Now he saw it from Madame Gossette’s perspective.
Lives were at stake. And his job was to make sure none were lost.
“I can’t possibly keep an eye on all the projects,” he said. “There are hundreds.”
“Which is why you have a staff. Don’t worry, once you get comfortable, you’ll be able to get a sense when something’s off. To sniff it out.”
Sniff? he almost said. What exactly did she think investigating was? And yet he had to admit when something went corrupt, there was a certain odor.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir had thought about that conversation a lot in the following weeks and months. And he thought about it again as he looked at his deputy head of department, radiating Dior and resentment.
“I think I can muddle through the Luxembourg plans, Séverine. Merci. How’s work going on the Patagonia project?”
A part of him sympathized with Madame Arbour. But if she hadn’t accepted him by now, hadn’t gotten on board with his leadership, then one of them would have to go.
And it won’t be me, thought Beauvoir.
“Patagonia? I know nothing about Patagonia.” She got to her feet. “I’m sorry. I was under the impression you’d want to talk about the Luxembourg project.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Well, the final safety tests are next week. Maybe you’d like to be there for that?”
“I don’t see why. Would you like to go? Is that why you’re here?”
“No, no. That’s okay.”
It was, even by Séverine Arbour standards, an odd and off-putting exchange.
“Is there something you want to say, Séverine, about Luxembourg?”
“No.”
As she left his office, Jean-Guy considered looking at the Luxembourg report. Again. But it was past five. He had to get home and help feed Honoré, let Annie nap before their dinner out.
Luxembourg would wait.
Grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair, he walked next door to Arbour’s office and said, “I’m going home. Have a good weekend.”
She glanced up, then back down to her screen. Without a word.
When she was alone in the office, Arbour looked around. She was about, she knew, to pass what pilots called the point of no return. One more keystroke and she’d be totally committed to this course of action.
Through the window she could see the Tour Eiffel in the distance.
A marvel of French engineering. A monument to innovation and audacity. Something to be proud of.
Then, returning to her laptop, she pressed send.
Gathering her Chanel handbag, she left, pausing only to sign out.
“Bon weekend,” said the guard, after he’d searched her bag.
She smiled, wished him a good weekend, too. Then headed to the métro.
There was no turning back now.
CHAPTER 3
Reine-Marie Gamache slipped her arm through her husband’s as they walked along rue des Archives to the bus stop on rue des Quatre-Fils.
Armand had suggested he flag down a taxi to take them from their apartment in the Marais to the restaurant, but Reine-Marie preferred the bus. It was a route she knew well. One that always confirmed for her that she was in Paris.
“Do you remember the first time we took this bus?” she asked.
He heard her words but was thinking about the first time Reine-Marie had taken his arm. Like this.
It was their third date, and they were walking along the slippery winter sidewalk in Montréal after dinner.
He’d reached out for her, to keep her steady, just as Reine-Marie had reached for him.
To keep him steady.
She’d put her arm through his. So that their fates would be intertwined. If one lost their balance, the other would right them. Or they’d fall together.
“You had on that blue cape your mother loaned you,” he said, remembering that chilly night.
“I had on the polka dot dress I’d borrowed from my sister,” she said, remembering that warm day.
“It was winter,” he said.
“It was the height of summer.”
“Ah, yes,” he said into the evening air. “I remember it well.”
“You nut,” she laughed, recognizing the reference.
He smiled. And squeezed her arm. As they passed men and women, young and old, lovers and strangers, strolling like them along rue des Quatre-Fils.
“Ready?” Daniel called upstairs.
“Can’t we come with you, Daddy?” Florence asked.
She and her sister were already in the flannel pajamas their grandparents had brought from Québec.
Moose roamed Florence’s pajamas, while baby black bears played on Zora’s.
The sisters stood side by side in the living room, looking up at their father.
“Non, mes petits singes,” Daniel said, kneeling down. “My little monkeys. You need to stay here and play with your cousin.”
They looked over at Honoré, asleep on a blanket on the floor.
“He’s not much fun,” said Zora, uncertainly.
Tante Annie laughed from the depth of the chair she’d sunk into. The babysitters had arrived. They just needed Roslyn.
“Judging by the kicks,” Annie said, putting a hand on her stomach, “the next one might never sleep. Want to feel?”
The girls raced each other over, and while they placed their tiny hands on the enormous belly, Jean-Guy and Daniel drifted together.
“I remember that,” said Daniel. His deep voice was wistful, soft. “When Roslyn was pregnant. It seemed incredible.”
Jean-Guy watched Annie as she smiled and nodded, listening to the girls. Florence, the eldest at six, took after her mother. Slender, athletic, extroverted.
Zora took after her father. Large-boned, slightly awkward, shyer. Where Florence could be impetuous, chasing balls, running into lampposts, skinning her knees leaping off swings, Zora was calmer, gentler. More thoughtful.
Where Florence decided she was afraid of birds, shrieking in the park and running away, Zora stood with a handful of bread, feeding them.
Watching them, Jean-Guy was so grateful that their unborn daughter would have them to play with, and Honoré, who was fiercely loyal, as her brother. She’d need it. Him. Them.
And what would Honoré get, in his sister?
A lifetime of love, he hoped. And responsibility, he knew.
He looked at his sleeping son, and felt that pang of guilt, for what he was being given, without his consent.
“I’m here,” said Roslyn, hurrying down the stairs from their bedroom. “Sorry I’m late. Here, let me help you.”
She put out her hand, and together with Jean-Guy and Daniel, they hauled Annie out of the chair.
“Did you hear a thucking sound?” Jean-Guy asked.
“Thuck off,” said Annie.
She put her arm through his, and he held her close as they stepped into the cool September evening.
Armand and Reine-Marie got off the bus at the familiar stop. The Bibliothèque nationale.
Armand glanced around. It would appear, to any fellow passenger also alighting, as though he was just getting his bearings.
In fact, the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec was scanning the street. Taking in, instinctively, the brasseries, the shops. The doorways, the alleyways. Their fellow pedestrians. The cars and trucks.