“I’m happy for you. This is wonderful news.”
And Jean-Guy could see there was genuine happiness there. “One more thing,” he said.
“Oui?”
“The job’s in Paris.”
“Ahhh,” said Armand.
“So that’s the famous picture,” said Stephen, taking a seat beside Ruth and gesturing toward Clara’s painting.
“No, that’s of the Three Graces,” said Ruth. “The one the Baroness had is of me.”
“The Virgin Mary,” said Clara.
“The Virgin Mary as me,” said Ruth.
“Other way around,” said Clara.
“There you are,” said Gabri as Jean-Guy returned. “Our little boy learned any new words? ‘Merde’? ‘Tabernac’?”
“No, he’s sleeping. Papa’s just tucking him in,” said Jean-Guy, serving a portion of stew and creamy mashed potatoes and handing it to Annie.
“And Mama’s gone to help,” said Annie, taking it and catching his eye.
“You okay?” Armand asked Reine-Marie.
She’d closed the door behind her and put a hand on Armand’s back as he held the sleeping infant.
It was a good thing, thought Armand, putting his face close to the child’s head and inhaling, that the scent was uniquely Honoré. If he ever came across it unexpectedly—on a walk, in a restaurant, from a passing infant—he’d be overwhelmed with the grief he felt now.
And yet there was happiness there too.
It was wonderful and terrible. Joyous and devastating.
And there was relief.
Jean-Guy was out. He was safe. And so were Annie and Honoré. Safe and far away.
He handed Honoré to his grandmother, then put his arms around them both, smelling again the scent of the child mixing with the subtle perfume of old garden roses. He closed his eyes and thought, Croissants. The first log fire in autumn. The scent of fresh-cut grass. Croissants.
But it would take a very long list of things he loved to overcome this.
Reine-Marie held her grandson and breathed in the scent of Honoré and sandalwood. And felt Armand’s embrace and the very slight tremble of his right hand.
She never thought Paris would break their hearts.
After dinner Stephen took Armand aside.
“I have some news for you.”
“But first I want to thank you. Jean-Guy’s accepted the job,” said Armand. “And he’ll be good at it. Strategic planning’s what he’s been doing for years at the Sûreté.”
“Only now no one will be shooting at him,” said Stephen.
“Exactly. But he must never know it came from you or me.”
“I’m a cipher.”
“You didn’t tell me the job was in Paris.”
“Would it have mattered?”
Armand considered for a moment before answering. “Non. It just would’ve been nice to have had warning.”
“Désolé. I should have told you.”
“What’s your news?”
“Remember I told you that I had an idea and would do some digging around about that will thing?”
“I do remember, but you don’t need to anymore. It’s been decided in favor of the Baumgartners.”
“Yes, I heard. I asked colleagues in Vienna to look into it. That Shlomo Kinderoth was a piece of work. He must’ve known the trouble it would cause, leaving the estate to both sons.”
“Maybe he just couldn’t decide,” said Armand.
“Or maybe he was a numbskull. A hundred and thirty years of acrimony. My people tell me there’s no money left. What didn’t go in legal fees was stolen by the Nazis.”
Armand shook his head. “Not a surprise, but tragic.”
“Yes, well, there’s more. Besides the money, the Baroness left a large building in the center of Vienna.”
“Yes.”
“But, unlike the money, that building is real. It’s still there and actually did once belong to the family. She wasn’t totally delusional. It’s now the head office of an international bank.”
Armand nodded, but Stephen kept looking at him. Waiting for more.
“What is it?” Armand asked.
“The Nazis. There’s reparation, Armand. The Austrian government is paying billions to families who can prove that the Nazis took their property. There’s clear title.”
“What’re you saying?”
“That building’s worth tens of millions. Maybe more. If the Baumgartners and Kinderoths can get together and file a joint claim, the money will be theirs.”
“My God,” said Armand. He was silent for a moment, thinking of the young couple in the basement apartment. “My God.”
After dinner Ruth invited Stephen back to her place.
“To look at her prints,” said Stephen with a gleam in his eye and a duck under his arm.
“Don’t be late,” said Armand. “I’ll be waiting up.”
“Don’t,” said Ruth.
Myrna had left with Clara.
“Nightcap?” asked Clara at the door to the bistro.
“No, I can’t.”
Clara was about to ask why not when she saw why not.
Billy Williams, all scrubbed and shaved and in nice clothes, was sitting by the fire. Two glasses of red wine and a pink tulip on the table in front of him.
“I see,” said Clara.
After giving her friend a hug, she walked back to her home. Smiling and humming.
Pausing at the door, Myrna tilted her head back and looked up into the night sky. At all the dots of light shining down on her.
Then Myrna stepped forward.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A funny thing happened on my way to not writing this book.
I started writing.
The truth is, I’ve known since I began writing Still Life that if Michael died, I couldn’t continue with the series. Not simply because he was the inspiration for Gamache, and it would be too painful, but because he’s imbued every aspect of the books. The writing, the promotion, the conferences, the travel, the tours. He was the first to read a new book, and the last to criticize. Always telling me it was great, even when the first draft was quite clearly merde.
We were truly partners.
How could I go on when half of me was missing? I could barely get out of bed.
I told my agent and publishers that I was taking a year off. That might have been a lie. In my heart I knew I could never write Gamache again. (And, sadly, would have to give back the next advance.)
But then, a few months later, I found myself sitting at the long pine dining table, where I always wrote. Laptop open.
And I wrote two words: Armand Gamache
Then the next day I wrote: slowed his car to a crawl
And the next day: then stopped on the snow-covered secondary road.
Kingdom of the Blind was begun. Not with sadness. Not because I had to, but with joy. Because I wanted to.
My heart was light. Even as I wrote about some very dark themes, it was with gladness. With relief. That I get to keep doing this.
Far from leaving Michael behind, he became even more infused in the books. All the things we had together came together, in Three Pines. Love, companionship, friendship. His integrity. His courage. Laughter.
I realized, too, that the books are far more than Michael. Far more than Gamache. They’re the common yearning for community. For belonging. They’re about kindness, acceptance. Gratitude. They’re not so much about death, as life. And the consequences of the choices we make.
Now, the publishers, wonderful people, had no idea I was writing. It wasn’t until six months later that I told them. But even then, I warned them the book might not be ready in time.
My wonderful agent, Teresa Chris, and Andy Martin, my U.S. publisher with Minotaur Books, were magnificent. Telling me not to worry. To take whatever time I needed. Stop writing, if I needed.