Brutal Telling

Peter dug the tip of the knife into a hole in the bread to get the butter out.

He knew what he wanted to say, but he didn’t know if he’d be saying it for his sake, or for Clara’s.

“Well?” she asked, and heard the impatience in her voice. “Well?” she asked more softly. “What do you think?”

“What do you think?”

Clara searched his face. “I think I should just let it go. If he says it again maybe then I’ll say something. It’s a stressful time for all of us.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

Clara looked down at her uneaten plate. She’d heard the hesitation in Peter’s voice. Still, he wasn’t the one risking everything.

Rosa quacked a little in her sleep. Ruth eased the little flannel night-shirt off the duck and Rosa fluttered her wings then went back to sleep, tucking her beak under her wing.

Olivier had come to visit, flushed and upset. She’d cleared old New Yorkers off a chair and he’d sat in her front room like a fugitive. Ruth had brought him a glass of cooking sherry and a celery stick smeared with Velveeta and sat with him. For almost an hour they sat, not speaking, until Rosa entered the room. She waddled in wearing a gray flannel blazer. Ruth saw Olivier’s lips press together and his chin pucker. Not a sound escaped. But what did escape were tears, wearing warm lines down his handsome face.

And then he told her what had happened. About Gamache, about the cabin, about the Hermit and his belongings. About moving the body and owning the bistro, and the boulangerie and almost everything else in Three Pines.

Ruth didn’t care. All she could think of was what she’d give in exchange for words. To say something. The right thing. To tell Olivier that she loved him. That Gabri loved him and would never, ever leave. That love could never leave.

She imagined herself getting up and sitting beside him, and taking his trembling hand and saying, “There, there.”

There, there. And softly rubbing his heaving back until he caught his breath.

Instead she’d poured herself more cooking sherry and glared.

Now, with the sun set and Olivier gone, Ruth sat in her kitchen in the white plastic garden chair at the plastic table she’d found at the dump. Sufficiently drunk, she pulled the notebook close and with Rosa quietly quacking in the background, a small knit blanket over her, Ruth wrote:

She rose up into the air and the jilted earth let out a sigh.

She rose up past telephone poles and rooftops of houses where the earthbound hid.

She rose up but remembered to politely wave good-bye . . .

And then kissing Rosa on the head she limped up the stairs to bed.

TWENTY-EIGHT

When Clara came down the next morning she was surprised to find Peter in the garden, staring into space. He’d put on the coffee, and now she poured a couple of cups and joined him.

“Sleep well?” she asked, handing him a mug.

“Not really. You?”

“Not bad. Why didn’t you?”

It was an overcast morning with a chill in the air. The first morning that really felt as though summer was over, and autumn on the way. She loved the fall. The brilliant leaves, the lit fireplaces, the smell of woodsmoke through the village. She loved huddling at a table outside the bistro, wrapped in sweaters and sipping café au lait.

Peter pursed his lips and looked down at his feet, in rubber boots to protect against the heavy dew.

“I was thinking about your question. What to do about Fortin.”

Clara grew still. “Go on.”

Peter had thought about it most of the night. Had got up and gone downstairs, pacing around the kitchen and finally ending up in his studio. His refuge. It smelled of him. Of body odor, and oil paint and canvas. It smelled faintly of lemon meringue pie, which he couldn’t explain. It smelled like no other place on earth.

And it comforted him.

He’d gone into his studio last night to think, and finally to stop thinking. To clear his mind of the howl that had grown, like something massive approaching. And finally, just before sunrise, he knew what he had to say to Clara.

“I think you should talk to him.”

There. He’d said it. Beside him Clara was silent, her hands grasping the warm cup of coffee.

“Really?”

Peter nodded. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to come with you?”

“I’m not even sure I’m going yet,” she snapped and walked a couple of paces away.

Peter wanted to run to her, to take it back, to say he was wrong. She should stay there with him, should say nothing. Should just do the show.

What had he been thinking?

“You’re right.” She turned back to him, miserable. “He won’t mind, will he?”

“Fortin? No. You don’t have to be angry, just tell him how you feel, that’s all. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“I can just say that maybe I misheard. And that Gabri is one of our best friends.”

“That’s it. Fortin probably doesn’t even remember saying it.”

“I’m sure he won’t mind.” Clara walked slowly inside to call Fortin.