“How was rehearsal?” Reine-Marie asked Gabri and Myrna. “Is the play going well?”
“You’ll have to ask Antoinette,” said Gabri, indicating with his beer a middle-aged woman at another table.
“Who is she?” asked Isabelle.
She looked to Lacoste like her daughter. Only her daughter was seven and this woman must’ve been forty-five. The woman wore clothes more suited to an infant. A bow was in her spiky purple hair. She wore a flowered skirt, short and tight around her ample bottom, and a tank top, tight around her ample top, under a bright pink sweater. If a candy store vomited, Antoinette would be the result.
“That’s Antoinette Lemaitre and her partner, Brian Fitzpatrick,” said Reine-Marie. “She’s the artistic director of the Knowlton Playhouse. They’re coming over for dinner tonight.”
“We’ll be there too,” said Gabri. “We’re trying to get Armand and Reine-Marie to join us.”
“Join?” said Isabelle. “Us?”
“The Estrie Players,” said Myrna. “I’ve been trying to convince Clara to join too. Not to act, necessarily, but maybe to paint sets. Anything to get her out of that studio. She just stares at that half-finished portrait of Peter all day long. I don’t think she’s lifted her brush in weeks.”
“That painting gives me the creeps,” said Gabri.
“Isn’t it a bit overkill, though?” said Reine-Marie. “Getting one of the top painters in Canada to do sets for an amateur production?”
“Picasso painted sets,” said Myrna.
“For the Ballets Russes,” Reine-Marie pointed out.
“I bet if he lived here he’d do our sets,” said Gabri. “If anyone could convince him, she could.”
He gestured toward Antoinette and Brian, who were approaching the table.
“How was rehearsal?” Reine-Marie asked, after introducing them to Isabelle Lacoste.
“It would be better if this one”—Antoinette jerked her head toward Gabri—“listened to my direction.”
“I need to be free to make my own creative choices.”
“You’re playing him gay,” said Antoinette.
“I am gay,” said Gabri.
“But the character is not. He’s just coming out of a ruined marriage.”
“Oui. Coming out. Because he’s…?” said Gabri, leaning toward her.
“Gay?” asked Brian.
Antoinette laughed. It was full and hearty and unrestrained and Isabelle liked her.
“Okay, play him any way you like,” Antoinette said. “It doesn’t really matter. The play’s going to be a hit. Even you can’t mess it up.”
“That’s on the poster,” Brian confided. “Even Gabri Can’t Mess This Up.”
He put his hands up in front of him to indicate a huge banner.
Reine-Marie laughed and knew it might actually be true, and a good selling point.
“What part do you play?” Isabelle asked Myrna.
“The owner of the boardinghouse. I was going to play it as a gay man, but since Gabri already claimed that territory I decided to go in a different direction.”
“She’s playing her as a large black woman,” said Gabri. “Inspired.”
“Thank you, darling,” said Myrna, and the two air-kissed.
“You should’ve seen their production of The Glass Menagerie,” said Armand. His eyes widened as though to say it was exactly what Isabelle imagined it would be.
“By the way, did you talk to Clara?” Antoinette asked Myrna. “Will she do it?”
“I don’t think so,” said Myrna. “She needs more time.”
“She needs distraction,” said Gabri.
Isabelle looked at the script in Antoinette’s hand.
“She Sat Down and Wept,” she read. “A comedy?”
Antoinette laughed, handing her the script. “It’s not as dire as it sounds.”
“Actually, it’s wonderful,” said Myrna. “And very funny.”
“Some might even say gay,” said Gabri.
“Well, time to go.” Isabelle got up. “I see the soccer game is over.”
On the village green the children and adults had stopped playing, and were all looking toward the stone bridge across the Rivière Bella Bella where a kid was shouting and running into the village.
“Oh no,” said Gabri as they watched through the bistro window. “Not again.”
The boy paused at the edge of the green and gestured wildly with a stick. When no one reacted he looked around and his gaze stopped at the bistro.
“Hide,” said Myrna. “Duck.”
“God, don’t tell me Ruth’s coming too,” said Gabri, looking around frantically.
But it was too late. The boy was through the door, scanning the crowd. And his bright eyes came to a halt. On Gamache.
“You’re here, patron,” the boy said, running over to their table. “You have to come quick.”
Grabbing Gamache’s hand, he tried to pull the large man out of his chair.
“Wait a minute,” said Armand. “Settle down. What is it?”
The boy was bedraggled, like something the woods had coughed up. There were moss and leaves and twigs in his hair, his clothes were torn and he clutched a stick the size of a cane in his scratched and filthy hands.
“You won’t believe what I found in the woods. Come on. Hurry.”
“What is it this time?” Gabri asked. “A unicorn? A spaceship?”
“No,” the boy said, looking annoyed. Then he turned back to Gamache. “It was huge. Humongous.”
“What was?” Gamache asked.
“Oh, don’t encourage him, Armand,” said Myrna.
“It was a gun,” said the boy, and saw a flicker of interest in Gamache. “A giant gun, Chief. This big.” He waved his arms and the stick hit the table next to them, sweeping glasses to the floor.
“Okay,” said Gabri, getting up. “That’s enough. Give me that.”
“No, you can’t have it,” said the boy, protecting the stick.
“Either you give it to me, or you leave. I’m sorry, but you don’t see anyone else in here with tree branches.”
“It’s not a tree branch,” said the boy. “It’s a gun that can change into a sword.”
He made to brandish it but Olivier had come over and caught it with his hand. With his other he held out a broom and a pan.
“Clean it up,” said Olivier, not unkindly, but firmly.
“Fine. Here.” The boy handed Gamache the stick. “If anything bad happens to me, you’ll know what to do.” He looked at Gamache with deadly earnest. “I’m trusting you.”
“Understood,” said Gamache gravely.
The boy began to sweep while Armand leaned the stick against his chair, noticing that it was notched and etched and that the boy’s name was carved into it.
“What did he want this time?” Jean-Guy asked, as he and Annie joined them and watched the annoyed sweeping. “To warn you about an alien invasion?”
“That was last week.”
“Oui. I forgot. Are the Iroquois on the warpath?”
“Done that,” said Armand. “Peace has been restored. We gave them back the land.”
He looked over at the boy, who’d stopped sweeping and was now riding the broom like a steed, using the pan as a shield.
“He’s kind of sweet,” said Annie.
“Sweet? Godzilla is sweet. He’s a menace,” said Olivier, after getting the boy off the steed and refocusing him on the broken glass.
“We thought he was fun at first too. A real little character, until he came running in here telling us his house was burning down,” said Gabri.
“It wasn’t?” asked Annie.
“What do you think?” said Olivier. “We got the whole volunteer fire department rushing over there, only to find Al and Evie working in their garden.”