“Oh.” Peter looked as though Gamache had just pulled down his pants. “Did Clara see them?”

“Would it matter?”

Peter thought about that, and shook his head. “It would have, a year ago. Even a few months ago. But now?” He searched his feelings and almost smiled. “It’s okay.” He looked at them with wonder. “It’s okay. They’re a mess, but they’ll get better. What did Clara think of them?”

This was all that really mattered to him. Not their opinion, only Clara’s.

“Do you want to know?”

He nodded.

“She thought they were a dog’s breakfast.” Gamache studied Peter as he said it. The old Peter would have gotten huffy, taken offense. Been deeply insulted that anything he did could be greeted with anything short of wild applause.

But this Peter just shook his head and smiled. “She’s right.”

“It’s a compliment, you know,” said Gamache. “She said her first efforts were the same. A lump in the throat.”

“Oh, God, I miss her so much.” The little energy Peter had summoned disappeared and he seemed to deflate.

His lower lip trembled and tears welled up. Saltwater. A sea of emotion, withheld. He looked desperate to say all the things unsaid, for decades. But all that came out was ragged breath.

“I want to sit in our garden and hear about her year, and tell her about mine,” he finally said. “I want to hear all about her art. And how she paints and how she feels. Oh, God, what’ve I done?”

*   *   *

Clara grabbed Peter’s rolled-up paintings. “I can’t wait any longer.”

“Sit down,” Myrna commanded. “Sit.”

“Could we at least call them?” Clara pulled out her device.

“Give me that,” said Myrna, holding out her hand. “Give it.”

“But—”

“Now. Lives might be at stake. We don’t know what’s happening and we can’t interrupt. Armand said to wait for him.”

“I can’t.”

“You have to. This is what he does. What they both do. Leave them.”

Their coffees were cold and the lemon meringue pie sat untouched in the middle of the table.

“Do you think they’ve found Peter?” Clara asked.

“I hope so.” Myrna looked out the window and couldn’t imagine what might be beyond this place. Where else could they look? Where else could he hide?

“Does the Muse live here?” Clara asked. Of Chartrand.

“Why do you ask me?”

“Because you’ve been here before.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Are you sure?” Clara’s eyes held his, and wouldn’t let them drop.

“I’ve never been here in my life,” said Chartrand. “But I’m glad I’m here now.”

“Why?” asked Clara.

He smiled weakly, got up, and left. They could see him through the window of the diner, his hands shoved into his pockets, his collar turned up against the wind. He stood hunched, staring out at the water.