He returned his gaze to Rosa. Who also adored an elderly woman and was terrified her Ruth would one day vanish, as his Emilie had. And she’d be all alone. Henri stared and stared, hoping Rosa might look at him and realize that even if that happened, the wounded heart would heal. The balm, he wanted to tell her, wasn’t anger or fear or isolation. He’d tried those. They hadn’t worked.

Finally, into that terrible hole Henri had poured the only thing left. What Emilie had given him. As he went for long, long walks with Armand and Reine-Marie, he remembered his love for snowballs, and sticks, and rolling in skunk poop. His love of the different seasons and their different scents. His love of mud and fresh bedding. Of swimming and shaking with abandon while his legs danced beneath him. Of licking himself. Then others.

Until one day the pain and loneliness and sorrow were no longer the biggest thing in his heart.

He still loved Emilie, but now he also loved Armand and Reine-Marie.

And they loved him.

That was home. He’d found it again.

* * *

“Ah, bon. Enfin,” said Reine-Marie, greeting her daughter Annie and her son-in-law, Jean-Guy, on the front porch.

It was a bit congested as people milled about saying their good-byes.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir said hello and good-bye to the villagers and made a date to go jogging the next morning with Olivier. Gabri offered to look after the bistro instead of joining them, as though jogging was ever an option.

When Beauvoir reached Ruth they eyed each other.

“Salut, you drunken old wretch.”

“Bonjour, numb nuts.”

Ruth held Rosa and, leaning into Beauvoir, they kissed on both cheeks. “There’s pink lemonade in the fridge for you,” she said. “I made it.”

He looked at her gnarly hands and knew that opening the can could not have been easy.

“When life gives you lemons…” he said.

“It gave you lemons. Thankfully, it gave me Scotch.”

Beauvoir laughed. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy the lemonade.”

“Well, Rosa seemed to like it when she stuck her beak in the pitcher.”

Ruth stepped down the wide wooden stairs of the verandah and, ignoring the fieldstone path, cut across the lawn on a trail worn into the grass between the homes.

Jean-Guy waited until Ruth slammed her front door shut, then he took their bags into the house.

It was past ten in the evening and all the guests had left. Gamache fixed a dinner of leftovers for his daughter and son-in-law.

“How’s work?” he asked Jean-Guy.

“Not bad, patron.”

He couldn’t yet bring himself to call his new father-in-law Armand. Or Dad. Nor could he call him Chief Inspector, since Gamache had retired, and besides, that sounded too formal now. So Jean-Guy had settled on patron. Boss. It was both respectful and informal. And oddly accurate.

Armand Gamache might be Annie’s father, but he would always be Beauvoir’s patron.

They chatted about a particular case Beauvoir was working on. Jean-Guy was alert for signs the Chief was more than just interested. That he was in fact anxious to return to the Sûreté du Québec unit he’d built. But while Gamache was polite, there was no sign it went beyond that.