Louise Penny

Joy doesn't ever leave, you know. It's always with you. And one day you'll find it again.

People wandered in for books and conversation. They brought their stories to her, some bound, and some known by heart. She recognized some of the stories as real, and some as fiction. But she honored them all, though she didn't buy every one.

Who hurt you, once, so far beyond repairthat you would meet each overturewith curling lip?While we, who knew you well, your friends, (the focus of your scorn)could see your courage in the face of fear,your wit, and thoughtfulness, and will remember you with something close to love.

Where there is love there is courage,where there is courage there is peace,where there is peace there is God.And when you have God, you have everything.

He had his treasure, but finally all he wanted was his family. And peace.

Three Pines wasn__ on any tourist map, being too far off any main or even secondary road. Like Narnia, it was generally found unexpectedly and with a degree of surprise that such an elderly village should have been hiding in this valley all along. Anyone fortunate enough to find it once usually found their way back.

When someone stabs you it's not your fault that you feel pain.

A lot of what we know to be history isn___it serves a purpose. Events are exaggerated, heroes fabricated, goals are rewritten to appear more noble than they actually were. All to manipulate public opinion, to manufacture a common purpose or enemy. And the cornerstone of a really great movement? A powerful symbol. Take away or tarnish that and everything starts to crumble, everything__ questioned.

You know for sure Jane would be annoyed she gave you all her money and you__e not even enjoying it. Should have given it to me._ Myrna had shaken her head in mock bewilderment. ____ have known what to do with it. Boom, down to Jamaica, a nice Rasta man, a good book____ait a minute. You have a Rasta man and you__e reading a book?___h, yes. Each has a purpose. For instance, a Rasta man is great when he__ hard, but not a book.__lara had laughed. They shared a disdain for hard books. Not the content, but the cover. Hardcovers were simply too hard to hold, especially in bed.__nlike a Rasta man,_ said Myrna.

She put her hands together and Saul hoped she wasn__ about to say___amaste,_ said CC, bowing. __e taught me that. Very spiritual.__he said __piritual_ so often it had become meaningless to Saul.__e said, CC Das, you have a great spiritual gift. You must leave this place and share it with the world. You must tell people to be calm.__s she spoke Saul mouthed the words, lip-synching to the familiar tune.__C Das, he said, you above all others know that when the chakras are in alignment all is white. And when all is white, all is right.__aul wondered whether she was confusing an Indian mystic with a KKK member. Ironic, really, if she was.

She strong-armed the swinging door and walked through. Straight into an acid flashback.Clara__ first reaction was to laugh. She stood stunned for a moment then started to laugh. And laugh. And laugh until she thought she__ piddle. Peter was soon infected and began laughing. And Gamache, who up until this moment had only seen a travesty, smiled, then chuckled, then laughed and within moments was laughing so hard he had to wipe away tears.__oly horrible taste, Batman,_ said Clara to Peter who doubled over, laughing some more.__olid, man, solid,_ he gasped and managed to raise a peace sign before having to put both hands on his knees to support his heaving body.

Bang. You__e dead.__amache swung around, but had recognised the voice an instant after he__ begun to turn.__ou__e a sneak, Jean Guy. I__ going to have to put a cow bell on you.___ot again._ It wasn__ often he could get the drop on the chief. But Beauvoir had begun to worry. Suppose he snuck up on Gamache sometime and he had a heart attack? It would certainly take the fun out of it.

Why did he kill his own mother?_ Ruth asked.__he oldest story in the book,_ said Gamache.__en was a male prostitute?_ Gabri exclaimed.__hat__ the oldest profession. Where do you keep your head?_ asked Ruth. __ever mind, don__ answer that.

Nice hair._ Olivier turned to Clara, hoping to break the tension.__hank you._ Clara ran her hands through it, making it stand on end as though she__ just had a scare.__ou__e right._ Olivier turned to Myrna. __he looks like a frightened doughboy from the trenches of Vimy. Not many people could carry off that look. Very bold, very new millennium. I salute you.__lara narrowed her eyes and glared at Myrna whose smile went from ear to ear.

Eventually he'd let the answering machine take over and had hidden in his studio. Where he's hidden all his life. From the monster. He could feel itin their bedroom now. He could feel its tail swishing by him. Feel its hot, fetid breath.All his life he knew if he was quiet enough, small enough, it wouldnn't see him. If he didn't make a fuss, didn't speak up, it wouldn't hear him, wouldn't hurt him. If he was beyond criticism and hid his cruelty with a smile and good deeds, it wouldn't devour him. By now he realized there was no hiding. It would always be there, and always find him. He was the monster.

Myrna could spend happy hours browsing bookcases. She felt if she could just get a good look at a person__ bookcase and their grocery cart, she__ pretty much know who they were.

Let every man shovel out his own snow, and the whole city will be passable," said Gamache. Seeing Beauvoir's puzzled expression he added, "Emerson.""Lake and Palmer?""Ralph and Waldo.

Clara shrugged and immediately knew her betrayal of Peter. In one easy movement she'd distanced herself from his bad behavior, even thought she herself was responsible for it. Just before everyone had arrived, she'd told Peter about her adventure with Gamache. Animated and excited she'd gabbled on about her box and the woods and the exhilarating climb up the ladder to the blind. But her wall of words hid from her a growing quietude. She failed to notice his silence, his distance, until it was too late and he'd retreated all the way to his icy island. She hated that place. From it he stood and stared, judged, and lobbed shards of sarcasm.'You and your hero solve Jane's death?''I thought you'd be pleased,' she half lied. She actually hadn't thought at all, and if she had, she probably could have predicted his reaction. But since he was comfortably on his Inuk island, she'd retreat to hers, equipped with righteous indignation and warmed by moral certitude. She threw great logs of 'I'm right, you're an unfeeling bastard' onto the fire and felt secure and comforted.