‘How did he feel?’
‘Really, Julia, this is an inappropriate conversation.’ Her mother turned her pink face to her. It was said with the tender smile, the slight flutter of those hands. How long had it been since she’d felt her mother’s hands?
‘I’m sorry,’ said Julia.
‘Jump, Bean, jump!’
Clara turned and watched as Peter’s youngest sister leapt across the manicured lawn, feet barely touching the ground, and behind her ran Bean, beach towel tied at the neck, laughing. But not jumping. Good ol’ Bean, thought Clara.
‘Whew,’ puffed Mariana, stepping onto the terrasse moments later, sweat pouring off her as though she’d run through a sprinkler. She took a corner of a scarf and wiped her eyes. ‘Did Bean jump?’ she asked the family. Only Thomas reacted, with a dismissive smirk.
Clara’s bra itched in the heat and humidity. She reached down and tugged it. Too late, she looked over. Peter’s mother was again watching, as though equipped with a special radar.
‘How’s your art?’
The question took Clara by surprise. She’d assumed it to be directed at Peter, and had occupied herself by trying to pick off the tomato seeds now baked to her breasts.
‘Me?’ She looked up into Julia’s face. The sister she knew the least. But she’d heard the stories from Peter and was quick to put up her guard. ‘Oh, you know. Always a struggle.’
It was the easy answer, the one they expected. Clara the failure, who called herself an artist but never sold. Who did ridiculous works like mannequins with bouffant hair and melting trees.
‘I remember hearing about your last show. Quite a statement.’
Clara sat up straighter. She knew many people managed to ask the first, polite question. But it was the rare person who asked a second.
Perhaps Julia was sincere.
‘Warrior Uteruses, wasn’t it?’ asked Julia. Clara searched her face for ridicule but found none.
Clara nodded. True, by economic measurements the series couldn’t be considered a success, but emotionally it had been a triumph. She’d considered giving a Warrior Uterus to Peter’s mother as a Christmas gift, but decided that might be a step too far.
‘Didn’t we tell you?’ Peter walked over, smiling. Never a good sign at a family reunion. The more devious they got the more they smiled. Clara tried to catch his eye.
‘Tell us what?’ Sandra asked, sensing something unpleasant approaching.
‘About Clara’s art.’
‘I’d like another beer,’ said Clara. No one paid any attention.
‘What about it?’ asked Thomas.
‘Nothing,’ said Clara. ‘Just lots of crap. You know me. Always experimenting.’
‘She’s been approached by a gallery.’
‘Peter,’ Clara snapped. ‘I don’t think we need to talk about it.’
‘But I’m sure they’d like to hear,’ said Peter. He took his hand out of his slacks pocket and it turned inside out, marring his otherwise perfect appearance.
‘Clara’s modest. The Galerie Fortin in Montreal wants to do a one-woman show. Denis Fortin himself came to Three Pines to see her work.’
Silence.
Clara’s nails dug into her palms. A deerfly found the tender pale skin behind her ear, and bit.
‘Marvellous,’ said Peter’s mother to Clara. ‘I’m absolutely delighted.’
Clara, surprised, turned to her mother-in-law. She could barely believe her ears. Had she been too harsh all this time? Judged Peter’s mother unfairly?
‘So often they’re too thick.’
Clara’s smile faltered. Too thick?
‘And not made with real mayonnaise. But Chef Veronique has outdone herself again. Have you tried the cucumber sandwiches, Claire? They’re really very good.’
‘They are good,’ agreed Clara with maniacal enthusiasm.
‘Congratulations, Clara. What good news.’ The voice was masculine, jovial and vaguely familiar. ‘Felicitations.‘
Across the lawn a powerfully built middle-aged man in a funny hat took easy strides towards them. Beside him was a small, elegant woman wearing the same floppy sun hat.
‘Reine-Marie?’ Clara peered, hardly believing her eyes. ‘Peter, is that Reine-Marie?’
Peter was staring almost slack-jawed as the couple hurried up the steps.
‘Oh, Clara, what wonderful news,’ said Reine-Marie, taking her friend in her arms. Clara smelled Joy, the fragrance by Jean Patou, and felt the same way. It was like being saved from torture at the last moment. She pulled back from the embrace and stared at Reine-Marie Gamache, to make certain. Sure enough, the smiling woman was there. Clara could still feel the glares behind her, but it didn’t matter as much. Not now.
Then Armand kissed her on both cheeks and squeezed her arm affectionately. ‘We’re thrilled for you. And Denis Fortin.’ He looked into the fieldstone faces on the terrasse. ‘He’s the top art dealer in Montreal, as you probably know. A real coup.’
‘Really?’ Peter’s mother managed to sound both dismissive and disapproving. As though Clara’s coup was unseemly. And certainly this display of emotion, of elation, was unseemly. This was a rude interruption of a private family affair. And, perhaps worst of all, unmistakable evidence that Peter socialized with the people from the broom closet. It was one thing to play bridge when stuck in a remote lodge with them. That was simply being well bred. But it was quite another thing to choose their company.
Gamache walked over to Peter and shook his hand. ‘Hello, old son.’
Gamache was smiling and Peter stared as though at something extraordinary.
‘Armand? But how in the world did you come to be here?’
‘Well, it is an inn after all.’ Gamache laughed. ‘We’re here celebrating our anniversary.’
‘Oh, thank God,’ said Clara and stepped towards Reine-Marie. Peter also made to move towards them but the clearing of a small throat behind him stopped his progress.
‘Perhaps we can talk later,’ suggested Reine-Marie. ‘You need time with your charming family.’ She gave Clara another quick hug. Clara was reluctant to let go, but did, and watched as the Gamaches strolled across the lawn towards the lake. She felt a trickle down her neck. Reaching up to wipe the sweat away she was surprised to see blood on her fingers.
SIX
Finally, after a luncheon that lasted a thousand years, Clara was able to get away, and the first thing she wanted to do was go on the hunt for the Gamaches.
‘I think Mother would prefer us to stay here.’ Peter hovered on the stone terrasse.
‘Come on.’ She gave him a conspiratorial look and held out her hand. ‘Be daring.’
‘But it’s a family reunion.’ Peter longed to go with her. To take her hand and race across the perfect lawn, and find their friends. Over lunch, while the rest of the family either ate in silence or discussed the stock market, Peter and Clara had whispered urgently and excitedly about the Gamaches.
‘You should’ve seen your face,’ said Peter, trying to keep his voice down. ‘You looked like Dorothy meeting the Great and Powerful Oz. All stunned and excited.’
‘I think you’re spending way too much time with Olivier and Gabri,’ said Clara, smiling. She’d never actually smiled at a family reunion before. It felt odd. ‘Besides, you looked like the Tin Man, all stunned. Can you believe the Gamaches are here? Can we sneak away and spend some time with them this afternoon?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Peter, hiding behind a warm bun. The prospect of killing a few hours with their friends instead of enduring the family was a great relief.
Clara had looked at her watch. Two p.m. Twenty more hours. If she went to bed at eleven and woke up at nine tomorrow morning that would leave just - she tried to work it out in her head - eleven more waking hours with Peter’s family. She could just about make it. And two hours with the Gamaches, that left just nine hours. Dear Lord, she could almost see the end coming. Then they could return to their little village of Three Pines, until another invitation arrived, next year.