Gamache handed him a cold beer, ice slipping off the sides. Peter held it to his red face and rolled it on his chest.
“Have fun?” Clara asked. “Get caught up with the family?”
“It wasn’t too bad,” said Peter, sipping the drink. “We didn’t sink.”
“You think not?” said Clara and stomped away. Peter stared at Gamache then ran after her, but as he neared the Manoir he noticed a huge canvas blanket that seemed to hover in the air.
The statue had arrived. His father had arrived. Peter slowed to a stop, and stared.
“For God’s sake, you can’t even leave your family long enough to chase me,” yelled Clara from the other side of the Manoir, no longer caring that she was proving all the Morrow suspicions true. She was unstable, emotional, hysterical. Mad. But so were they.
Seven mad Morrows.
“God, Clara, I’m sorry. What can I say?” he said when he caught up with her. Clara was silent. “I’m really fucking up today. What can I do to make this better?”
“Are you kidding? I’m not your mother. You’re fifty and you want me to tell you how to make this better? You fucked it up, you figure it out.”
“I’m so sorry. My family’s nuts. I probably should’ve told you sooner.”
He smiled so boyishly it would have melted her heart had it not turned to marble. There was silence.
“That’s it?” she said. “That’s your apology?”
“I don’t know what to do,” he said. “I wish I did.”
He stood there, lost. As he always was when she was angry.
“I’m so sorry,” he repeated. “There wasn’t room in the boat.”
“When will there be?”
“I don’t understand.”
“You could have left. Joined me.”
He stared at her as though she’d told him he could have sprouted wings and flown. She could see that. For Peter it was demanding the impossible. But she also believed Peter Morrow was capable of flight.
EIGHT
The unveiling ceremony was short and dignified. The Morrows sat in a semicircle facing the canvas-draped statue. It was late afternoon and the trees cast long shadows. Sandra batted a bee toward Julia who passed it on to Marianna.
Gamache and Reine-Marie sat under the huge oak tree next to the lodge, watching from a respectful distance. The Morrows dabbed dry eyes and moist brows.
Clementine Dubois, who’d been standing beside the statue, handed Irene Finney a rope and mimed a tugging movement.
The Gamaches leaned forward but the Morrows leaned, almost imperceptibly, away. There was a pause. Gamache wondered whether Mrs. Finney was hesitant to pull the canvas caul off the statue. To reveal and release her first husband.
The elderly woman gave a tug. Then another. It was as though Charles Morrow was clinging to the canvas. Unwilling to be revealed.
Finally, with a yank, the canvas fell away.
There was Charles Morrow.
All through the dinner service the statue was the talk of the kitchen. Chef Véronique tried to calm the giddy staff and get them to focus on the orders, but it was difficult. Finally, in a quiet moment, as she stirred the reduction for the lamb and Pierre stood beside her arranging the dessert service, she spoke to him.
“What’s it look like?” she whispered, her voice deep and mellow.
“Not what you’d expect. You haven’t seen it?”
“No time. Thought I might sneak a peek later tonight. Was it very awful? The kids seem spooked.”
She glanced at the young waiters and kitchen staff, huddled in small groups, some talking excitedly, others wide-eyed and hushed as though sharing ghost stories around a campfire. And scaring each other silly, thought Pierre.
“Bon, that’s enough.” He clapped his hands. “Back to work.”
But he made sure to sound reassuring, not harsh.
“I swear it moved,” came a familiar voice from one of the groups. Pierre turned and saw Elliot, surrounded by other workers. They laughed. “No, I’m serious.”
“Elliot, that’s enough,” he said. “Statues don’t move and you know it.”
“Of course you’re right,” said Elliot. But his tone was sly and condescending, as though the maître d’ had said something slightly stupid.
“Pierre,” whispered Chef Véronique behind him.
He managed to smile. “You haven’t been smoking the napkins again, have you, young man?”
The others laughed and even Elliot smiled. Soon the maître d’s squadron of waiters was out of the swinging door, crisply delivering food and sauces, bread and wine.
