Salad and a Home Full of Beloved Guests

by Amy

“It had become a sort of tradition, these informal Friday evening barbeques at the Gamache place.”

Don’t you love those?

In these gatherings, friends and family mingle informally. Friends that are like family and the family that comes is the family that counts as the best of friends.

These are the gatherings where people are in and out of the kitchen and an outsider might have a hard time telling, for sure, who the hosts of the “party” are. It’s the kind of get together where the invitation sounds like an afterthought, when it is voiced at all, but everyone feels at home and invited.

This is such a wonderfully written scene. If you’re in a mood for a reread, grab your copy of The Long Way Home and read Chapter 3. Part of the power in the scene resides in the fact that we know these characters, too, and we feel close to them. The magic is that we are part of the scene. We, too, are invited into the Gamache’s home and are privy to these wonderful interactions.

Part of why I love this scene is because I can relate. I like having people over, but am not the kind of hostess who sets a beautiful fancy table with amazing dishes. I tend to be the kind of hostess who adopts guests and soon treats them like family. They are spoiled – when I can spoil them – and left to their own devices when I cannot.

I have said before that I can very much relate to Reine-Marie as a character. I see similarities to myself – although I wish I had all her wisdom and grace as well. She is just my kind of hostess. Always willing to add one more plate to the table or make an extra bed for a guest; but also perfectly content to be served at the bistro or enjoy someone else’s hospitality.

One of the joys in this scene is that Louise Penny scattered gems all over the scene. The bit where Gamache pretending to want to man the barbeque, although Monsieur Beliveau was more interested and probably more qualified for the job. Gabri flaunting his designer outfit. Ruth’s endearments… and Rosa’s disdain for Henri’s puppy love. Only Louise Penny would find a way to turn dog fart into poetry – and a philosophical reflection on steadfastness and courage.

Ruth and Rosa were now looking at the shepherd with something close to awe. The old poet took a deep breath, the exhaled, turning the toxic gas into poetry.“You forced me to give you poisonous gifts,”  she quoted from her famous work.I can put this no other way.Everything I gave was to get rid of youAs one gives to a beggar: There. Go Away.But Henri, the brave and gaseous shepherd, did not go away. Ruth looked at him in disgust, but offered one withered hand to Henri, to lick.And he did.

One of my own favorite gems, though, is the glimpse into Reine-Marie and Gamache’s marriage:

Reine-Marie moved among their friends, who were scattered around the garden, catching bits of conversations in French, in English, most in a mélange of the two languages.She looked over and saw Armand listening attentively as Vincent Gilbert told a story. It must have been funny, probably self-deprecating, because Armand was smiling. Then he talked, gesturing with his beer as he spoke.When he finished the Gilberts laughed, as did Armand. Then he caught her eye, and his smile broadened.

The intimacy isn’t in doing everything together. They rarely do, in fact. The closeness of their tie lies in their ability to connect, even when they are doing their own work, carrying on a separate conversation, living their own life. They have a rich and incredible relationship where they are both independent and full of life and dreams and plans, and they support each other, but don’t necessarily always walk side by side in every project.

Again, I can relate.

And then there’s Myrna.

“I left a bag of books for you in the living room,” Myrna said to Reine-Marie.

Really?! Isn’t that the best dinner guest EVER? Forget bringing wine or dessert. A bag of curated books?! Perfect.

Which reminds me. Yesterday I mentioned to my husband that although I am not working and still trying to figure out what our new budget is in a new country, I cannot live without buying books. He laughed and said, “I don’t care. If we run out of food we’ll just eat your books.” I think I fell a little bit more in love with him right then.

Myrna poured herself a white wine and noticed the bouquet in the center of the table. Tall, effusive, crammed with blooms and foliage.
Myrna wasn’t sure she should tell Reine-Marie they were mostly weeds. […] She’d been through the flower beds with Armand and Reine-Marie many times, helping to bring order to the tangled mess. She thought she’d been clear about the difference between the flowers and the weeds. Another lesson was in order.“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Reine-Marie said, offering Myrna a morsel of smoked trout on rye.Myrna smiled. City folk.[…]Myrna smiled at the weed centerpiece, still amused. And then she stopped smiling and noticed something. It was really beautiful.

