Authors: Louise Penny
A Great Reckoning (54 page)
“So they often took men's names,” said Clara. “Painters did it. Writers and poets often used men's names. She might have learned mapmaking by watching her husband, and then discovered that she was far better at it.”
“Not the first wife to excel at the same profession as her husband, but have to hide it,” said Myrna. “The men often took credit for their wives' work.”
Huifen looked perplexed. It was, to her, inconceivable. And ancient history.
“So you're saying all those mapsâ” began Huifen.
“Were done by Marie Valois,” said Gamache.
“Oui.”
Amelia was nodding. “Monsieur Toponymie said that no one actually met Antony Turcotte. It was all done by correspondence. No one ever knew.”
“How sad, then,” said Reine-Marie, “that after mapping and naming all those towns and villages, Marie Valois finally had one named after her. But not for her work as a cartographer. But because of the enormity of her grief.”
“Notre-Dame-de-Doleur,” said Armand.
They looked at the photo of the smiling farm woman, between her tall sons.
“But assuming what you say is true,” said Olivier, “why did she take Three Pines off the maps of Québec?”
Reine-Marie brought out the small sepia photo. Older even than the one already on the table.
They leaned toward it and saw three grinning boys, children, covered in dirt, their boots resting on spades, and in front of each was a sapling.
“They planted the trees,” whispered Gabri. He hadn't meant to whisper, but that was all that came out.
“The others blew down in a terrible storm,” said Monsieur Béliveau. “Two fell and one was badly damaged. Gilles Sandon's great-grandfather cut it down. Made the floors of the bistro and bookstore with them. The village was devastated by the loss, my grandfather told me. But one morning they woke up and those saplings had been planted. They never knew who did it.”
He and the others looked across the village green to the three pines. Strong and straight. And still growing.
“I think it was just too painful a reminder,” said Reine-Marie. “So close to losing her sons. So Madame Valois took the village off the map before sending it in to the toponymie department. It might even have been a spur-of-the-moment decision. Erasing the village, as though she could erase her sorrow.”
“But as Monsieur Béliveau said, she always meant to come home again,” said Armand. “To return to Three Pines. And return the village to the map.”
“Then why didn't she?” asked Gabri.
“She died before she could,” said Reine-Marie.
“Of the flu,” said Myrna.
Of grief
, thought Reine-Marie. And heard a small moan from the forest, while on the village green the three pines swayed and played, reaching out their branches to touch each other.
“
Velut arbor aevo,”
said Amelia.
“As a tree with the passage of time,” said Armand.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
The next morning, Armand and Reine-Marie got up just as a soft blue appeared in the sky. The morning was fresh and mild, and dew was dripping off the lady's mantle and the roses and the lilies. With Gracie on a leash and Henri running free, they walked across the village green to the three pines.
“Ready?” asked Reine-Marie.
“Not quite,” said Armand, and took a seat on the bench.
Just as the sun rose, so did he.
He walked over to the pines and chose a spot. Then he put his foot on the spade.
“Can I help?” came the familiar voice.
He turned to see Jean-Guy, a little bleary after a night comforting his crying child.
Honoré was in his arms. Sleeping now that Papa was awake.
Armand smiled. “
Merci
, but no. This is something I need to do myself.”
Not because it was easy, but because it was difficult.
The sun rose higher and the hole got deeper, until finally he stopped and picked up the box that had sat in the basement for too long.
Opening it up, Armand saw again the report. The one with his parents' names. Honoré and Amelia Gamache. Killed. By a drunk driver.
Armand reached into his pocket and brought out the handkerchief. He traced the embroidered letters with his scarred finger, then he placed it in the box.
Putting the top back, he lowered it carefully into the hole.
The police report had one other name. Of the boy.
Robert Choquet.
The young man, all of sixteen, had been given a suspended sentence. And gone on to live his life. To get married and have a family.
One daughter.
Whom he named Amelia.
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I think the main thing I need to acknowledge is that this book has only been written because of the extreme kindness and patience and help of our friends and neighbors.
Michael has dementia. It has progressed, marching through our lives, stomping out his ability to speak, to walk, to remember events and names.
Dementia is a marauder, a thief. But every hole it drills has been filled by our friends. By practical help and emotional support.
It's not all bad. Far, far from it. There's clarity, the simplicity of living in the moment and knowing what really matters. Kindness. Company. Gentle care. We laugh a lot, and God knows there's plenty to laugh about. And there are moments of deep peace and contentment.
