The Long Way Home(57)

“The wife says I was drunk, and I’d had a few. But not more than usual. She says I was seeing double. Triple. She says I was seeing things.”

He dropped his eyes and his head and spoke into the hacked and stained old counter.

“And she was right. I saw something.”

“What?”

* * *

“What’s that?” Clara asked, leaning closer to the vile colors.

“What?” asked Reine-Marie, getting to within inches of the painting.

“There, by that zigzag.”

“They’re stairs, I think,” said Armand.

“No, I don’t mean the zigzag, I mean beside it.” Clara spoke urgently, as though it would disappear at any moment.

“It’s a stone,” said Jean-Guy.

Clara peered closer.

* * *

“The hares were made of stone.”

The two men stared into each other’s eyes.

“It’s a sculpture garden,” said Constable Stuart. “They probably were stone.”

“No.”

Alphonse spoke softly, almost regretfully. And Constable Stuart understood then that this man hadn’t been searching for dry land. He’d been searching for company. One person. Who’d believe him.

“I saw the old one move. I saw his heart beat. And I saw him turn to stone.”

* * *

“It’s a circle of stones,” said Armand, also leaning in.

Their eyes were adjusting to Peter’s wild colors, until what had appeared to be chaos became a design.

“But the website doesn’t show a stone circle, by the stairs,” said Clara.

* * *

“And then they turned back into rabbits,” said Alphonse. “They came alive again.”

His eyes shone, not with fear, but with wonderment. The astonishment of an elderly man, closer to death than life.

“Did you ever go back?” Stuart asked.

“Every night. I go back every night. But I don’t take my rifle anymore.”

Alphonse smiled. Constable Stuart smiled.

* * *

When the others left to get dressed, Gamache stayed behind.

“Do you mind?” he asked Clara, and she shook her head.

“Make some more coffee,” she waved toward the old electric perk. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

While the coffee perked, Gamache carried a chair over, to face the wall of paintings. He sat and stared.

“Oh, God,” came the familiar voice. “Am I walking in on something I shouldn’t know about?”

Gamache stood up. Myrna was in the doorway holding a loaf of what he could smell was fresh banana bread.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

She waved her hand up and down to indicate both his attire and his very presence.

He looked down and realized he was still in his dressing gown and slippers. He pulled the gown more securely around him.

“Did you and Clara have a slumber party?” Myrna asked, putting the warm loaf on the kitchen counter.

“This is Clara’s house?” he asked, apparently bewildered. “Damn. Not again.”

Myrna laughed and, walking to the counter, she cut and buttered thick slices of the loaf while Gamache poured coffees.

“What’s up?” Myrna asked.

He brought her up to speed on the Garden of Cosmic Speculation.

She peppered him with questions, all of which started with why and none of which he could answer.

“That’s better,” said Clara, returning to the kitchen and pouring herself a coffee. All three took their seats and stared at the latest paintings as though waiting for the show to begin.

If the works Peter painted in the Garden of Cosmic Speculation looked like his head had exploded onto the paper, these later ones looked like his guts had exploded.

“Something happened to Peter in the Garden of Cosmic Speculation,” said Gamache. He found he liked saying the name and pledged to say it every morning while in his own garden, speculating. “He left and came back to Canada. And painted these.”

“How do we know these weren’t painted in the garden too?” asked Myrna, indicating with her banana bread the three canvases nailed to the wall.

“Because Peter gave those three”—Gamache pointed with his slice to the paintings on the table—“to Bean in the winter. When he’d returned from Dumfries. He only mailed these bigger ones later.”

“Ergo, he painted them on his return to Canada,” said Clara.

“Ergo?” asked Myrna.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to use it,” said Clara.

“Not now that I hear how it really sounds.”

They fell silent, staring at the works.

“Do you think they’re landscapes too?” Myrna finally asked.

“I do,” said Armand, though he sounded not completely convinced. It didn’t look like any landscape he’d ever seen. Besides the flying lips, nothing really even looked like anything.

“Clara,” said Gamache slowly, elongating her name. Buying time to sort his thoughts. “What did you say you do with your failed paintings?”

“I keep them and bring them out when I’m between projects.”

Gamache nodded slowly. “And what do you do with them?”