Isn't this scene just sprinkled with inspiring interactions? This week I’d been thinking about how, as a parent, it’s sometimes a challenge to ignore the things that “need to be done” or taught or fixed, in order to allow time for the things that should be done. Things like cloud watching, snuggling, hearing (in detail) the ramblings on Minecraft or Pokemon… And, sometimes, in trying to teach children – or grown friends – the distinction between the flowers and the weeds, we miss the chance to see the beauty in the weeds. Reine-Marie was right. Who cares if they’re weeds? They were beautiful!

I recently had an impromptu dinner party. I wasn`t sure who was coming and when they would get here. There was a broad spectrum in food preferences and palates, but I had a little bit of everything so everyone was happy – I hope. The one thing I made with myself in mind (although there were no leftovers) was the salad.

Bowls of salad were passed around and Sarah gave Monsieur Beliveau the largest of the dinner rolls she’d made that afternoon, while he gave her the tenderest piece of steak. They leaned toward each other, not quite touching.

In this scene, they do eat salad, but we’re not told which kind. I thought that was a perfect opening for me to share my current favorite!

And Louise Penny closes the dinner scene with Henri’s reflections. It’s beautiful and poignant and such a wonderful definition of home and family. Considering that I am in the process of creating a new home here, having friends – like family – crowd in my kitchen and eat salad – among other things – and help build the bonds that make a house a home… This scene was especially apt.

Emilie.The elderly woman who’d found him at the shelter when he was a puppy. Who’d brought him home. Who’d named him and loved him and raised him, until the day she was no longer there and the Gamaches had come and taken him away. He’d spent months searching for her. Sniffing for her scent. Perking up his ears at the sound of every car arriving. Every door opening. Waiting for Emilie to find him again. To rescue him again, and take him home. Until one day he no longer watched. No longer waited. No longer needed rescuing.[…] The balm, he wanted to tell [Rosa] 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.
[…] 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.

Sigh.

I am grateful because there are people to love – and be loved by – in so many parts of the world. Because of that, there will always be homes far away from home that will be missed. There will also always be a chance to find home again. And again. And again, if needed.

Chickpea Salad

No secret to it.

1 can of chickpea beans

Grape tomatoes

Shredded carrots

Fresh basil – if you have it

Quartered cucumber or celery slices – I’m sure summer zucchini would be great, too

A few tablespoons of olive oil

A generous squeeze of lemon juice

A sprinkle of chopped parsley

About half a cup of crumbled feta - when I ran out of feta I just added parmesan or cottage cheese

Toss and enjoy.

I’ve made this quite a few times the past few weeks. With slight variations. 

Parsnip and Apple Soup - A Time of Stillness

by Amy

Dinner was served, starting with parsnip and apple soup, with a drizzle of walnut infused oil on top.
“Olivier gave me the recipe,” said Reine-Marie, turning down the light in the kitchen.
[…]
Gamache took a couple of spoonfuls of soup. It was smooth and earthy and just a touch sweet.
“Delicious,” he said to Reine-Marie, but his mind was elsewhere.

A meal that is a bit unusual (at least to me), served twice in one book, enticing enough that Reine-Marie asks Olivier for the recipe, AND gets complimented by a character? I had absolutely no trouble picking which THE NATURE OF THE BEAST recipe to start with!

Reine-Marie eats this soup at the Bistro earlier in the book during a memorable conversation with Gamache. She later serves it to Gamache, Agent Cohen, Chief Inspector Gamache and Jean-Guy Beauvoir during a cozy candlelit dinner.

I think Reine-Marie is a wise woman. In the Supporting Spouses and Peppermint Tisane Post we talked a bit about her relationship with Gamache and how she was aware of who and what he was and was willing to respect that. In THE LONG WAY HOME Gamache was still healing. He was in a place of reflection and reassessment, and he was still reeling from all that had come before. Now he’s begun to ask What next? So has everybody else. Including the readers.

