“Well, at least the birds’ll have one more thing to perch on,” said Gamache.

“At least,” said Reine-Marie.

The Gamaches found Peter and Clara on the dock when they went down for a swim.

“Now, tell us what’s been happening in your lives, starting with Denis Fortin and your art.” Reine-Marie patted the Adirondack chair. “And don’t leave out a thing.”

Peter and Clara brought them up to date on events in their village of Three Pines, then, after some more prompting, Clara told the story of the great art dealer showing up to their modest home there, his return visit with his partners, then the excruciating wait while they decided if Clara Morrow was, at the age of forty-eight, an emerging artist. Someone they wanted to sponsor. For everyone in the art world knew that if Denis Fortin approved of you, the art world approved. And anything was possible.

Then the nearly unbelievable news that after decades of trying to get someone, anyone, to notice her work, Clara was indeed going to have a solo show at the Galerie Fortin next year.

“And how are you feeling about this?” Gamache asked quietly, having left the women and wandered to the end of the dock with Peter.

“Wonderful.”

Gamache nodded and putting his hands behind his back he looked out to the far shore, and waited. He knew Peter Morrow. Knew him to be a decent and kind man, who loved his wife more than anything in the world. But he also knew Peter’s ego was almost as large as his love. And that was enormous.

“What?” Peter laughed, after the silence had stretched beyond his breaking.

“You’re used to being the successful one,” said Gamache simply. No use pretending. “It would be natural to feel a little . . .” he searched for the right word, the kind word, “murderous.”

Peter laughed again and was surprised to hear it magnified by the far shore.

“You do know artists. I’ve had a bit of a struggle over this, as I think you know, but seeing Clara so happy, well . . .”

“I’m not sure Reine-Marie would be pleased if I became a librarian, like her,” said Gamache, looking over at his wife talking animatedly with Clara.

“I can just see both of you working at the Bibliothèque Nationale in Montreal, seething resentments between the aisles. Especially if you got promoted.”

“That wouldn’t happen. I can’t spell. Have to sing the alphabet every time I look a number up in the phone book. Drives Reine-Marie crazy. But you want murderous feelings? Hang around librarians,” confided Gamache. “All that silence. Gives them ideas.”

They laughed and as they walked back to the women they heard Reine-Marie describe the rest of their day.

“Swim, nap, swim, white wine, dinner, swim, sleep.”

Clara was impressed.

“Well, we’ve had all week to perfect it,” admitted Reine-Marie. “You have to work on these things. What’re you two doing?”

“Boating, unveiling, getting drunk, humiliating myself, apologizing, sulking, eating, sleeping,” said Clara. “I’ve had twenty years of reunions to perfect it. Though the unveiling is new.”

“It’s a statue of your father?” Gamache asked Peter.

“The pater. Better here than our garden.”

“Peter,” said Clara mildly.

“Would you want it?” asked Peter.

“No, but I didn’t really know your father. He was handsome enough, like his son.”

“I’m not at all like him,” snapped Peter in a tone so unlike him it surprised the others.

“You didn’t like your father?” Gamache asked. It seemed a safe guess.

“I liked him about as much as he liked me. Isn’t that how it normally works? You get what you give? That’s what he always said. And he gave nothing.”

There was silence then.

“After Peter’s father died his mother married again,” explained Clara. “Bert Finney.”

“A clerk in my father’s company,” said Peter, tossing pebbles into the calm lake.

He was slightly more than a clerk, Clara knew. But she also knew it wasn’t the time to fine-tune her husband.

“I’ll just be glad when this is over. Mother doesn’t want us to see the statue until the unveiling so Thomas suggested we all go boating.” He cocked his head toward a green wooden rowboat tied to the dock. It was unusually long with two sets of oar holes.

“It’s a verchère,” said Reine-Marie, amazed. She hadn’t seen one in years.

“That’s right,” said Peter. “We used to go in the seven-in-a-verchère race at the local regatta. Thomas thought it would be a good way to pass the time. A sort of homage to Father.”