And in the store she’d looked just great, smiling at the smiling saleswoman in the mirror and telling her all about the upcoming solo show. She told everyone about it. Cab drivers, waiters, the kid sitting next to her on the bus, plugged into his iPod and deaf. Clara hadn’t cared. She’d told him anyway.
And now the day had finally arrived.
That morning, sitting in her garden in Three Pines, she’d dared to think this would be different. She’d imagined walking through those two huge, frosted glass doors at the end of the corridor to wild applause. Looking fabulous in her new suit. The art community would be dazzled. Critics and curators would rush over, anxious to spend a moment with her. Falling all over themselves to congratulate her. To find just the right words, les mots justes, to describe her paintings.
Formidable. Brilliant. Luminous. Genius.
Masterpieces, each and every one.
In her quiet garden that morning Clara had closed her eyes and tilted her face to the young sun, and smiled.
The dream come true.
Perfect strangers would hang on her every word. Some might even take notes. Ask advice. They’d listen, rapt, as she talked about her vision, her philosophy, her insights into the art world. Where it was going, where it had been.
She’d be adored and respected. Smart and beautiful. Elegant women would ask where she’d bought her outfit. She would start a movement. A trend.
Instead, she felt like a messy bride at a wedding gone bad. Where the guests ignored her, concentrating instead on the food and drink. Where no one wanted to catch her bouquet or walk her down the aisle. Or dance with her. And she looked like a Maoist accountant.
She scratched her hip, and smoothed pâté into her hair. Then looked at her watch.
Dear God, another hour to go.
Oh, no no no, thought Clara. Now she was simply trying to survive. To keep her head above water. To not faint, or throw up, or pee. To remain conscious and continent was her new goal.
“At least you’re not on fire.”
“I’m sorry?” Clara turned to the very large black woman in the bright green caftan standing beside her. It was her friend and neighbor, Myrna Landers. A retired psychologist from Montréal, she now owned the new and used bookstore in Three Pines.
“Right now,” said Myrna. “You’re not on fire.”
“Very true. And perceptive. Nor am I flying. There’s quite a long list of things I’m not.”
“And a long list,” laughed Myrna, “of things you are.”
“Are you going to be rude now?” asked Clara.
Myrna paused and considered Clara for a moment. Almost every day Clara came across to Myrna’s bookstore to have a cup of tea and talk. Or Myrna would join Peter and Clara for dinner.
But today was like no other. No other day in Clara’s life had ever been like this, and it was possible none would ever be again. Myrna knew Clara’s fears, her failures, her disappointments. As Clara knew hers.
And they knew each other’s dreams too.
“I know this is difficult for you,” said Myrna. She stood right in front of Clara, her bulk blotting out the room, so that what had been a crowd scene was suddenly very intimate. Her body was a perfect green orb, blocking out the sights and sounds. They were in their own world.
“I wanted it to be perfect,” said Clara in a whisper, hoping she wasn’t about to cry. Where other little girls fantasized about their wedding day, Clara had dreamed of a solo art show. At the Musée. Here. She just hadn’t seen it in quite this way.
“And who gets to decide? What would make it perfect?”
Clara thought about that for a moment. “If I wasn’t so afraid.”
“And what’s the worst thing that can happen?” asked Myrna quietly.
“They’ll hate my art, decide I’m talentless, ridiculous. Laughable. That a terrible mistake was made. The show’ll be a failure and I’ll be a laughingstock.”
“Exactly,” said Myrna, with a smile. “All survivable. And then what’ll you do?”
Clara thought for a moment. “I’ll get into the car with Peter and drive back to Three Pines.”
“And?”
“Have the party there, with friends tonight.”
“And?”
“I’ll get up tomorrow morning…” Clara’s voice petered out as she saw her life post-apocalypse. She’d wake up tomorrow to her quiet life in the tiny village. A return to a life of walking the dog, and drinks on the terrasse, of café au lait and croissants in front of the fireplace at the bistro. Of intimate dinners with friends. Of sitting in her garden. Reading, thinking.
Painting.
Nothing that happened here would ever change that.
“At least I’m not on fire,” she said, and grinned.
Myrna took both of Clara’s hands in hers and held them for a moment. “Most people would kill for this day. Don’t let it go by without enjoying it. Your works are masterpieces, Clara.”
Clara squeezed her friend’s hand. All those years, those months, those quiet days when no one else noticed or cared what Clara did in her studio, Myrna had been there. And into that silence she’d whispered.
“Your works are masterpieces.”
And Clara had dared to believe her. And dared to keep moving forward. Urged on by her dreams, and that gentle, reassuring voice.
Myrna stepped aside then, revealing a whole new room. One filled with people, not threats. People having fun, enjoying themselves. There to celebrate Clara Morrow’s first solo show at the Musée.
“Merde,” shouted a man into the ear of the woman beside him, trying to raise his voice above the din of conversation. “This stuff is shit. Can you believe Clara Morrow got a solo show?”
The woman beside him shook her head and grimaced. She wore a flowing skirt and a tight T-shirt with scarves wrapped around her neck and shoulders. Her earrings were hoops and each of her fingers held rings.
In another place and time she’d have been considered a gypsy. Here she was recognized for what she was. A mildly successful artist.
Beside her her husband, also an artist and dressed in cords and a worn jacket with a rakish scarf at the neck, turned back to the painting.
“Dreadful.”
“Poor Clara,” agreed his wife. “The critics’ll savage her.”
Jean Guy Beauvoir, who was standing beside the two artists, his back to the painting, turned to glance at it.
On the wall among a cluster of portraits was the largest piece. Three women, all very old, stood together in a group, laughing.
They looked at each other, and touched each other, holding each other’s hands, or gripping an arm, tipping their heads together. Whatever had made them laugh, it was to each other they turned. As they equally would if something terrible had happened. As they naturally would whatever happened.
More than friendship, more than joy, more than even love this painting ached of intimacy.
Jean Guy quickly turned his back on it. Unable to look. He scanned the room until he found her again.
“Look at them,” the man was saying, dissecting the portrait. “Not very attractive.”
Annie Gamache was across the crowded gallery, standing next to her husband, David. They were listening to an older man. David looked distracted, disinterested. But Annie’s eyes were bright. Taking it in. Fascinated.
Beauvoir felt a flash of jealousy, wanting her to look at him that way.
Here, Beauvoir’s mind commanded. Look over here.
“And they’re laughing,” said the man behind Beauvoir, looking disapprovingly at Clara’s portrait of the three old women. “Not much nuance in that. Might as well paint clowns.”