A Fatal Grace (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #2)

A Fatal Grace (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #2) Page 79

‘We’re almost there,’ said Em, her voice now thick, her lips and cheeks beginning to freeze in the cold.

‘May I offer you breakfast? I’d like to continue this conversation. Perhaps the bistro?’

Émilie Longpré hesitated just an instant, then agreed. They dropped off Henri then made their way through the dawn to Olivier’s Bistro.

‘Joyeux Noël,’ the handsome young waiter said to Gamache, showing them to the table by the freshly lit fireplace. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

Gamache held the chair for Em and looked after the young man going to the cappuccino machine to make their bowls of café au lait.

‘Philippe Croft,’ said Em, following his gaze. ‘Nice young man.’

Gamache smiled delightedly. Young Croft. The last time he’d met Philippe, during an earlier case, he’d been less than likable.

It was just eight o’clock and they had the place to themselves.

‘This is a rare treat, Chief Inspector,’ said Em, surveying the menu.

Her hair was standing on end from the static caused when she’d removed her tuque. But then so was his. They both looked as though they’d had a small fright. Now they sipped their coffees, feeling the warmth spread through their bodies. Their faces were rosy and their cheeks beginning to thaw. The smell of fresh brewed coffee mingled with the wood smoke from the young fire, and the world seemed cozy and right.

‘Do you still want your curling lesson this morning?’ Em asked. Gamache hadn’t forgotten their date and was looking forward to it.

‘If it isn’t too cold.’

‘This morning should be perfect. Look at the sky.’ She nodded out the window. There was a delicate glow in the sky as the sun considered rising. ‘Clear and cold. By this afternoon it’ll be a killer.’

‘May I suggest the eggs and sausages?’ Philippe was at their elbow, his order pad ready. ‘The sausages are from Monsieur Pagé’s farm.’

‘They’re wonderful,’ confided Em.

‘Madame?’ Gamache invited her to order first.

‘I’d love the sausages, mon beau Philippe, but I’m afraid at my age they’re a bit much. Does Monsieur Pagé still provide your back bacon?’

‘Mais oui, home cured, Madame Longpré. The best in Quebec.’

‘Merveilleux. Such luxury.’ She leaned across the table to Gamache, genuinely enjoying herself. ‘I’ll take a poached egg, s’il vous plaît, on a piece of Sarah’s baguette and some of your perfect bacon.’

‘And a croissant?’ Philippe looked at her playfully. They could smell the croissants baking in the shop next door, the connecting door open and eloquent.

‘Perhaps just one.’

‘Monsieur?’

Gamache ordered and within minutes he had a plate of sausages and French toast. A jug of local maple syrup was at his elbow and a basket of croissants steamed between them, accompanied by jars of homemade jams. The two ate and talked and sipped their coffees in front of the lively and warm fire.

‘So what did you think of CC?’ he asked.

‘She struck me as a very lonely woman. I felt sorry for her.’

‘Others have described her as selfish, petty, hurtful and frankly a little stupid. Not someone you’d choose to be with.’

‘They’re right, of course. She was desperately unhappy and took it out on others. People do, don’t they? They can’t stand it when others are happy.’

‘Yet you invited her to your home.’

This was the question he’d wanted to ask since she’d mentioned it on their walk. But he’d needed to be able to watch her face.

‘I’ve been desperately unhappy in my life.’ Her voice was quiet. ‘Have you, Chief Inspector?’

It wasn’t a response he could have predicted. He nodded.

‘I thought so. I think people who have had that experience and survived have a responsibility to help others. We can’t let someone drown where we were saved.’

Now the room was very still and Gamache realized he was holding his breath.

‘I understand, madame, and I agree,’ he said finally. Gently he asked, ‘Could you tell me about your sadness?’

She met his eyes. Then she reached into her cardigan pocket and pulled out a ball of white Kleenex, and something else. On the table between them she placed a small black and white photograph, cracked and dusty from the tissues. She caressed it clean with one practiced finger.

‘This is Gus, my husband, and my son David.’