I think that’s the big question for the next book. What’s next?

Sitting in the warm and cheerful bistro, with fresh warm bread and parsnip and apple soup in front of them…
[…]
“I was threatened yesterday by a young agent. […] Fresh out of the academy. He knew I was once a cop and he didn’t care. If he’d treat a former cop like that, how’s he going to treat citizens?”
“You look shaken.”
“I am. I’d hoped by getting rid of the corruption the worst was over, but now…” He shrugged and smiled thinly. “Is he alone, or is there a whole class of thugs entering the Sûreté? Armed with clubs and guns.”

I think Gamache knows the department is in good hands. He’s just told Reine-Marie what a good job Chief Inspector Lacoste has been doing. He might sometimes miss it, but it’s no longer his job and he seems to be okay with that.

“Not just a good job, a remarkable job. She’s completely taken control of the department. Made it her own.”
Reine-Marie watched him for signs of regret hiding beneath the obvious relief. But there was only admiration for his young protégé.

I think he’s wondering if maybe there’s another job that he is supposed to do. Another mission. Not the murders themselves, I don't think. Lacoste and Jean-Guy are perfectly capable of handling those and Lacoste is doing beautifully with the department. But maybe he’s to be involved in the shaping of a new “ideology” for the Sûreté? He’s outrooted corruption, but someone has to help ensure a new mentality is installed in its place. Maybe Gamache is feeling called to do that?

“I’m sorry, Armand.”
She reached across the table and placed her hand on his.
He looked down at her hand, then up into her eyes, and smiled.
“It’s a place I no longer recognize. To everything there is a season. I’m thinking of talking to Professor Rosenblatt about his job at McGill.”

He seems to be shying away from it, though. He’s been invited to take over as Superintendent. It’s a legitimate offer. He doesn’t answer anyone who questions him about it in this book. I don’t think he knows the answer himself. I think he’s still considering his options. Wondering. Trying to figure out what he wants to do. What he’s meant to do.

She knew he wasn’t considering studying science, but now she understood what he was considering.
If the big question facing both of them was, What next? could the answer be, University?
“Would that interest you?” he asked.
“Going back to school?”
She hadn’t really thought about it, but now that she did she realized there was a world of knowledge out there she’d love to dive into. History, archeology, languages, art.
And she could see Armand there. In fact, it was a far more natural fit than the Sûreté ever seemed. She could see him walking through the hallways, a student. Or a professor.
But either way, he belonged in the corridors of academe. And so did she. She wondered if the killing of young Laurent had finally, completely, put paid to any interest he had in the disgrace that was murder.
“You like the professor?” she asked, going back to her soup.
“I do, though there seems a strange disconnect between the man and what he did for a living. His field was trajectory and ballistics. The main people who’d benefit from his research would be weapons designers. And yet he seems so, so, gentle. Scholarly. It just doesn’t seem to fit.”
“Really?” she asked, trying not to smile. It was what she’d just been thinking about him. A scholarly man who pursued murderers. “I guess we’re not all what we seem.”

We aren’t all what we seem. We rarely are. And there's usually more to us (everyone) than meets the eye.

Some people seem to have been meant to do one thing. Or one type of thing. Or one line of work. Others are more flexible – or more versatile. Some people, by choice or circumstance, spend a lifetime doing the same things. Others seem to live many lives.

I think everyone thinks Armand Gamache still has much to give and much to contribute. No one – probably not even he – knows what that is, but everyone is asking What next?

She’d held his hand tightly. It was covered in his own blood and that of others. And it mingled with the blood on her hands. Her own, and others.
And now catching killers was in their blood.
Chief Inspector Gamache hadn’t died. And he’d continued to lead them for many investigations. Until the time had come to come here.
He’d done enough. It was someone else’s turn.
Hers.
“You and Madame Gamache seem happy here.”
“We are. Happier than I ever thought possible.”
“But are you content?” Isabelle probed.

