A Trick of the Light Read Online Free PDF Page A

survivable. And then what’ll you do?”
    Clara thought for a moment. “I’ll get into the car with Peter and drive back to Three Pines.”
    “And?”
    “Have the party there, with friends tonight.”
    “And?”
    “I’ll get up tomorrow morning…” Clara’s voice petered out as she saw her life post-apocalypse. She’d wake up tomorrow to her quiet life in the tiny village. A return to a life of walking the dog, and drinks on the terrasse, of café au lait and croissants in front of the fireplace at the bistro. Of intimate dinners with friends. Of sitting in her garden. Reading, thinking.
    Painting.
    Nothing that happened here would ever change that.
    “At least I’m not on fire,” she said, and grinned.
    Myrna took both of Clara’s hands in hers and held them for a moment. “Most people would kill for this day. Don’t let it go by without enjoying it. Your works are masterpieces, Clara.”
    Clara squeezed her friend’s hand. All those years, those months, those quiet days when no one else noticed or cared what Clara did in her studio, Myrna had been there. And into that silence she’d whispered.
    “Your works are masterpieces.”
    And Clara had dared to believe her. And dared to keep moving forward. Urged on by her dreams, and that gentle, reassuring voice.
    Myrna stepped aside then, revealing a whole new room. One filled with people, not threats. People having fun, enjoying themselves. There to celebrate Clara Morrow’s first solo show at the Musée.
    *   *   *
    “Merde,” shouted a man into the ear of the woman beside him, trying to raise his voice above the din of conversation. “This stuff is shit. Can you believe Clara Morrow got a solo show?”
    The woman beside him shook her head and grimaced. She wore a flowing skirt and a tight T-shirt with scarves wrapped around her neck and shoulders. Her earrings were hoops and each of her fingers held rings.
    In another place and time she’d have been considered a gypsy. Here she was recognized for what she was. A mildly successful artist.
    Beside her her husband, also an artist and dressed in cords and a worn jacket with a rakish scarf at the neck, turned back to the painting.
    “Dreadful.”
    “Poor Clara,” agreed his wife. “The critics’ll savage her.”
    Jean Guy Beauvoir, who was standing beside the two artists, his back to the painting, turned to glance at it.
    On the wall among a cluster of portraits was the largest piece. Three women, all very old, stood together in a group, laughing.
    They looked at each other, and touched each other, holding each other’s hands, or gripping an arm, tipping their heads together. Whatever had made them laugh, it was to each other they turned. As they equally would if something terrible had happened. As they naturally would whatever happened.
    More than friendship, more than joy, more than even love this painting ached of intimacy.
    Jean Guy quickly turned his back on it. Unable to look. He scanned the room until he found her again.
    “Look at them,” the man was saying, dissecting the portrait. “Not very attractive.”
    Annie Gamache was across the crowded gallery, standing next to her husband, David. They were listening to an older man. David looked distracted, disinterested. But Annie’s eyes were bright. Taking it in. Fascinated.
    Beauvoir felt a flash of jealousy, wanting her to look at him that way.
    Here, Beauvoir’s mind commanded. Look over here.
    “And they’re laughing,” said the man behind Beauvoir, looking disapprovingly at Clara’s portrait of the three old women. “Not much nuance in that. Might as well paint clowns.”
    The woman beside him snickered.
    Across the room, Annie Gamache laid a hand on her husband’s arm, but he seemed oblivious.
    Beauvoir put his hand on his own arm, gently. That’s what it would feel like.
    *   *   *
    “There you are, Clara,” said the chief curator of the Musée, taking her by the arm and leading her away from Myrna.