It was Easter Monday and all of Montreal seemed to have the same idea. A morning walk around Mont Royal, to Beaver Lake at the summit. Gamache and Reine-Marie sunned themselves on one of the benches and watched as their son and his family enjoyed a last day in Montreal before flying back to Paris.
With a shriek of laughter little Florence toppled into the water.
Gamache dropped his paper and was halfway out of his seat when he felt a restraining hand.
‘Daniel’s there, mon cher. It’s his job now.’
Armand stopped and watched, still poised to act. Beside him his young German shepherd, Henri, got to his feet, alert, sensing the sudden shift in mood. But sure enough Daniel laughed and scooped his tiny, dripping daughter into his large, safe arms and plunged his face into her belly making her laugh and hug her daddy’s head. Gamache exhaled and turning to Reine-Marie bent down and kissed her, whispering, ‘Thank you,’ into the crown of her graying hair. He then reached out and smoothed his hand along Henri’s flank, and kissed him too on the top of his head.
‘Good boy.’
Henri, no longer able to contain himself, jumped up, his feet almost up to Gamache’s shoulders.
‘Non,’ commanded Gamache. ‘Down.’
Henri dropped immediately.
‘Lie down.’
Henri lay down, contrite. There was no doubt who was the alpha dog.
‘Good boy,’ said Gamache again and gave Henri a treat.
‘Good boy,’ said Reine-Marie to Gamache.
‘Where’s my treat?’
‘In a public park, monsieur l’inspecteur?’ She looked at the other families walking leisurely through Parc Mont Royal, the beautiful mountain rising in the very center of Montreal. ‘Though it probably wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘For me it would.’ Gamache smiled and blushed a little, glad Daniel and his family couldn’t hear.
‘You’re very sweet, in a brutish kind of way.’ Reine-Marie kissed him. Gamache heard a shuffling and suddenly noticed the book section of his paper taking flight, one sheet at a time. Leaping up he lunged here and there, trying to stomp on the pages of his paper before they blew away. Florence, wrapped in a blanket now and watching this, pointed and laughed. Daniel put her on the ground and she stomped her feet as well. Gamache then exaggerated his actions until Daniel, his wife Roslyn and little Florence were all lifting their legs high and lunging after imaginary rogue papers, Gamache after the real thing.
‘It’s a good thing love is blind,’ laughed Reine-Marie after Gamache returned to the bench.
‘And not very bright,’ agreed Gamache, squeezing her hands. ‘Warm enough? Would you like a café au lait?’
‘Actually I would.’ His wife looked up from her own paper, La Presse.
‘Here, Dad, let me help.’ Daniel handed Florence to Roslyn and the two men strode off to the pavilion in the forest, not far from the lake. Joggers squelched along the trails of Mont Royal, here and there a rider appeared and disappeared through the bridle paths. It was a brilliant spring day with actual warmth in the young light.
Reine-Marie watched them go, two peas in a pod. So alike. Tall, sturdy like oaks, Daniel’s brown hair just beginning to thin and Armand’s almost gone on top. The sides, trim and dark, were graying. In his mid-fifties Armand Gamache held himself with ease and his son, now incredibly thirty, did too.
‘Do you miss him terribly?’ Roslyn sat beside her mother-in-law and looked into the comfortable, lined face. She loved Reine-Marie and had from the first dinner the older woman had prepared for her. Newly dating, Daniel had introduced her to his family. She was petrified. Not simply because even then she knew she loved him but at the thought of meeting the famous Chief Inspector Armand Gamache. His firm, fair handling of the toughest homicide cases had made him practically a legend in Quebec. She’d been raised with his face staring at her across the breakfast table as her own father read about Gamache’s exploits. Gamache had aged in those pictures over the years, the hair receding and graying, the face expanding a bit. A trim moustache showed up and lines not corresponding to creases in the paper had begun to appear.
But then, unbelievably, it was time to meet the three-dimensional man.
‘Bienvenue.’ He’d smiled at her and given a little bow as he opened the door of their apartment in Outremont. ‘I’m Daniel’s father. Come in.’
He wore gray flannels, a comfortable cashmere cardigan, a shirt and tie for the Sunday lunch. He smelled of sandalwood and his hand felt warm and solid, like slipping into a familiar chair. She knew that hand. It belonged to Daniel as well.
