'It's the blind house,' she said, as though that explained it. Peter didn't know what to say. Recently, for the last week, there hadn't been a lot to say to anyone.
Clara wondered whether she should explain about the stone and its symbolism with death. But the object might be an egg. Symbolic of life. Which was it? That was the glorious tension in the luminous work. Up until that morning the treehouse had been static, but all that talk of people being stuck had given Clara the idea of spinning the house, like a little planet, with its own gravity, its own reality. Like most homes, it contained life and death, inseparable. And the final allusion. Home as an allegory for self. A self-portrait of our choices. And our blind spots.
Peter didn't get it. Didn't try. He left Clara standing there with a work of art that, unbeknownst to either of them, would one day make her famous.
She watched him wander almost aimlessly into his studio and shut the door. One day she knew he'd leave his safe and sterile island and come back to this messy mainland. When he did she'd be waiting, her arms open, as always.
Now Clara sat in the living room and took a piece of paper from her pocket. It was addressed to the minister of St Thomas's church. She crossed out the first bit of writing. Below it she carefully printed something, then she put on her coat and walked up the hill to the white clapboard church, handed the paper to the minister and returned to the fresh air.
The Revd James Morris unfolded the slip of paper and read. It was instructions for the engraving on Jane Neal's headstone. On the top of the page was written, 'Matthew 10:36.' But that had been crossed out and something else had been printed underneath. He took out his Bible and looked up Matthew 10:36.'And a man's foes shall be they of his own household.' Below it was the new instruction. 'Surprised by Joy.'
At the top of the hill Armand Gamache stopped the car and got out. He looked down at the village and his heart soared. He looked over the rooftops and imagined the good, kind, flawed people inside struggling with their lives. People were walking their dogs, raking the relentless autumn leaves, racing the gently falling snow. They were shopping at M. Beliveau's general store and buying baguettes from Sarah's boulangerie. Olivier stood at the Bistro doorway and shook out a tablecloth. Life was far from harried here. But neither was it still.
LOUISE PENNY
LOUISE PENNY is an award-winning journalist who worked for many years for the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. She lives south of Montreal where she writes, skis, and volunteers. Still Life won the CWA New Blood Dagger Award for Best First Mystery and the Arthur Ellis Award, which is given to the Best First Novel in Canada, Visit her website at www.louisepenny.com.