Gamache smiled again. How different she was from Jean-Guy, who’d come right out and demanded, “Are you going to stay here doing nothing, or what, patron?”

He’d tried to explain to Jean-Guy that stillness wasn’t nothing. But the taut younger man just didn’t understand. And neither would he have, Gamache knew, in his thirties. But in his fifties Armand Gamache knew that sitting still was far more difficult, and frightening, than running around.

No, this wasn’t nothing. But the time was coming when this stillness would allow him to know what to do. Next.
What next?

And he’s right. Being still isn’t nothing. It may be the listening and meditating time necessary for further action.

I can empathize. I am going through a transition time in my own life. Big changes are coming my way. Maybe a move. Maybe a sabbatical. Very likely a career shift. Right now I’m in a whirlwind much like the one Gamache was in during HOW THE LIGHT GETS IN. Lots of plans and preparations being set in place in readiness for a moment when it will all have to come together – fast.

After the whirlwind, I’ll have to deal with the “What next?” period. While it is tempting to already try to make decision, I know answers given now would be impetuous and precipitous.

Although I am not yet in my fifties and can certainly empathize with my contemporary, Jean-Guy, I agree with Gamache. Stillness is not nothing. It is hard. It means self-assessment. It demands answers to hard questions.

I am looking forward to stillness, though. I’m looking forward to a time between times. A time for listening to the silence and the space between the words. A time of reflection and questioning.

A butterfly landed on my foot the other day. It slowly climbed up my pant leg. It looked so pretty there that I took a picture. This was a few days ago. Since then, butterflies have been on my mind. I realized that I'm probably in the caterpillar stage. "A big fat caterpillar", (The Very Hungry Caterpillar).

Maybe I can become a butterfly. To do so, I have to be willing to face the cocoon stage. Stillness. A time between times. While outwardly nothing seems to be happening, metamorphosis is hard work. A caterpillar actually digests itself before sleeping cells are awakened in order to grow into a butterfly. What a metaphor!

I look forward to my time of stillness. To my own "cocoon".

I am preparing myself to reassess and "digest" who I am in order to awaken the person I can become. I'd like to cultivate stillness. Sometimes it is a big obvious moment - like the one I am soon to face. Other times it's a little epiphany. A few minutes or hours of introspection. We all have cocoons in our lives.

I look forward to trying to answer the questions I ask myself. Who am I? What do I enjoy? Why am I the way I am? What do I like to do? Why do I like to do it? What are the things that make me feel like a day was productive? What are the things I miss? What are the things that I could live without? What makes me feel useful? What kind of social interaction nurtures my soul? What makes me want to jump out of bed in the morning? What are some things I keep in the back drawer of dreams and plans, and that I should put on the top of the list?

I look forward to my time of stillness.

It is coming. Soon. It is just around the corner.

I know I need it because I, like Gamache, am not ready to answer when people ask me What next?

I didn’t really know what parsnips were. That’s not quite true. I knew, but I didn’t know they were called parsnips. To me they were only cenoura baroa or mandioquinha, Brazilian names for the vegetable. I don’t even know if they taste exactly the same (most fruits and vegetables are slightly different in taste in different parts of the world), but I’m sure they’re close enough. I was a bit skeptical of adding apples to the soup… but it was lovely! I’m so glad I made it. Even my son (who absolutely HATES any and all kinds of soup) ate his obligatory two spoons to taste with little complaint and said it was “okay” (very high praise for soup coming from this particular 8-year-old).

I made a version of this recipe: Creamy Parsnip and Apple Soup

Of course there were slight modifications because… well, I cannot seem to make things precisely as the recipe says. I like my soups a bit thicker, so I added less broth. Also, I added a wee bit of parsley to it. I thought it was a good addition. Other than that, I basically followed the recipe. Madame Gamache has great taste.

In fact, I had a soup party this week! It was so much fun! I invited some friends who like to cook – but aren’t snobs about it. The idea was that each person would bring a pan of soup or chowder. We had bread and croutons and grated cheese and cheeses and fresh parsley and nuts and wine… And we had to chance to share our own soup – and the recipe – and to taste other soups. So much fun. We spent hours nibbling and eating and tasting and trying to figure out what spices and tricks each person had up their sleeve. 

