A Fatal Grace (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)

by Louise Penny

But still the night voice growled and warned of dangers ahead. Of impending disaster. Of telling tales too long, of an attention span too short, of seeing the whites of too many eyes. Of glances, fast and discreet, at watches.

They’d all said no, immediately recognizing the manuscript as a flaccid mishmash of ridiculous self-help philosophies, wrapped in half-baked Buddhist and Hindu teachings, spewed forth by a woman whose cover photo looked as though she’d eat her young.

Saul wondered whether she was confusing an Indian mystic with a KKK member.

CC could feel a rage building inside her as Clara approached, looking so wide-eyed and happy. CC gripped harder, willing herself not to launch herself over the sleek metal divider and onto Clara. She balled up all her rage and made a missile of it and, like Ahab, had her chest been a cannon she’d have fired her heart upon Clara.

‘Are you all right?’ A mitten shot out, black with muck, and cupped itself round Clara’s wrist. The head lifted. Weary, runny eyes met Clara’s and held them for a long moment. ‘I have always loved your art, Clara.’

‘She really said, “I’ve always loved your art, Clara”?’ Clara nodded. ‘And this was right after CC said your work was, well, whatever.’ ‘Not just CC but Fortin as well. Amateurish and banal, he’d called it. Doesn’t matter. God likes my work.’ ‘And by God you mean the shit-covered bag lady?’ ‘Exactly.’

If Myrna knew one thing it was how little she really knew.

‘How does Ruth do it? I swear she’s just an old drunk.’ ‘You thought that about God, too,’ said Myrna.

Since CC de Poitiers had arrived there’d been a gathering gloom over their little community.

Every Christmas Monsieur and Madame Vachon placed the old crèche on their front lawn, complete with the baby Jesus in a clawfoot bathtub surrounded by three wise men and plastic farm animals who slowly became buried under snow and emerged unchanged in spring, another miracle, though one not shared by every villager.

‘Silent night, holy night,’ the congregation sang, with more gusto than talent. It actually sounded slightly like the old sea shanty, ‘What shall we do with the drunken Sailor’.

They’d evaded the monster. Instead, it had devoured a frightened child.

At Christmas homes were full of the people there and the people not there.

‘The names of her gurus,’ said Clara between sobs. Myrna was no longer sure whether she was crying or laughing. ‘Krishnamurti Das, Ravi Shankar Das, Gandhi Das. Ramen Das. Khalil Das. Gibran Das. They even call her CC Das.’ By now Clara was roaring with laughter as were most of the others. Most. But not all. ‘I see nothing wrong with that,’ said Olivier, wiping his eyes. ‘Gabri and I follow the way of Häagen Das. It’s occasionally a rocky road.’

Clara saw what others couldn’t. Like that little boy in The Sixth Sense, but instead of seeing ghosts, Clara saw good. Which was itself pretty scary.

It was almost impossible to electrocute someone these days, unless you were the governor of Texas.

If there was ever a house that wept it was that one.

I understand. You can’t spare anything, a hand, a piece of bread, a shawl against the cold, a good word. Lord knows there isn’t much to go around. You need it all.

What sort of woman wore the bodies of dead babies shaped into boots, with metal claws imbedded in them? Armand Gamache wondered whether CC de Poitiers was at that very moment trying to explain herself to a perplexed God and a couple of very angry seals.

Just talking about curling was sucking the will to live right out of him.

Francophones were constantly gesturing and shouting and hugging. Beauvoir wasn’t sure why Anglos even had arms, except perhaps to carry all their money.

And as he felt the final beat of Sonny’s heart Gamache had had the impression it wasn’t that his old heart had stopped but that Sonny had finally given it all away.

We can’t let someone drown where we were saved.’

Looking down at her toes, Clara noticed a pea bobbing on the surface, next to a bright orange rehydrated carrot.

Try to be like someone you admire. President Roosevelt, maybe. Or Captain Jean Luc Picard.

‘We live in a world of guided missiles and misguided men,’ said Myrna. ‘Dr Martin Luther King, Junior.’

‘Your beliefs become your thoughts Your thoughts become your words Your words become your actions Your actions become your destiny. Mahatma Gandhi,’

But then, that was the real horror of these places and these people. They looked normal.

Now here’s a good one: you’re lying on your deathbed. You have one hour to live. Who is it, exactly, you have needed all these years to forgive?

‘And what else did you find?’ ‘God,’ he said simply. ‘In a diner.’ ‘What was he eating?’ The question was so unexpected Gamache hesitated then laughed. ‘Lemon meringue pie.’ ‘And how do you know He was God?’ The interview wasn’t going as he’d imagined. ‘I don’t,’ he admitted. ‘He might have been just a fisherman. He was certainly dressed like one. But he looked across the room at me with such tenderness, such love, I was staggered.’ He was tempted to break eye contact, to stare at the warm wooden surface where his hands now rested. But Armand Gamache didn’t look down. He looked directly at her. ‘What did God do?’ Émilie asked, her voice hushed. ‘He finished his pie then turned to the wall. He seemed to be rubbing it for a while, then he turned back to me with the most radiant smile I’d ever seen. I was filled with joy.’

CC didn’t live in her mother’s shadow, she was her mother’s shadow.’