On their way into the garden Myrna had glanced into Clara’s studio and seen her latest work on the easel. A ghostly face was just appearing, or disappearing, into the canvas.
Myrna was astonished by her friend’s portraits. On the surface they were simple representations of the person. Nice. Recognizable. Conventional. But … but if she stood in front of the work long enough, if she let her own conceptions drift away, let her defenses down, let go of all judgment, then another portrait appeared.
Clara Morrow didn’t actually paint faces, she painted emotions, feelings, hidden, disguised, locked and guarded behind a pleasant façade.
The works took Myrna’s breath away. But this was the first time a portrait had actually frightened her.
“It’s Peter,” Myrna said as they sat in the cool night air.
She knew that both this conversation, and that eerie portrait, were about Peter Morrow. Clara’s husband.
Clara nodded. “He didn’t come home.”
* * *
“So?” said Jean-Guy. “What’s the problem? Clara and Peter are separated, aren’t they?”
“Yes, a year ago,” Gamache agreed. “Clara asked him to leave.”
“I remember. Then why would she expect him home?”
“They made a promise to each other. No contact for a year, but on the first anniversary of his leaving, Peter would come back and they’d see where they were.”
Beauvoir leaned back in the armchair and crossed his legs, unconsciously mirroring the man facing him.
He thought about what Gamache had just said. “But Peter didn’t come back.”
* * *
“I waited.”
Clara held her mug, no longer hot but warm enough to be comforting. The evening was cool and still and she could smell the chamomile rising from her tea. And while Clara couldn’t see Myrna beside her, she could sense her. And smell the warm mint.
And Myrna had the sense to be silent.
“The anniversary was actually a few weeks ago,” said Clara. “I bought a bottle of wine and two steaks from Monsieur Béliveau, and made that orange, arugula, and goat cheese salad Peter likes. I lit the charcoals in the barbeque. And waited.”
She didn’t mention that she’d also bought croissants from Sarah’s boulangerie, for the next morning. In case.
She felt such a fool, now. She’d imagined him arriving, seeing her and taking her in his arms. Actually, in her more melodramatic moments, she saw him bursting into tears and begging her forgiveness for being such a shit.
She, of course, would be cool and contained. Cordial, but no more.
But the truth was, Clara always felt like a Beatrix Potter creation in Peter’s familiar embrace. Mrs. Tiggy-winkle, in her funny little home. She’d found shelter in his arms. That was where she belonged.
But that life had proven a fairy tale, an illusion. Still, in a moment of weakness, delusion, or hope, she’d bought those croissants. In case dinner became breakfast. In case nothing had changed. Or everything had changed. Or Peter had changed, and was no longer such a merde.
She’d imagined them sitting in these very chairs, resting their coffee mugs in the rings. Eating the flaky croissants. Talking quietly. As though nothing had happened.
But a lot had happened in that year, to Clara. To the village. To their friends.
But what preoccupied her now was what had happened to Peter. The question occupied her head, then took over her heart, and now it held her completely hostage.
“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” asked Myrna. The question, Clara knew, wasn’t a criticism. There was no reproach or judgment. Myrna simply wanted to understand.
“At first I thought I might have had the date wrong. Then I got mad and thought, Fuck him. That was good for a couple of weeks. Then…”
She lifted her hands, as though in surrender.
Myrna waited, sipping her tea. She knew her friend. Clara might pause, might hesitate, might stumble. But she never surrendered.
“Then I got scared.”
“Of what?” Myrna’s voice was calm.
“I don’t know.”
“You know.”
There was a long pause. “I was afraid,” said Clara at last, “that he was dead.”
And still Myrna waited. And waited. And rested her mug in the circles. And waited.
“And,” said Clara, “I was afraid he wasn’t. That he hadn’t come home because he didn’t want to.”
* * *
“Salut,” said Annie as her husband joined them on the porch. She patted the seat next to her on the swing.
“Can’t right now,” said Jean-Guy. “But save my place. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“I’ll be in bed by then.”