It was remarkable, thought Gamache, listening to Thomas. If you didn’t speak French you’d swear he was bilingual, so perfect was his accent. But the content lacked a certain je ne sais quoi.
‘Three no trump,’ said Thomas.
His mother shook her head and tsked gently.
Thomas laughed. ‘Ah, my mother’s tongue.’ Gamache smiled. He liked the man and suspected most people would.
‘Did any of your children stay here?’ Reine-Marie asked Madame Finney. The Gamaches at least had Annie living in Montreal, but she missed Daniel every day, and wondered how this woman, and so many others, had done it. No wonder they weren’t always comfortable with the Quebecois. If they felt they lost their children for the sake of a language. And without thanks. In fact, often just the opposite. There remained a lingering suspicion among the Quebecois that the English were simply biding their time, waiting to enslave them again.
‘One stayed. My other son.’
‘Spot. He and his wife Claire are coming tomorrow,’ said Thomas, switching to English. Gamache looked up from his hand, which held nothing of interest anyway, and stared at the man beside him.
Like his sister Julia’s earlier in the evening, Thomas’s tone had been light and breezy when speaking of the missing brother. But something was drifting about beneath.
He felt a slight stirring in the part of his brain he’d come to the Manoir to turn off.
It was Sandra’s turn to bid. Gamache stared across the table at his partner.
Pass, pass, he willed. I have nothing. We’ll be slaughtered.
He knew bridge was both a card game and an exercise in telepathy.
‘Spot,’ huffed Sandra. ‘Typical. Comes at the last minute. Does only the minimum, never more. Four no trumps.’
Reine-Marie doubled.
‘Sandra,’ said Thomas with a laugh barely hiding the rebuke.
‘What? Everyone else comes days ago to honour your father, and he shows up at the last minute. Horrible man.’
There was silence. Sandra’s eyes darted from her hand to the plate of chocolates the maitre d’ had placed on their table.
Gamache glanced at Madame Finney, but she seemed oblivious of this conversation, though he suspected she missed nothing.
His gaze shifted to Monsieur Finney, sitting on a sofa. Finney’s wild eye roamed the room and his hair stuck out at odd angles so that his head looked like a damaged sputnik, fallen too fast and too hard to earth. For a man being honoured he was strangely alone. Finney’s eye came to rest on a huge original Krieghoff painting of a rustic scene hanging over the fireplace. Quebecois peasants were loading a cart and at one of the cottages a robust woman was laughing and carrying a basket of food to the men.
It was a warm and inviting scene of family and village life hundreds of years earlier. And Finney seemed to prefer it to his family in the here and now.
Mariana got up and walked over to the group.
Thomas and Sandra pressed their cards to their chests. She picked up a Chatelaine magazine. ‘According to a survey,’ she read, ‘most Canadians think bananas are the best fruit for chocolate fondue.’
There was silence again.
Mariana imagined her mother choking on the chocolate truffle she’d picked up.
‘But that’s ridiculous,’ said Sandra, also watching Madame Finney eat. ‘Strawberries are the best.’
‘I’ve always liked pears and chocolate. Unusual, but a great combination, don’t you think?’ Thomas asked Reine-Marie, who said nothing.
‘So this is where you got to. No one told me.’ Julia stepped lightly through the French doors from the garden. ‘What’re you talking about?’
For some reason she looked at Gamache.
‘Pass,’ he said. He didn’t really know what they were talking about any more.
‘Magilla here thinks bananas are best with melted chocolate.’ Thomas nodded to Mariana. This brought much hilarity and the Gamaches exchanged amused but befuddled looks.
‘Don’t the monks make blueberries in chocolate?’ asked Julia. ‘I’ll have to get some before we leave.’
For the next few minutes the game was forgotten while they debated fruit and chocolate. Eventually both Julia and Mariana retired to their corners.
‘Pass,’ Thomas declared, his mind back on the game.
Let it go. Gamache stared across at Sandra and sent the message. Please, pass.
‘I redouble.’ Sandra glared at Thomas.
What we’ve got here, thought Gamache, is a failure to communicate.
‘Really, what were you thinking?’ Sandra asked, her plump lips pursing as she saw the cards Gamache laid down.
‘Oui, Armand.’ Reine-Marie smiled. ‘Six no trumps with that hand? What were you thinking?’
Gamache rose and bowed slightly. ‘My fault entirely.’ He caught his wife’s eye, his own deep brown eyes full of amusement.
Being dummy had its advantages. He stretched his legs, sipped his cognac and walked the room. It was growing hotter. Generally a Quebec evening cooled off, but not this night. He could feel the humidity closing in, and loosened his collar and tie.
‘Very bold,’ said Julia, coming up beside him as he stared again at the Krieghoff. ‘Are you disrobing?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve humiliated myself enough for one evening.’ He nodded to the table where the three bridge players were engrossed.
He leaned in and sniffed the roses on the mantelpiece.
‘Lovely, aren’t they? Everything here is.’ She sounded wistful, as though she was missing it already. Then he remembered Spot and thought maybe for the Finneys this was their last pleasant evening.
‘Paradise lost,’ he murmured.
‘Pardon?’
‘Nothing, just a thought.’
‘You were wondering whether it’s better to reign in hell than serve in heaven?’ Julia asked, smiling. He laughed. Like her mother, she didn’t miss much. ‘Because, you know, I have the answer to that. This is the Eleanor rose,’ she said with surprise, pointing to a bright pink bloom in the bouquet. ‘Imagine that.’
‘Someone mentioned it earlier this evening,’ Gamache remembered.
‘Thomas.’
‘That’s right. He wanted to know if you’d found one in the garden.’
‘It’s our little joke. It’s named after Eleanor Roosevelt, you know.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Hmm,’ said Julia, contemplating the rose and nodding. ‘She said she’d been flattered at first until she’d read the description in the catalogue. Eleanor Roosevelt rose: no good in a bed, but fine up against a wall.’
They laughed and Gamache admired the rose and the quote, though he wondered why it was a family joke directed at Julia.
‘More coffee?’
Julia startled.
Pierre stood at the door with a silver coffee pot. His question was said to the room in general, but he was looking at Julia and blushing slightly. Across the room Mariana mumbled, ‘Here we go.’ Every time the maitre d’ was in the same room as Julia he blushed. She knew the signs. She’d lived with them her whole life. Mariana was the fun girl-next-door. The one to grope and kiss in the car. But Julia was the one they all wanted to marry, even the maitre d’.
Now Mariana watched her sister and felt blood rushing to her face, but for a whole different reason. She watched Pierre pour the coffee and imagined the huge, framed Krieghoff sliding off the wall and smashing Julia in the head.
‘Look what you’ve done to me, partner,’ moaned Sandra, as Thomas took trick after trick. Finally they pushed back from the table and Thomas joined Gamache, who was looking at the other paintings in the room.
‘That’s a Brigite Normandin, isn’t it?’ Thomas asked.
‘It is. Fantastic. Very bold, very modern. Complements the Molinari and the Riopelle. And yet they all work with the traditional Krieghoff.’
‘You know your art,’ said Thomas, slightly surprised.
‘I love Quebec history,’ said Gamache, nodding to the old scene.