annie was sitting with a jug of iced tea. Honoré was upstairs, napping, and everyone else was at the bistro.

They had a quiet few minutes to themselves.

His leg was doing much better and he’d put aside the cane, with some regret. He quite liked the accessory.

Jean-Guy opened the book he’d taken from his father-in-law’s study, but soon lowered it to his knee, and stared in front of him.

Annie noticed, but didn’t say anything. Leaving him to his thoughts. And it was clear what he was thinking about. Who he was thinking about.

*

He and Gamache had come down the hill, Beauvoir limping and the chief stumbling a few times.