“Well done,” said Chef Véronique.
“Goddamned Elliot. Sorry,” said the maître d’, shooting her an apologetic look. “But he’s deliberately scaring the others.”
She was surprised to see his hands tremble as he poured fresh sugar into a bone china bowl.
“Do we have enough now?” She nodded to the empty sugar sack in his hand.
“Plenty. Strange that we ran out. You don’t think . . .”
“What? Elliot? Why would he?”
The maître d’ shrugged. “When something strange happens you can be sure he’s behind it.”
Chef Véronique didn’t disagree. They’d seen a lot of kids come and go over the years. Had trained hundreds. But there was only one Elliot.
He cares so deeply for the kids, she thought as she watched Pierre. As though they were his own. And she wondered, not for the first time, how much he missed being a father himself. He’d have been a good one. He gave these kids training and guidance. But even more than that, he gave them a stable environment and a kind home. In the middle of nowhere, they found what they needed. Good food, a warm bed and solid ground beneath their feet. Pierre had given up having his own children in exchange for a home in the wilderness and caring for other people and other people’s children. They both had. But after almost thirty years had Pierre finally been pushed too far by one of them? Chef Véronique loved nature, and found plenty of time to study it, and she knew that sometimes something unnatural crawled out of the womb, out of the woods. She thought of Elliot, and wondered whether the charming, handsome young man was all, or perhaps more than, he appeared.
“What did you think of the statue?” Reine-Marie asked as they sipped their after dinner espressos and cognacs on the lawn, the night broken only by a firefly flickering here and there. The Morrows were still inside, eating in near silence, and the Gamaches had the rest of the world to themselves.
Gamache thought a moment. “I was amazed.”
“So was I,” she said, gazing over to where it stood. But the night was dark and she couldn’t see the gaunt, weary face of Charles Morrow. A handsome man, gone to stone.
The wind had picked up steadily since the unveiling. But instead of being refreshing, the breeze seemed to drag even more heat and humidity with it.
Bach wafted from the open windows of the Great Room.
Armand loosened his tie. “There. That’s better. Did you see that?”
He pointed down the lake, though he didn’t have to. In a night this dark the lightning was impossible to miss.