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As he held his grandson, Armand Gamache wondered how deep their wounds really went. How much damage had been done.
And if they’d ever really heal.
Chapter 19
Désolé,” Félix called as Jean-Guy and Armand stepped outside.
“The little shit’s not sorry at all,” said Jean-Guy.
It was clear now that the firecrackers had been thrown onto the bonfire by Monsieur Béliveau’s eleven-year-old assistant.
“You can’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same thing, Jean-Guy, when you were his age. Fireworks? A bonfire? You’d have thrown the whole damn box into the flames.”
Jean-Guy grinned. It was true. Pinwheels. Roman candles. Those whistling rockets. All would have gone up in one glorious demonstration of his impotence.
Monsieur Béliveau joined them, his boots crunching on the hard-packed snow. “Désolé. I’ll handle this. My fireworks. My fault.”
Monsieur Béliveau looked across the flames at Félix, who was inching toward the big open box of fireworks.
“Eh, garçon. Non.” His voice was firm, but when he turned back to Armand and Jean-Guy, he was amused. “Kids.”
Though dour and childless himself, the grocer was unfailingly kind and patient with children. As though instead of having none, he had them all.
While Monsieur Béliveau went to speak to Félix, Armand and Jean-Guy warmed themselves by the bonfire, holding their bare hands to the flames. It was a crisp, clear winter night, though the wind was picking up.
“Weather’s closing in,” said Jean-Guy, looking up at the stars. Instinctively finding the Big Dipper.
Just in sweaters, they got as close to the fire as they dared.
There was a familiar scratching as ice crystals, picked up by a gust, slid across the surface of the snow. The same gust caught smoke and embers from the bonfire and blew it toward them.
Armand and Jean-Guy closed their eyes and turned away. When it had passed, Armand asked, “Everything okay?”
Jean-Guy smiled. “It’s smoke. I think I’ll survive.”
“I meant Professor Robinson.”
“She saw Idola,” said Jean-Guy. Armand was silent, staring into the crackling bonfire, knowing there was more. “I tried to stop her, Armand. I think Annie thought it was because I wanted to protect Idola, and it was mostly that. But . . .”
Armand waited.
“. . . but a small part of me didn’t want her to see.”
In the wavering light of the flames Armand saw, for the first time, lines on Jean-Guy’s face. Had so many years really passed, Armand thought, since they first met? So many lines produced.
And now he noticed too the beginning of gray in Jean-Guy’s dark hair.
“But you let her,” Armand said.
“Only because of Annie. She said it would be all right.”
“And is it? All right?”
Jean-Guy gave a short laugh, and Armand saw that the deepest lines actually ran from the corners of his son-in-law’s eyes. Laugh lines. “It’s getting there.”
Beauvoir glanced into the room behind them. A television had been positioned by the fireplace and tuned to the annual Radio Canada year-end special, Bye Bye.
Chairs were being pulled forward and guests were wandering over, plates and drinks in hand.
