Then Gamache turned to look at the inn. It had once been a monstrosity. A rotting, rotten old place. A Victorian trophy home built more than a century ago of hubris and other men’s sweat. Meant to dominate the village below. But while Three Pines survived the recessions, the depressions, the wars, this turreted eyesore fell into disrepair, attracting only sorrow. Instead of a trophy, when villagers looked up what they saw was a shadow, a sigh on the hill. But no longer. Now it was an elegant and gleaming country inn. But sometimes, at certain angles, in a certain light Gamache could still see
...more
