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Annie stared at Beauvoir, then shook her head.

Beauvoir went on. “Your father apologized, you know. In front of everyone in the bistro. He told Olivier he was sorry for what he did.”Advertisement

“And what did Olivier say?”

“That he couldn’t forgive him. Not yet.”

Annie thought about that. “How did Dad react?”

“He didn’t seem surprised, or upset. In fact, I think he’d have been surprised had Olivier suddenly decided all was forgiven. He wouldn’t have really meant it.”

Beauvoir knew the only thing worse than no apology was an insincere one.

Jean Guy had to give Olivier that. Instead of appearing to accept the apology, Olivier had finally told the truth. The hurt went too deep. He wasn’t ready to forgive.

“And now?” asked Annie.

“I guess we’ll see.”

TWO

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“Remarkable, don’t you think?”

Armand Gamache turned to the distinguished older man beside him.

“I do,” nodded the Chief Inspector. Both men were silent for a moment, contemplating the painting in front of them. All around was the hubbub of the party in full swing, talking, laughing, friends getting caught up, strangers being introduced.

But the two men seemed to have formed a separate peace, a quiet little quartier.

In front of them on the wall was, either intentionally or naturally, the centerpiece of Clara Morrow’s solo show. Her works, mostly portraits, hung all around the white walls of the main gallery of the Musée d’Art Contemporain. Some were clustered close together, like a gathering. Some hung alone, isolated. Like this one.

The most modest of the portraits, on the largest of the walls.

Without competition, or company. An island nation. A sovereign portrait.

Alone.

“How do you feel when you look at it?” the man asked and turned his keen gaze on Gamache.

The Chief Inspector smiled. “Well, it isn’t the first time I’ve seen it. We’re friends of the Morrows. I was there when she first brought it out of her studio.”

“Lucky man.”

Gamache took a sip of the very good red wine and agreed. Lucky man.

“François Marois.” The older man put out his hand.

“Armand Gamache.”

Now his companion looked more closely at the Chief and nodded.

“Désolé. I should have recognized you, Chief Inspector.”

“Not at all. I’m always happier when people don’t,” smiled Gamache. “Are you an artist?”

He looked, in fact, more like a banker. A collector, perhaps? The other end of the artistic chain. He’d be in his early seventies, Gamache guessed. Prosperous, in a tailored suit and silk tie. There was a hint of expensive cologne about the man. Very subtle. He was balding, with hair immaculately and newly cut, clean-shaven, with intelligent blue eyes. All this Chief Inspector Gamache took in quickly and instinctively. François Marois seemed both vibrant and contained. At home in this rarified, and quite artificial, setting.

Gamache glanced into the body of the room, packed with men and women milling about and chatting, juggling hors d’oeuvres and wine. A couple of stylized, uncomfortable benches were installed in the middle of the cavernous space. More form than function. He saw Reine-Marie chatting with a woman across the room. He found Annie. David had arrived and was taking off his coat, then he went to join her. Gamache’s eyes swept the room until he found Gabri and Olivier, side-by-side. He wondered if he should go and speak with Olivier.

And do what? Apologize again?

Had Reine-Marie been right? Did he want forgiveness? Atonement? Did he want his mistake purged from his personal record? The one he kept deep inside, and wrote in each day.

The ledger.

Did he want that mistake stricken?

The fact was, he could live just fine without Olivier’s forgiveness. But now that he saw Olivier again he felt a slight frisson and wondered if he wanted that forgiveness. And he wondered if Olivier was ready to give it.

His eyes swept back to his companion.

It interested Gamache that while the best art reflected humanity and nature, human or otherwise, galleries themselves were often cold and austere. Neither inviting nor natural.

And yet, Monsieur Marois was comfortable. Marble and sharp edges appeared to be his natural habitat.

“No,” said Marois to Gamache’s question. “I’m not an artist.” He gave a little laugh. “Sadly, I’m not creative. Like most of my colleagues I dabbled in art as a callow youth and immediately discovered a profound, almost mystical lack of talent. Quite shocking, really.” pqdm.com