I have never met a braver man. When diagnosed he told me he wanted to be open about it. To tell people. Not to hide away, ashamed. Afraid of being judged or shunned or embarrassed.
Michael has met his dementia with humor and acceptance. With gratitude for all that he has. While he can barely speak anymore, he smiles all the time, even in his sleep. He loves massages and food and friends. And Bishop, our golden. And he loves me. I can see it every day.
Michael and I have found more kindness since his diagnosis than we ever knew existed. From friends. From strangers. But also from colleagues. From publishers and editors and publicists. From booksellers and librarians. And readers.
Like you.
You can imagine that writing a book in the midst of all this could not be done without help. Physical and emotional.
First among the people who have made
A Great Reckoning
possible by lifting so many other weights is my assistant and great friend, Lise Desrosiers.
I honestly, Lise, don't know what I would do without you. I love you.
Thank you to her husband, Del, for coming over when things fall apart. To Kirk and Walter, our first friends out here and foundations in our lives. How many times have you lifted my spirits and actually lifted Michael when he's fallen? Strong backs, strong hearts.
To Pat and Tony, for caring so deeply and being there over so many years. And for taking care of Bishop when needed! Thanks to Linda Lyall, who manages the website and sends out the newsletter and does so much more.
Thank you to Andrew Martin, my U.S. publisher at Minotaur Books, for removing the deadline from the books and not forcing me to write. Or to tour. For understanding and always sending love to his buddy, Michael. Thank you, Andy. Thank you to Hope Dellon, my astonishing editor, for being a great friend and writing just to see how we're doing. And for making
A Great Reckoning
so much better with her notes and insight.
Thank you to Sarah Melnyk, my publicist, for holding the world at bay and not insisting I do anything unless it works for Michael and me. To Paul Hochman, who built the virtual bistro at the Minotaur site, and who knows from experience what we are living.
Thank you to Jamie Broadhurst in Canada, for being a friend first and colleague second.
Thank you to my UK publishers, Little, Brownâand David Shelley and Lucy Malagoni.
To Louise Loiselle, of Flammarion Québec, for stepping back while stepping up.
Thank you to my agent, Teresa Chris, for starting and ending each conversation by talking about Michael.
Thank you to Michael's incredible caregivers, Kim and Rose and Daniel. Without you, our lives would fall apart. How do Michael and I even begin to thank you for your care, your kindness? Treating Michael as a beloved brother/father/friend. Bless you.
To Dr. Dominique Giannangelo, for always making time for us, in person and over the phone. For being steady and calm and compassionate.
To Tony Duarte and Ken Prehogan and Hilary Book. Hilary, by the way, also provided advice on some legal issues in
A Great Reckoning
. Thank you, Hilary!
It would be impossible to list all the friends and neighbors who have stood beside us, but let me mention just a few. Lucy and Danny, David and Linda, Joan, Cotton, Wilder, Cheryl, Deanna. Michael's sister Carol in London. Richard Oliver. Rosemary and Rocky and Honora. And our beautiful, magical new village of Knowlton, Québec.
Merci, mes amis.
To Michael's sons, Michael and Victor, who phone and visit whenever they can. And while their father can no longer tell them he loves them, they see it in his eyes and know they are loved.
And to my family who visit and write, Rob and Audi, Sarah, Adam, Kim, Mary, Charlie and Roslyn.
Every day when I tuck Michael into bed, I bend down and whisper in his ear that he is a wonderful man. Handsome and kind and generous. Brilliant and brave. I tell him how proud I am to be his wife. And that he is safe. And he is loved.
Then, over the past year, thanks to all the people I mentioned here and so many others not mentioned, I'd go into the living room and sit down at the laptop. And be in the company of my other friends. Armand, Reine-Marie, Clara, Myrna, Gabri, Ruth, et al.
I wrote
A Great Reckoning
with the peace of mind that comes with knowing I too am safe and loved. And not alone.
Noli timere,
dear friend.
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ALSO BY
LOUISE PENNY
Â
LOUISE PENNY
is the #1
New York Times
and
Globe and Mail
bestselling author of eleven previous Chief Inspector Armand Gamache novels. She has won numerous awards, including a CWA Dagger and the Agatha Award (five times), and was a finalist for the Edgar Award for Best Novel. She lives in a small village south of Montréal.
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Visit her on Facebook or at
www.louisepenny.com
. Or sign up for email updates
here
.
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