‘Don’t do it, Myrna Landers. You know the difference between ritual and revenge. And so does whatever’s in that house.’
‘You think this is about revenge?’ asked Myrna, dumbfounded.
‘Of course it is. Let it be. Let whatever’s in that house be.’
She jabbed her cane at it. Had it been a wand Myrna was certain a bolt would have shot from it and destroyed the brooding house on the hill. Then Ruth turned and limped home. To her eggs. To her life. And Myrna was left with the memory of Ruth’s keen blue eyes, her permanently sunburned skin, her tattered skirt with its missing buttons. She watched the old woman walk back to her home with its abundance of words and weeds.
The rain held off and Easter Sunday moved along quick like a bunny. Timmy Benson found the most eggs and was awarded the giant chocolate rabbit, filled with toys. Paulette Legault stole it from him but Monsieur Béliveau made her give it back and apologize. Timmy, who could see into the future, opened the box, broke off the solid chocolate ears and gave the rest to Paulette, who punched him.
That night Peter and Clara held their annual Easter Sunday dinner. Gilles and Odile arrived with baguettes and cheese. Myrna brought a flamboyant bouquet which she placed in the center of the pine table in the kitchen. Jeanne Chauvet, the psychic, brought a small bouquet of wild flowers, picked in the meadows around Three Pines.
Sophie Smyth was there with her mother Hazel and Madeleine. She’d arrived home the day before, her small blue car filled with laundry. Now she chatted with the other guests while Hazel and Madeleine offered around their platter of shrimp.
‘So you’re the psychic.’ Sophie took a few shrimp from her mother and dipped them in sauce.
‘My name’s Jeanne.’
‘Like Jeanne D’Arc.’ Sophie laughed. ‘Joan of Arc.’ It wasn’t an altogether pleasant sound. ‘Better watch it. You know what happened to her.’
Tall and slender, Sophie carried herself well, though with a slight slouch. Her hair was dirty blonde and shoulder length. She was, in fact, quite attractive. Still, there was something about Sophie. Something that made Jeanne back away slightly.
Monsieur Béliveau arrived just then with blueberry tarts from Sarah’s Boulangerie.
Candles were lit around the country kitchen and bottles of wine were opened.
The house smelled of lamb roasting in garlic and rosemary, of new potatoes, and creamed leeks and something else.
‘For God’s sake, canned peas?’ Clara looked in the pot Gabri and Olivier had brought.
‘We took them out of the can,’ said Olivier. ‘What’s your problem?’
‘Look at them. They’re disgusting.’
‘I would take that as a personal insult, if I were you,’ Gabri said to Monsieur Béliveau, who’d wandered over carrying a glass of wine and a piece of creamy Brie on a baguette. ‘We got them at his shop.’
‘Madame,’ the grocer said somberly. ‘Those are the finest canned peas money can buy. Le Sieur. In fact, I believe that is how they grow, right in the can. It is only the military-industrial complex that has developed the ridiculous hybrid. Peas in a pod. As though anyone would believe that. Disgusting.’ Monsieur Béliveau said this with such sincerity Clara would almost have believed him, if it hadn’t been for the sparkle in his eye.
Soon their plates were piled high with roasted lamb, mint sauce, and vegetables. Fresh-baked rolls steamed in baskets scattered down the table, along with butter and cheeses. The table groaned under the happy weight, as did the guests. Myrna’s massive bouquet sat in the center of the table, its arms of budding branches reaching for the ceiling. Apple boughs, pussy willows, forsythia with the gentlest of yellow blooms just showing, peony tulips of vibrant pink, were planted in the earth.
‘And,’ said Myrna, waving her napkin like a magician, ‘voilà.’ She reached into the bouquet and produced a chocolate egg. ‘Enough for all of us.’
‘Rebirth,’ said Clara.
‘But there needs to be a death first,’ said Sophie, looking around with feigned innocence. ‘Doesn’t there?’
She sat between Madeleine and Monsieur Béliveau, taking the chair just as the grocer had reached for it. Sophie picked up the chocolate egg then placed it in front of her.
‘Birth, death, rebirth,’ she said wisely, as though she’d brought them a new thought, all the way from Queens University.
There was something mesmerizing about Sophie Smyth, thought Clara. Always had been. Sophie would come home from university sometimes blonde, sometimes a brilliant redhead, sometimes plump, sometimes slim, sometimes pierced, sometimes without ornamentation. You never knew what you’d find. But one thing seemed constant, thought Clara, watching the girl with the egg in front of her. She always got what she wanted. But what does she want? Clara wondered, and knew it was probably more than an Easter egg.
An hour later Peter, Ruth and Olivier watched their friends and lovers plod into the night, invisible except for their flashlights, each person a bobbing torch. At first they clumped together but as Peter watched the little orbs of light separated, became strung out, each person alone, trudging toward the dark house on the hill that seemed to be waiting for them.
Don’t be such a wuss, he told himself. It’s just a stupid house. What could possibly happen?
But Peter Morrow knew famous last words when he heard them.
Clara hadn’t felt like this since she was a kid and would deliberately scare herself stupid by watching The Exorcist or going on the gargantuan roller coaster at La Ronde, slobbering and shrieking and once even wetting herself.
It was exhilarating and terrifying and mystifying at the same time. As the house got closer Clara had the oddest feeling it was approaching them rather than the other way round. She couldn’t quite remember why they were doing this.
She heard shuffling behind her and voices. Fortunately she remembered Madeleine and Odile were back there, the stragglers. Clara was also happy to remember in horror films it was always the stragglers who got it first. But, if they got it, she’d be the last. She speeded up. Then slowed down, battling between wanting to survive and wanting to hear what the two women were saying to each other. After what she’d overheard while hiding Easter eggs she’d assumed Odile didn’t like Mad. So what could they be talking about?
‘But it’s not fair,’ Odile was saying. Madeleine said something though Clara couldn’t make it out and if she slowed down more she’d have Madeleine’s flashlight where light doesn’t normally shine.
‘It’s taken a lot of courage for me to do this.’ Odile was speaking more loudly now.
‘For God’s sake, Odile, don’t be ridiculous,’ said Madeleine, clearly and not very kindly. It was a side to Madeleine Clara had never heard before.
Clara was paying so much attention trying to eavesdrop she bumped right into a dark figure in front of her. Gilles. Then she looked up.
They were there.
EIGHT
They huddled together in the cold and dark. Their flashlights bounced wildly over the decrepit house. The ‘For Sale’ sign had fallen over and lay like a tombstone, nose into the soft earth. As Clara swung her torch around more decay became apparent. The house was abandoned, she knew, but she didn’t think houses fell to ruin quite this fast. A few shutters were hanging loose and knocking gently against the brick. Some of the windows were broken, their glass jagged like sharpened teeth. Clara spotted something white curled up by the foundation of the house and her heart skipped a beat. Something dead, and skinned.
Reluctantly she moved down the front walk, its paving stones heaved and uneven. As she got closer she stopped and looked behind her. The rest were clustered at the roadside still.
‘Come here,’ she hissed.