A Trick of the Light

“At least you’re not on fire.”

“I’m sorry?” Clara turned to the very large black woman in the bright green caftan standing beside her. It was her friend and neighbor, Myrna Landers. A retired psychologist from Montréal, she now owned the new and used bookstore in Three Pines.

“Right now,” said Myrna. “You’re not on fire.”

“Very true. And perceptive. Nor am I flying. There’s quite a long list of things I’m not.”

“And a long list,” laughed Myrna, “of things you are.”

“Are you going to be rude now?” asked Clara.

Myrna paused and considered Clara for a moment. Almost every day Clara came across to Myrna’s bookstore to have a cup of tea and talk. Or Myrna would join Peter and Clara for dinner.

But today was like no other. No other day in Clara’s life had ever been like this, and it was possible none would ever be again. Myrna knew Clara’s fears, her failures, her disappointments. As Clara knew hers.

And they knew each other’s dreams too.

“I know this is difficult for you,” said Myrna. She stood right in front of Clara, her bulk blotting out the room, so that what had been a crowd scene was suddenly very intimate. Her body was a perfect green orb, blocking out the sights and sounds. They were in their own world.

“I wanted it to be perfect,” said Clara in a whisper, hoping she wasn’t about to cry. Where other little girls fantasized about their wedding day, Clara had dreamed of a solo art show. At the Musée. Here. She just hadn’t seen it in quite this way.

“And who gets to decide? What would make it perfect?”

Clara thought about that for a moment. “If I wasn’t so afraid.”

“And what’s the worst thing that can happen?” asked Myrna quietly.

“They’ll hate my art, decide I’m talentless, ridiculous. Laughable. That a terrible mistake was made. The show’ll be a failure and I’ll be a laughingstock.”

“Exactly,” said Myrna, with a smile. “All 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.”