We took turns serving our soups, so everyone spent some time in the kitchen reheating and adding final touches. Everything was served in the pan it came in, so it was informal, not at all fancy, and felt like an impromptu improvised family meal. 

Then we split the leftovers between us. Perfect. I had enough for dinner the next day. Although dinner was a whole new version, since I did some mix and matching with my leftovers! 

On Supporting Spouses and Peppermint Tisane

 by Amy

“Reine-Marie had always known this moment would come. From the first box they’d unpacked and the first night they’d spent here. From the first morning she’d woken up next to Armand and not been afraid of what the day might bring.”

“She’d known this day would come. But she’d thought, hoped, prayed they’d have more time.”

This section of THE LONG WAY HOME is a brilliant bit of writing by Louise Penny. She threads her way through three concurrent conversations: Annie and Reine-Marie drinking peppermint tisane on the Gamache’s porch, Jean-Guy and Gamache in the study, and Myrna and Clara (also drinking tisane – peppermint and chamomile) at Clara’s home.  The four women have parallel conversations about the men in their lives. Reine-Marie probably sees a reflection and reminder of her past as an inspector’s wife when she talks to her daughter. Their conversation is about recovery and peace, but there is an unspoken concern that they might live through pain and insecurity again. In the meantime, at the Morrow home, Clara shares her fears with Myrna as they talk about Peter’s unknown fate. Gamache asks Jean-Guy to help him answer Clara's request to find Peter.

I recently planted a garden. I think I’m in love. Who knew?! Like Gamache and Reine-Marie, I’m basically a city girl and had very little idea of how to start a garden. I have my own version of Myrna (a wonderful couple who is generous with their time and their knowledge) giving me hints and helping me decide what and how to plant. It has been a pleasure to watch things grow and to eat from the produce in the backyard.

The mint, in particular, has flourished. I add leaves to juices and have taken to making iced tea as well as adding it to water glasses. Yesterday I’d made myself some peppermint tisane (although I called it tea until I read this book and learned a new word) and had already taken a picture to show the gardeners how successful our enterprise has been. Later the same day, as I was listening to the beginning of The Long Way Home and ran across this scene, I knew it would have to be my next post.

 “Reine-Marie turned in her seat to look at the porch light above the door. What had started as a gentle tapping of mothwings against the bulb had turned into near frantic beating as the moth rammed itself against the hot light on the cool night. It was getting on her nerves.” 

 “Does it hurt? Reine-Marie wondered. The singeing of the wings, the little legs, like threads, landing on the white-hot glass, then pushing away. Does it hurt that the light doesn’t give the moth what it so desperately desires?” 

“She got up and turned the porch light off, and after a few moments the beating of the wings stopped and Reine-Marie returned to her peaceful seat. 

“It was quiet now, and dark. Except for the buttery light from the sitting room window. As the silence grew, Reine-Marie wondered if she’d done the moth a favor. Had she saved its life, but taken away its purpose?” 

“And then the beating started again. Flitting, desperate. Tiny, delicate, insistent. The moth had moved down the porch. Now it was beating against the window of the room where Armand and Jean-Guy sat.” 

“It had found its light. It would never give up. It couldn’t. 

“Reine-Marie got up, watched by her daughter, and turned the porch light back on. It was in the moth’s nature to do what it was doing. And Reine-Marie couldn’t stop it, no matter how much she might want to.”

I have long identified with Reine-Marie.  While there aren't a large number of scenes in which she is present, her presence is felt throughout the entire series. She is an integral part of Gamache; a half of the whole. He is able to be who he is, in part, because of her support. In A RULE AGAINST MURDER we are shown how understanding she is when their anniversary vacation is waylaid by crime. We are privy, time and again, to her hospitality and acceptance of the people Gamache works with and brings into their home. We are told of her worry, indirectly, when Gamache notices the inflection of fear when she tells him to be careful in BURY YOUR DEAD. And, finally, when Annie is placed in a similar situation in THE BEAUTIFUL MYSTERY, the women spend time together and Annie wonders whether the solitary fear is how her mother felt through all those years of saying goodbye to her Inspector husband when he went on his missions. As far as I remember, though, this is the first scene in Madam Gamache’s point of view.

