Mid to late twenties, not fat, but not thin either. Not pretty, but not dirt ugly either. Not tall, but not short either.
She would appear to be completely average, completely unremarkable. Except for one thing.
The young woman radiated well-being.
As Ruth watched an older woman approached the group and put an arm around the younger woman’s waist and kissed her.
Reine-Marie Gamache. Ruth had met her a few times.
Now the wizened old poet looked at Beauvoir with heightened interest.
Peter Morrow was chatting up a few gallery owners. Minor figures in the art world but best to keep them happy.
He knew André Castonguay, of the Galerie Castonguay, was there and Peter was dying to meet him. He’d also noticed the critics for the New York Times and Le Figaro. He glanced across the room and saw a photographer taking Clara’s picture.
She looked away for a moment and caught his eye, shrugging. He lifted his wine in salute, and smiled.
Should he go over and introduce himself to Castonguay? But there was such a crowd around him, Peter didn’t want to look pathetic. Hovering. Better to stay away, as though he didn’t care, didn’t need André Castonguay.
Peter brought his attention back to the owner of a small gallery, who was explaining they’d love to do a show for Peter, but were all booked.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the rings around Castonguay part, and make way for Clara.
“You asked how I feel when I see this painting,” said Armand Gamache. The two men were looking at the portrait. “I feel calm. Comforted.”
François Marois looked at him with amazement.
“Comforted? But how? Happy maybe that you aren’t so angry yourself? Does her own immense rage make yours more acceptable? What does Madame Morrow call this painting?” Marois removed his glasses and leaned into the description stenciled on the wall.
Then he stepped back, his face more perplexed than ever.
“It’s called Still Life. I wonder why.”
As the art dealer concentrated on the portrait Gamache noticed Olivier across the room. Staring at him. The Chief Inspector smiled a greeting and wasn’t surprised when Olivier turned away.
He at least had his answer.
Beside him Marois exhaled. “I see.”
Gamache turned back to the art dealer. Marois was no longer surprised. His veneer of civility and sophistication had slipped, and a genuine smile broke through.
“It’s in her eyes, isn’t it.”
Gamache nodded.
Then Marois cocked his head to one side, looking not at the portrait but into the crowd. Puzzled. He looked back to the painting, then again into the crowd.
Gamache followed his gaze, and wasn’t surprised to see it resting on the elderly woman speaking with Jean Guy Beauvoir.
Ruth Zardo.
Beauvoir was looking vexed, annoyed, as one so often does around Ruth. But Ruth herself was looking quite pleased.
“It’s her, isn’t it?” asked Marois, his voice excited and low as though not wanting to let anyone else in on their secret.
Gamache nodded. “A neighbor of Clara’s in Three Pines.”
Marois watched Ruth, fascinated. It was as though the painting had come alive. Then he and Gamache both turned back to the portrait.
Clara had painted her as the forgotten and belligerent Virgin Mary. Worn down by age and rage, by resentments real and manufactured. By friendships soured. By entitlements denied and love withheld. But there was something else. A vague suggestion in those weary eyes. Not even seen really. More a promise. A rumor in the distance.
Amid all the brush strokes, all the elements, all the color and nuance in the portrait, it came down to one tiny detail. A single white dot.
In her eyes.
Clara Morrow had painted the moment despair became hope.
François Marois stepped back half a pace and nodded gravely.
“It’s remarkable. Beautiful.” He turned to Gamache then. “Unless, of course, it’s a ruse.”
“What do you mean?” asked Gamache.
“Maybe it isn’t hope at all,” said Marois, “but merely a trick of the light.”
THREE
The next morning Clara rose early. Putting on rubber boots and a sweater over her pajamas, she poured herself a coffee and sat in one of the Adirondack chairs in their back garden.
The caterers had cleaned up and there was no evidence of the huge barbeque and dance the night before.
She closed her eyes and could feel the young June sun on her upturned face and could hear birdcalls and the Rivière Bella Bella gurgling past at the end of the garden. Below that was the thrum of bumblebees climbing in and over and around the peonies. Getting lost.
Bumbling around.
It looked comical, ridiculous. But then so much did, unless you knew.
Clara Morrow held the warm mug in her hands and smelt coffee, and the fresh-mown grass. The lilacs and peonies and young, fragrant roses.
This was the village that had lived beneath the covers when Clara was a child. That was built behind the thin wooden door to her bedroom, where outside her parents argued. Her brothers ignored her. The phone rang, but not for her. Where eyes slid over and past her and through her. To someone else. Someone prettier. More interesting. Where people butted in as though she was invisible, and interrupted her as though she hadn’t just spoken.
But when as a child she closed her eyes and pulled the sheets over her head, Clara saw the pretty little village in the valley. With the forests and flowers and kindly people.
Where bumbling was a virtue.
As far back as she could remember Clara wanted only one thing, even more than she’d wanted the solo show. It wasn’t riches, it wasn’t power, it wasn’t even love.
Clara Morrow wanted to belong. And now, at almost fifty, she did.
Was the show a mistake? In accepting it had she separated herself from the rest?
As she sat, scenes from the night before came to mind. Her friends, other artists, Olivier catching her eye and nodding reassuringly. The excitement at meeting André Castonguay and others. The curator’s happy face. The barbeque back in the village. The food and drink and fireworks. The live band and dancing. The laughter.
The relief.
But now, in the clear light of day, the anxiety had returned. Not the storm it had been at its worst, but a light mist that muted the sunshine.
And Clara knew why.
Peter and Olivier had gone to get the newspapers. To bring back the words she’d waited a lifetime to read. The reviews. The words of the critics.
Brilliant. Visionary. Masterful.
Dull. Derivative. Predictable.
Which would it be?
Clara sat, and sipped, and tried not to care. Tried not to notice the shadows lengthening, creeping toward her as the minutes passed.
A car door slammed and Clara spasmed in her chair, surprised out of her reverie.
“We’re hoo-ome,” Peter sang.
She heard footsteps coming around the side of their cottage. She got up and turned to greet Peter and Olivier. But instead of the two men walking toward her, they were standing still. As though turned into large garden gnomes.
And instead of looking at her, they were staring into a bed of flowers.
“What is it?” Clara asked, walking toward them, picking up speed as their expressions registered. “What’s wrong?”
Peter turned and dropping the papers on the grass he stopped her from going further.
“Call the police,” said Olivier. He inched forward, toward a perennial bed planted with peonies and bleeding hearts and poppies.