TWO
After a refreshing swim and gin and tonics on the dock the Gamaches showered then joined the other guests in the dining room for dinner. Candles glowed inside hurricane lamps and each table was adorned with simple bouquets of old English roses. More exuberant arrangements stood on the mantelpiece, great exclamations of peony and lilac, of baby blue delphinium and bleeding hearts, arching and aching.
The Finneys were seated together, the men in dinner jackets, the women in cool summer dresses for the warm evening. Bean wore white shorts and a crisp green shirt.
The guests watched the sun set behind the rolling hills of Lake Massawippi and enjoyed course after course, beginning with the chef’s amuse-bouche of local caribou. Reine-Marie had the escargots a l’ail, followed by seared duck breast with confit of wild ginger, mandarin and kumquat. Gamache started with fresh roquette from the garden and shaved parmesan then ordered the organic salmon with sorrel yogurt.
‘And for dessert?’ Pierre lifted a bottle from its bucket and poured the last of the wine into their glasses.
‘What do you recommend?’ Reine-Marie barely believed she was asking.
‘For Madame, we have fresh mint ice cream on an eclair filled with creamy dark organic chocolate, and for Monsieur a pudding du chomeur a l’erable avec creme chantilly.’
‘Oh, dear God,’ whispered Reine-Marie, turning to her husband. ‘What was it Oscar Wilde said?’
‘I can resist everything except temptation.’
They ordered dessert.
Finally, when they could eat no more, the cheese cart arrived burdened with a selection of local cheeses made by the monks in the nearby Benedictine abbey of Saint-Benoit-du-Lac. The brothers led a contemplative life, raising animals, making cheese and singing Gregorian chants of such beauty that they had, ironically for men who’d deliberately retreated from the world, become world-famous.
Enjoying the fromage bleu Armand Gamache looked across the lake in the slowly fading glow, as though a day of such beauty was reluctant to end. A single light could be seen. A cottage. Instead of being invasive, breaking the unspoiled wilderness, it was welcoming. Gamache imagined a family sitting on the dock watching for shooting stars, or in their rustic living room, playing gin rummy, or Scrabble, or cribbage, by propane lamps. Of course they’d have electricity, but it was his fantasy, and in it people in the deep woods of Quebec lived by gas lamp.
‘I called Paris and spoke to Roslyn today.’ Reine-Marie leaned back in her chair, hearing it creak comfortably.
‘Everything all right?’ Gamache searched his wife’s face, though he knew if there was a problem she’d have told him sooner.
‘Never better. Two months to go. It’ll be a September baby. Her mother will be going to Paris to take care of Florence when the new one arrives, but Roslyn asked if we’d like to go as well.’
He smiled. They’d talked about it, of course. They were desperate to go, to see their granddaughter Florence, to see their son and daughter-in-law. To see the baby. Each time he thought about it Gamache trembled with delight. The very idea of his child having a child struck him as nearly unbelievable.
‘They’ve chosen names,’ she said casually. But Gamache knew his wife, her face, her hands, her body, her voice. And her voice had just changed.
‘Tell me.’ He put his cheese down and folded his large, expressive hands on the white linen tablecloth.
Reine-Marie looked at her husband. For a man so substantial he could be so calm and contained, though that only seemed to add to the impression of strength.
‘If it’s a girl they think they’ll call her Genevieve Marie Gamache.’
Gamache repeated the name. Genevieve Marie Gamache. ‘It’s beautiful.’
Is this the name they’d write on birthday and Christmas cards? Genevieve Marie Gamache. Would she come running up the stairs to their apartment in Outremont, little feet thumping, shouting, ‘Grandpapa, Grandpapa’? And would he call out her name, ‘Genevieve!’ then scoop her up in his strong arms and hold her safe and warm in that pocket of his shoulder reserved for people he loved? Would he one day take her and her sister Florence on walks through Parc Mont Royal and teach them his favourite poems?
Breathes there the man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
‘This is my own, my native land!’
As his own father had taught him.
Genevieve.
‘And if it’s a boy,’ said Reine-Marie, ‘they plan to call him Honore.’
There was a pause. Finally Gamache sighed, ‘Ahh,’ and dropped his eyes.
‘It’s a wonderful name, Armand, and a wonderful gesture.’
Gamache nodded but said nothing. He’d wondered how he’d feel if this happened. For some reason he’d suspected it would, perhaps because he knew his son. They were so alike. Tall, powerfully built, gentle. And hadn’t he himself struggled with calling Daniel ‘Honore’? Right up until the baptism his name was supposed to be Honore Daniel.
But in the end he couldn’t do that to his son. Wasn’t life difficult enough without having to walk through it with the name Honore Gamache?
‘He’d like you to call him.’
Gamache looked at his watch. Nearly ten. ‘I’ll call tomorrow morning.’
‘And what will you say?’
Gamache held his wife’s hands, then dropped them and smiled at her. ‘How does coffee and liqueur in the Great Room sound?’
She searched his face. ‘Would you like to go for a walk? I’ll arrange for the coffees.’
‘Merci, mon coeur.‘
‘Je t’attends.‘
Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Armand Gamache whispered to himself as he walked with measured pace in the dark. The sweet aroma of night-scented stock kept him company, as did the stars and moon and the light across the lake. The family in the forest. The family of his fantasies. Father, mother, happy, thriving children.
No sorrow, no loss, no sharp rap on the door at night.