Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(132)

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Before I, or you, go any further, I do want to warn that if you haven’t yet read the book, you might want to do that first. I believe these acknowledgments contain some spoilers, as I describe some of the things that are true, and some that are partly based on fact, and some that are completely made up (as is the nature of fiction, of course).

How I wish I could say that my next statement isn’t true, but it is.

My husband, Michael, died on September 18, 2016. I’d returned from a shortened book tour, and within days it was clear he was failing. Some have suggested he waited for me. I don’t know if that’s true, I don’t know if I want it to be true.

When the time came, Michael passed away peacefully. At home. Surrounded, as he was in life, by love.

I talked about his dementia in the acknowledgments of the previous book, A Great Reckoning, and many of you wrote to tell me about your own experiences with the disease. With loss. I want to thank you, sincerely and profoundly, for trusting me with those most intimate of feelings.

It is both heartbreaking and heartening to realize that Michael and I were far from alone.

*

Glass Houses was written as Michael failed, and after he died. Writing became my safe harbor, my escape in the dark hours of the morning. I could slip into Three Pines and for a few precious hours each day enter the world of Gamache, Clara, Myrna et al.

The writing and the book would not have been possible without my assistant, and great friend, Lise Desrosiers. Thank you, dear Lise. This book is dedicated to you for a reason.

Thanks as well to Lise’s husband, and our friend, Del Page. To our great friends, Kirk and Walter, who kept in touch every day. For years. And who came even closer as Michael failed. That’s true friendship.

Boundless thanks to Kim and Rose and Daniel, Michael’s caregivers. And Dr. Giannangelo. And to all the friends, astonishingly too numerous to name, who have been there for us, through the worst of times. And the best.

Thank you for supporting and, at times, carrying us.

I want to thank my amazing editors, Hope Dellon, of Minotaur Books/St. Martin’s Press in the U.S., and Lucy Malagoni, of Little, Brown in the U.K., who have made this, and all the books, better with their insightful notes.

Thanks to my U.S. publisher, Andy Martin, and the whole Minotaur team. Hope Dellon, of course, Sarah Melnyk, Paul Hochman, Martin Quinn, Sally Richardson, and Jennifer Enderlin of SMP, and Don Weisberg of Macmillan.

Thank you, too, to my agent, Teresa Chris, who always asks how I am before asking how the book is. For an agent, that is extraordinary!

Linda Lyall has been with Michael and me, managing the website and designing the newsletter and doing a million things I don’t even know about since before Still Life was even published. Thank you, Linda!

All these people I have just named have become so much more than colleagues. We have become true friends. Many traveled to Michael’s funeral.

I want to thank my brother Rob, who hurried to Knowlton from Edmonton as soon as he heard the news about Michael. He held me in his strong arms and I knew it would be okay. I would be okay. Thank you to his wife, Audi, and their children, Kim, Adam, and Sarah, who loved their Uncle Michael.

Thank you to Mary, my sister-in-law, who interrupted a vacation to hurry down with her daughter Roslyn as soon as she heard. Thanks to Doug, to Brian and Charlie.

*

And now, as promised, a short explanation of what is fact in the book, and what is fiction. I will, without doubt, leave out some details, but the main issue surrounds the cobrador.

I first heard about the cobrador del frac many years ago, from our great friend Richard Oliver, who was with the Financial Times in Madrid.

The cobrador del frac exists. Dressed in top hat and tails, he follows debtors. Shaming them into paying. It was so extraordinary, I tucked that information and that image away for years. Waiting for the time when it was right to use it. Glass Houses was the time.

But—what came next is fiction. The history of the cobrador. The plague, the island, the cloaked figures acting as a conscience to those without one. Forcing payment of a moral debt. I made all that up, for the sake of the story.

I think that’s the big thing that isn’t real. And I know if you have doubts about some issues, you will do the research yourself. That’s half the fun, isn’t it?

Some might argue that Three Pines itself isn’t real, and they’d be right, but limited in their view. The village does not exist, physically. But I think of it as existing in ways that are far more important and powerful. Three Pines is a state of mind. When we choose tolerance over hate. Kindness over cruelty. Goodness over bullying. When we choose to be hopeful, not cynical. Then we live in Three Pines.

I don’t always make those choices, but I do know when I’m in the wilderness, and when I’m in the bistro. I know where I want to be, and I know how to get there. And so do you—otherwise you would not still be with me, reading this.

The final thanks is to you, my friend. For your company. The world is brighter for your presence.

All shall be well.