“Much is said about brilliance. Less attention is paid to those who live next to it. Spouses, children, assistants… if anyone thinks of us at all, it’s generally to remark upon how lucky we are to bask in the light of genius…” (Megan Hart in BROKEN)

So many people are curtailed in their expectations and dreams because those who love them don’t quite see or understand them. The two couples, the Gamaches and the Morrows, provide an interesting contrast.

Clara and Peter have a lopsided relationship. It is so evident that even people who don’t know them well – such as the art dealer who wanted to represent Clara – wondered if she would give up her art because of her husband. Peter tries to be supportive. He even realizes his failure to do so. But he doesn’t know how to love her enough nor is he strong enough to allow her the freedom of being herself. It breaks them. We are left to wonder if, in his quest to find his own soul, he found the strength to mend the broken pieces. We learn throughout the series that things are stronger where they are broken. In this case, we aren't given the chance to see that unfold. (Although the romantic optimist in me believes that the "new" Peter we see in the end of THE LONG WAY HOME is, in fact, a different man from the character we'd seen so far).

Clara is, in a way, Peter’s soul. He didn’t really see her. Or, when he did, he only saw what he lacked, what he needed, and how she could (and did) fill the empty places inside of him and save him (to an extent) from himself. While he did have redeeming moments (Earl Grey tea in Still Life and the night he held her in the aftermath of Jane’s death come to mind), he usually wasn’t aware enough of her feelings or altruistic enough to be truly there for her.

In contrast, Reine-Marie is the perfect example of a supporting spouse. She is as crucial to Gamache’s success as are the many spouses and friends and family of great men and women in history. I was recently reading a memoir/tribute by Rebecca Stead called My Life in Middlemarch. I was fascinated by her take on the men in George Eliot’s life:

“Though Spencer later claimed that he had early on encouraged Eliot to write fiction, she did not find her fictional voice until she was loved by someone who saw beyond her capacity for brittle cleverness – in whose company she did not feel the need to be on her emotional guard. Even so, her experience with Spencer informed her understanding. He was part of her education, as Dorothea was part of Lydgate’s education, and as all our loves, realized or otherwise – all our alternative plots – go to make us who we are, and become part of what we make.” (Rebecca Stead in MY LIFE IN MIDDLEMARCH)

Louise Penny herself has said (I’m relying on the internet here, although I’m hoping someday I’ll have the chance to hear her say so in person) the importance of Michael’s support in her writing career. I wonder if we’d have known Gamache-land if it weren’t for Michael, just as I wonder if we’d have a Virginia Woolf without Leonard. Or the Shelley's and their work interaction feeding off each other both for inspiration and for improvement of their craft. Or… it’s a long list to contemplate, there are numerous examples. There are also so many unknown and unsung heros in this arena. 

Neil Gaiman, for instance, in the acknowledgements for one of his books, thanked his wife for her presence throughout the writing process. I think it's one of the best parts of a great book.

"As this book entered its second draft, as I was typing out my handwritten first draft, I would read the day's work to my wife, Amanda, at night in bed, and I learned more about the words I'd written when reading them aloud to her than I ever have learned about anything I've done." (Neil Gaiman in THE OCEAN AT THE END OF THE LANE)

There are, of course, those who flourish and survive despite relationships that try–malignantly or not – to undermine them. Clara’s success is especially remarkable and is probably a testament to the network of friends and community that made up for Peter’s difficulties.

