The Long Way Home Read Free Page B

outlets last time we were in Maine.”
    In his late thirties and slightly over six feet tall, Gabri had passed paunchy a few mille-feuilles back.
    “I didn’t know Benjamin Moore had a line of clothing,” said Ruth.
    “Har dee har har,” said Gabri. “This happens to be very expensive. Does it look cheap?” he implored Clara.
    “It?” asked Ruth.
    “Hag,” said Gabri.
    “Fag,” said Ruth. The elderly woman clutched Rosa in one hand and what Reine-Marie recognized as one of their vases filled with Scotch in the other.
    Gabri helped Ruth back to her chair. “Can I get you something to eat?” he asked. “A puppy or perhaps a fetus?”
    “Oh, that would be nice, dear,” said Ruth.
    Reine-Marie moved among their friends, who were scattered around the garden, catching bits of conversations in French, in English, most in a mélange of the two languages.
    She looked over and saw Armand listening attentively as Vincent Gilbert told a story. It must have been funny, probably self-deprecating, because Armand was smiling. Then he talked, gesturing with his beer as he spoke.
    When he finished the Gilberts laughed, as did Armand. Then he caught her eye, and his smile broadened.
    The evening was still warm but by the time the lamps in the garden were lit, they’d need the light sweaters and jackets now slung over the backs of chairs.
    People wandered in and out of the home as though it was their own, placing food on the long table on the terrace. It had become a sort of tradition, these informal Friday evening barbeques at the Gamache place.
    Though few called it the Gamache place. It was still known in the village, and perhaps always would be, as Emilie’s place, after the woman who’d lived there and from whose estate the Gamaches had bought the home. While it might be new to Armand and Reine-Marie, it was in fact one of the oldest houses in Three Pines. Made of white clapboard, there was a wide verandah around the front of the house, facing the village green. And in the back there was the terrace and the large neglected garden.
    “I left a bag of books for you in the living room,” Myrna said to Reine-Marie.
    “ Merci.”
    Myrna poured herself a white wine and noticed the bouquet in the center of the table. Tall, effusive, crammed with blooms and foliage.
    Myrna wasn’t sure if she should tell Reine-Marie they were mostly weeds. She could see all the usual suspects. Purple loosestrife, bishop’s weed. Even bindweed that mimicked morning glory.
    She’d been through the flower beds with Armand and Reine-Marie many times, helping to bring order to the tangled mess. She thought she’d been clear about the difference between the flowers and the weeds.
    Another lesson was in order.
    “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Reine-Marie said, offering Myrna a morsel of smoked trout on rye.
    Myrna smiled. City folk.
    Armand strolled away from the Gilberts and was scanning the gathering to make sure everyone had what they needed. His eye fell on an unlikely grouping. Clara had joined Ruth and was now seated with her back to the party, as far from the house as possible.
    She hadn’t said a word to him since she’d arrived.
    That didn’t surprise him. What did was her decision to sit with Ruth and her duck, though it often struck Gamache as more accurate to describe the couple as Rosa and her human.
    There could be only one reason Clara, or anyone, would seek out Ruth. A profound and morbid desire to be left alone. Ruth was a social stink bomb.
    But they weren’t completely on their own. Henri had joined them and was staring at the duck.
    It was puppy love, in the extreme. A love not shared by Rosa. Gamache heard a growl. From Rosa. Henri quacked.
    Gamache took a step back.
    That noise, from Henri, was never a good sign.
    Clara stood up, to get away. She moved toward Gamache before changing direction.
    Ruth wrinkled her nose as rotten egg settled around them. Henri was looking innocently around as though trying to find the source