“No, not really.” Gamache looked at Beauvoir, as though trying to make up his mind about something. “You say people don’t change, but you and Enid loved each other once, right?”
Beauvoir nodded.
“But now you’re separated, on your way to a divorce. So what happened?” Gamache asked. “Did you change? Did Enid? Something changed.”
Beauvoir looked at Gamache with surprise. The Chief was genuinely perturbed.
“You’re right,” admitted Beauvoir. “Something changed. But I don’t think it was us really. I think we just realized that we weren’t the people we pretended to be.”
“I’m sorry?” asked Gamache, leaning forward.
Beauvoir collected his scattered thoughts. “I mean, we were young. I think we didn’t know what we wanted. Everyone was getting married and it seemed like fun. I liked her. She liked me. But I don’t think it was ever really love. And I think I was pretending, really. Trying to be someone I wasn’t. The man Enid wanted.”
“So what happened?”
“After the shootings, I realized I had to be the man I was. And that man didn’t love Enid enough to stay.”
Gamache was quiet for a few moments, immobile, thinking.
“You spoke to Annie Saturday night, before the vernissage,” said Gamache finally.
Beauvoir froze. The Chief went on, not needing a reply.
“And you saw her and David together at the party.”
Beauvoir willed himself to blink. To breathe. But he couldn’t. He wondered how long before he passed out.
“You know Annie well.”
Beauvoir’s brain was shrieking. Wanting this to be over, for the Chief to just say what was on his mind. Gamache finally looked up, directly at Beauvoir. His eyes, far from angry, were imploring.
“Did she tell you about her marriage?”
“Pardon?” Beauvoir barely whispered.
“I thought she might have said something to you, asked your advice or something. Knowing about you and Enid.”
Beauvoir’s head swam. None of this was making sense.
Gamache leaned back and exhaled deeply, throwing his balled-up napkin onto his plate. “I feel such a fool. We’d had little signs that things weren’t well. David canceling dinners together, showing up late, like on Saturday night. Leaving early. They weren’t as demonstrative as before. Madame Gamache and I had talked about it, but thought it might just be their relationship evolving. Less in each other’s pockets. And couples grow apart, then come back together again.”
Beauvoir felt his heart start again. With a mighty thump.
“Are Annie and David growing apart?”
“She didn’t say anything to you?”
Beauvoir shook his head. His brain sloshing about in there. With only one thought now. Annie and David were growing apart.
“Had you noticed anything?”
Had he? How much was real and how much was imagined, exaggerated? He remembered Annie’s hand on David’s arm. And David not caring. Not listening. Distracted.
Beauvoir had seen all that, but had been afraid to believe it was anything other than a shame. Affection wasted on a man who didn’t care. His own jealousy speaking, and not the truth. But now—
“What’re you saying, sir?”
“Annie came over last night for dinner and to talk. She and David are having a difficult time.” Gamache sighed. “I’d hoped she’d said something to you. For all your arguing, I know Annie’s like a little sister to you. You’ve known her since she was, what?”
“Fifteen.”
“Has it been that long?” asked Gamache, with amazement. “Not a happy year for Annie. Her first crush, and it had to be on you.”
“She had a crush on me?”
“Didn’t you know? Oh yes. Madame Gamache and I had to hear about it every time you visited. Jean Guy this and Jean Guy that. We tried to tell her what a degenerate you were but that just seemed to add to the attraction.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Gamache looked at him with amusement. “You’d have wanted to know? You were already teasing her, it would’ve been intolerable. Besides, she begged us not to tell you.”
“But now you have.”
“A confidence broken. I trust you not to tell her.”
“I’ll do my best. What’s the problem with David?” Beauvoir looked down at his half-eaten burger, as though it had suddenly done something fascinating.
“She won’t be specific.”
“Are they separating?” he asked, hoping he sounded politely disinterested.
“I’m not sure,” said Gamache. “There’s so much happening in her life, so many changes. She’s taken another job, as you know. In the Family Court office.”
“But Annie hates children.”
“Well, she’s not very good with them, but I don’t think she hates them. She adores Florence and Zora.”
“She has to,” said Beauvoir. “They’re family. She’s probably depending on them, in her old age. She’ll be bitter Auntie Annie, with the stale chocolates and the doorknob collection. And they’ll have to look after her. So she can’t drop them on their heads now.”
Gamache laughed while Beauvoir remembered Annie with the Chief’s first granddaughter, Florence. Three years ago. When Florence had been an infant. It might have been the first time his feelings for Annie had breached the surface. Shocking him with their size and ferocity. Crashing down. Swamping in. Capsizing him.
But the moment itself had been so tiny, so delicate.
There was Annie. Smiling, cradling her niece. Whispering to the tiny little girl.
And Beauvoir had suddenly realized he wanted children. And he wanted them with Annie. No one else.
Annie. Holding their own daughter or son.
Annie. Holding him.
He felt his heart tug, as tethers he never knew existed were released.
“We suggested she try to work it out with David.”
“What?” asked Beauvoir, shocked back to the present.
“We just don’t want to see her make a mistake.”
“But,” said Beauvoir, his mind racing. “Maybe she’s already made the mistake. Maybe David’s the mistake.”
“Maybe. But she has to be sure.”
“So what did you suggest?”
“We told her we’d support whatever she decided, but we did gently suggest couple’s counseling,” said the Chief, putting his large, expressive hands on the wooden table and trying to hold Beauvoir’s eyes. But all he saw was his daughter, his little girl, in their living room Sunday night.
She’d swung from sobbing to raging. From hating David, to hating herself, to hating her parents for suggesting counseling.
“Is there something you’re not telling us?” Gamache had finally asked.
“Like what?” Annie had demanded.
Her father had been quiet for a moment. Reine-Marie sat beside him on the sofa, looking from him to their daughter.
“Has he hurt you?” Gamache had asked. Clearly. His eyes firmly on his daughter. Searching for the truth.
“Physically?” Annie asked. “Has he hit me, do you mean?”
“I do.”
“Never. David would never do that.”
“Has he hurt you in other ways? Emotionally? Is he abusive?”
Annie shook her head. Gamache held his daughter’s eyes. He’d peered into the faces of so many suspects trying to glean the truth. But never did anything feel so important.
If David had abused his daughter—
He could feel the rage roil up, just at the thought. What would he do if he found out the man had actually—
Gamache had pulled himself back from that precipice and nodded. Accepting her answer. He’d sat beside her then, and folded her into his arms. Rocking her. Feeling her head in the hollow by his shoulder. Her tears through his shirt. Just as he’d done when she’d cried for Humpty Dumpty. But this time she was the one who’d had a great fall.