Penny, Louise - All the Devils Are Here

“A good-luck charm?”

“The truth.”

“Mind some company?” Jean-Guy asked as he fell into step beside Armand.

“Not at all,” said Armand.

Their feet crunched on the snow and their faces tingled as large, wet flakes landed softly and melted.

“I spoke to Isabelle today,” said Jean-Guy, his words coming out in puffs. “She brought me up to speed.”

“Good.”

“I can start on Monday, if that works for you. It won’t be awkward, will it? My coming back to homicide and sharing second-in-command duties with her?”

“If she can stand you, so can I,” said Armand. He stopped and looked at Jean-Guy. “Are you sure Annie’s all right with you coming back?”

“From Paris? There was no question. This’s where we belong. This’s where we want to raise our children. Here, in Québec.”

“I meant with you coming back to the Sûreté,” Armand clarified. “To homicide.”

Jean-Guy smiled. “Do you think I’d be doing it if Annie didn’t agree? It was her idea. She said we were meant to be together. You and me. She says it’s fate.”

“Do you believe that?”

“In fate?” Jean-Guy considered, then nodded.

Though he couldn’t quite bring himself to say it out loud, his actions had spoken.

“I was thinking about the Tremblay case …”

They continued their stroll around the village green, talking about murder, while the dogs, and Gracie, romped and rolled in the fresh snow.

Annie, holding Idola, along with Roslyn and Reine-Marie, had gone over to the bistro, and were visible through the window, sitting with Clara, Myrna, and Ruth by the roaring fire.

Wedges of lemon meringue pie sat in front of each of them.

“Before you go,” said Stephen as Daniel put his coat on. “Can you help me with something?”

Stephen gripped Daniel’s hand as they walked slowly down the hall to his bedroom on the main floor. His suitcases were there, partially unpacked. Digging through one, he brought out a bulky sweater. Unwrapping it, he revealed the small watercolor.

“There, please.” Stephen pointed.

Daniel hammered a picture hook into the wall, then picked up the painting.

“No,” said Stephen, taking it from him. “I’ll hang it. You go outside.”

After Daniel left, he turned the painting around and saw Arlette’s writing.

For Armand, with love.

Bringing out a pen he carefully added two words, so that it now read, For Armand, my son, with love.

Then Stephen Horowitz hung the watercolor where he could see it first thing in the morning and at the end of the day. The end of his days.

And know that, while he’d taken the long way, he was finally home.

“Want to go in?” Jean-Guy asked as they looked through the bistro window.

“ Non , I’m heading home,” said Armand. “We left Daniel alone with Stephen.”

“And his cane,” said Jean-Guy, who’d received more than one whack.

Armand watched his son-in-law join the others around the bistro fire. He could read Ruth’s lips as she greeted him: “Hello, numbnuts.”

Reine-Marie put her head back and laughed.

Armand smiled, then turned full circle.

His gaze took in the dark forests and luminous homes, the three huge pines and the soft snow falling from the sky, as though the Heavens had opened, and all the angels were joining them. Here. Here.

“Dad.”

Armand turned.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Michael took me to Paris for the first time back in 1995. I was thirty-six years old and we’d been seeing each other for five months. He was invited to give a talk on childhood leukemia to a conference in Toulouse, and asked if I’d like to go along. When I regained consciousness I said, yes, yes, yes please!

We flew out of Montréal in a snowstorm, almost missing the flight. Michael was, to be honest, a little vague on details, like departure times of planes, trains, buses. In fact, almost all appointments. This was the trip where I realized we each had strengths. Mine seemed to be actually getting us to places. His was making it fun once there.

On our first night in Paris we went to a wonderful restaurant, then for a walk. At some stage he said, “I’d like to show you something. Look at this.”

He was pointing to the trunk of a tree.

Now, I’d actually seen trees before, but I thought there must be something extraordinary about this one.

“Get up close,” he said. “Look at where I’m pointing.”

It was dark, so my nose was practically touching his finger, lucky man.

Then, slowly, slowly, his finger began moving, scraping along the bark. I was cross-eyed, following it. And then it left the tree trunk. And pointed into the air.

I followed it.

And there was the Eiffel Tower. Lit up in the night sky.

As long as I live, I will never forget that moment. Seeing the Eiffel Tower with Michael. And the dear man, knowing the magic of it for a woman who never thought she’d see Paris, made it even more magical by making it a surprise.

C. S. Lewis wrote that we can create situations in which we are happy, but we cannot create joy. It just happens.

That moment I was surprised by complete and utter joy.

A little more than a year earlier I knew that the best of life was behind me. I could not have been more wrong. In that year I’d gotten sober, met and fell in love with Michael, and was now in Paris.

We just don’t know. The key is to keep going. Joy might be just around the corner.

I’ve tried to bring that wonderment. That awe. That love of place because of the place, but also because of the memories a place holds, to this book.

That love of Paris that I discovered with Michael. And that the Gamaches have.

This is a book about love, about belonging. About family and friendship. It’s about how lives are shaped by our perceptions, by not just our memories, but how we remember things.

It’s about choices. And courage.

Michael and I returned to Paris several times after that. But since his death, I had not been back. Too chicken.

But I knew in my heart it was time. It was time for Armand and Reine-Marie to visit Daniel and Roslyn. Annie and Jean-Guy. And the grandchildren. In Paris.

It was time for me to return.

It was time to leave the safety and security of Three Pines, and face whatever was waiting.

The first time I returned, to research All the Devils Are Here , I knew I couldn’t go alone. I asked my good friend Guy Coté if he’d come with me, guide me, show me places in Paris I’d never normally see.

Places the Gamaches would know about, but that I did not.

So we rented an apartment in the Marais, where Armand’s grandmother once lived and where they’ve inherited her home. Then I asked if Kirk and Walter, great friends of ours, would join. They did.

Then my Québec publisher, Louise Loiselle, said she was going to be in Paris at the same time. So she joined our little troupe.

Suddenly, what had been fraught with emotional turmoil felt safe. And fun. I was not alone.

I am deeply, deeply grateful to Guy. For all his research, for the lunches and coffees we had together in Knowlton in preparation. For the books and maps he bought me and that we pored over together.

And, once there, for the fun we all had, exploring that extraordinary, luminous city.

Thank you to Kirk and Walter, for coming along and making it all the more meaningful and fun. And for always being, over the years, so supportive. Michael thought of them as sons. And they reciprocated his love.

Thank you to Louise Loiselle, of Flammarion Québec, for all her help, including setting up meetings in Paris with Eric Yung, a former undercover cop in Paris and now a crime writer, and with Claude Cancès, the former head of the Police Judiciare de Paris.