The Long Way Home

The Long Way Home by Louise Penny




For Michael

Surprised by Joy





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


While essentially a solitary undertaking, I find that when I write there is a parade of people, of events, of memories keeping me company. And never more so than with The Long Way Home.

I won’t discuss the themes here, or the reasons I wrote this book in this way, but I do want to mention a few influences, including Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness and Homer’s Odyssey. And the remarkable Marilynne Robinson’s book Gilead. As well as the old spiritual “Balm in Gilead.”

And, as always, I have been inspired by the setting, by the history and geography and nature of Québec. And, specifically, by memories of my travels along the glorious St. Lawrence River. By the haunting coastline of the Lower North Shore. And the villages and villagers there. I have traveled a lot in my life, as a journalist and as a private person, but I have never, ever met kindness so profound, and integrity so deep, as I did in kitchens and porches and front rooms along that coast.

Thank you to the people of Mutton Bay, La Tabatière, St. Augustine, Harrington Harbour, and so many other ports. People who asked for so little and gave so much.

I have also been fortunate to spend time in Charlevoix, an area so beautiful it almost defies reason. Now, having said that, I recognize that the Baie-Saint-Paul of this book is not a completely accurate reflection of the actual town. I hope those of you who live there, or visit that lovely area, forgive me some artistic license. Especially the gracious owners of the Auberge La Muse and the Galerie Clarence Gagnon.

This book owes more than I feel I want to admit to my remarkable editor at Minotaur Books/St. Martin’s Press in the United States, Hope Dellon. And to Andrew Martin, Sarah Melnyk, Paul Hochman, Cassie Galante, and David Rotstein.

In the UK, I am indebted to the wise counsel of my editor, Lucy Malagoni, and publisher, David Shelley, at Little, Brown.

Many thanks to Jamie Broadhurst and the people at Raincoast Books, for introducing Gamache et al. to so many Canadians.

Many of you found me through my newsletter and website. They’re designed and constructed and maintained by the remarkable Linda Lyall. We’ve been together since before Still Life was published. And we’ve never met. I live in Québec and Linda lives in Scotland. But we’ve developed as close a bond as any colleagues who share an office.

Thank you to Teresa Chris, who is both my agent and my friend. It feels as though Fate brought us together ten years ago. Actually, the first time we met I almost ran her over with a car. Shhhh. I’m not sure she realizes that.

Thank you to Susan McKenzie, for being a constructive, kind, and thoughtful first reader. And a loving friend.

To my brother Doug, who is also a first reader and tireless champion. Funny, I spent much of my childhood wishing he would go away. And now I cherish his company.

Endless thanks to My Assistant, Lise Desrosiers, who is so much more than an assistant. A sister, a friend, a help-mate, a confidante. Merci, ma belle.

And finally, to Michael. Who made all my dreams come true. He is my heart and my home.

It’s my turn now, dear Michael.




ONE


As Clara Morrow approached, she wondered if he’d repeat the same small gesture he’d done every morning.

It was so tiny, so insignificant. So easy to ignore. The first time.

But why did Armand Gamache keep doing it?

Clara felt silly for even wondering. How could it matter? But for a man not given to secrets, this gesture had begun to look not simply secretive, but furtive. A benign act that seemed to yearn for a shadow to hide in.

And yet here he was in the full light of the new day, sitting on the bench Gilles Sandon had recently made and placed on the brow of the hill. Stretched out before Gamache were the mountains, rolling from Québec to Vermont, covered in thick forests. The Rivière Bella Bella wound between the mountains, a silver thread in the sunlight.

And, so easy to overlook when faced with such grandeur, the modest little village of Three Pines lay in the valley.

Armand was not hiding from view. But neither was he enjoying it. Instead, each morning the large man sat on the wooden bench, his head bent over a book. Reading.

As she got closer, Clara Morrow saw Gamache do it again. He took off his half-moon reading glasses, then closed the book and slipped it into his pocket. There was a bookmark, but he never moved it. It remained where it was like a stone, marking a place near the end. A place he approached, but never reached.