I think, when we read, we are allowed to wear someone else’s skin for a little bit. Or, as Marilynne Robinson put it: “to feel reality on a set of nerves somehow not quite [your] own." (WHEN I WAS A CHILD I READ BOOKS) I can identify, at times, with all the characters, but  Reine-Marie is special to me. I can easily slip into her skin. It feels as familiar as my own. Madame Gamache is frequently in the background and is her husband’s friend, his sounding board, his support, his home. She is the safe harbor he knows awaits him, and the person he connects to in order to recharge.

Reine-Marie and Gamache are a unit, but they know how to function separately. They have their own interests and occupations, but they share a rare bond. And she sees him. She understands him as few others do. He’s a wise man, a great man, a leader. It’s a lonely place to be. He’s also an only child and an orphan. That’s another source of loneliness. He is frequently surrounded by people that he likes, but cannot fully open up to because they are possible suspects or at least indirectly touched by a crime. That’s lonely, too.  And as the series goes on and his involvement in Suritê issues becomes increasingly complicated, he has less people he can trust and a growing number of people to protect. He becomes more and more isolated. She's still right there beside him. She knows how to love the man – not the job or the status or the trappings. But she also understands that those things are a large part of making him who he is.

In Middlemarch there’s a scene that breaks my heart. A young man, full of ambition, fully in love with his profession is told by his wife that she wishes he worked with something else. I think he spends the rest of his life aware that he is misunderstood and not quite appreciated by this woman who doesn’t know him, see him, or understand him enough to fully love him.

“It is the grandest profession in the world, Rosamond,” said Lydgate, gravely. “And to say that you love me without loving the medical man in me, is the same sort of thing as to say that you like eating a peach but don’t like its flavor. Don’t say that again, dear, it pains me.” (George Eliot in MIDDLEMARCH)

Reine-Marie loved the whole of Gamache. Even when it hurt her. Even when it hurt him. She was wise enough – and loved deeply enough – to know that sometimes love hurts and demands certain courage. Annie is just beginning to understand what that means.

“After spending most of her life scanning the horizon for slights and threats, genuine and imagined, she knew the real threat to her happiness came not from the dot in the distance, but from looking for it. Expecting it. Waiting for it. And in some cases, creating it.”

Reine-Marie knew it was in the moth’s nature. She knew that while Gamache had retired, he might never be mistaken for the retired university professor or journalist she’d fantasized he resembled just a few hours earlier. She knew, deep down, that a part of him would always be an investigator, his past was an integral part of who he was and he carried knowledge, memories, and scars that would forever be embedded in his identity. She knew that keeping the porch light on gave her a chance to be a part of the moth’s struggle and a part of its story and recovery.

“There were things I wanted to tell him, but I knew they would hurt him. So I buried them, and let them hurt me.” (Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close – Jonathan Safran Foer)

Unlike Peter with Clara and her art, Reine-Marie is both strong enough and wise enough to love Gamache . It's not easy and, in this book in particular, we are shown how it sometimes costs her to see Armand become increasingly committed to joining Clara's quest. But, ultimately, she is not only accepting of his involvement, but becomes involved herself. She is, as usual, his sounding board and his ear, but she also plays an active part in research. In an earlier scene, Clara quotes Gilead and tells Gamache she prays that Peter will learn to be brave and useful. He could take lessons from Madame Gamache.

 “I’ll pray that you grow up a brave man in a brave country. I will pray you find a way to be useful.” (Marilynne Robinson in GILEAD)

Most of us aren’t faced with spouses or friends who are as brilliant or outstanding in their fields as are Clara Morrow and Armand Gamache. Regardless, I believe that there are few things more romantic or more integral to long-lasting love and friendship than seeing and being seen. There is a special kind of magic involved in understanding the essence of another and encouraging (and sometimes nudging) them to be the truest version of themselves they can be. I’m talking about the kind of love that looks into the soul and applauds authenticity. 

I pray that we all nurture the Reine-Marie in us… and that the Peter Morrow that lives inside of us finds a way to be brave… and useful.

For there’s some would hear my words and think our love flawed and broken. But God will know the slow tread of an old couple’s love for each other, and understand how black shadows make part of its whole.” (Ishiguro Kazuo in THE BURIED GIANT)