Cruelest Month

It was early April and fires crackled cheerily in the open grates, throwing warm light on the wide-plank pine floors, stained amber by time and sunlight. Waiters moved effortlessly through the beamed room, offering drinks and soft, runny Brie from Monsieur Pagé’s farm. The bistro was at the heart of the old Quebec village, sitting as it did on the edge of the green. On either side of it and attached by connecting doors were the rest of the shops, hugging the village in an aged brick embrace. Monsieur Béliveau’s general store, Sarah’s Boulangerie, then the bistro and finally, just off that, Myrna’s Livres, Neufs et Usagés. Three craggy pine trees had stood at the far end of the green for as long as anyone remembered, like wise men who’d found what they were looking for. Outward from the village, dirt roads radiated and meandered into the mountains and forests.

But Three Pines itself was a village forgotten. Time eddied and swirled and sometimes bumped into it, but never stayed long and never left much of an impression. For hundreds of years the village had nestled in the palm of the rugged Canadian mountains, protected and hidden and rarely found except by accident. Sometimes, a weary traveler crested the hill and looking down saw, like Shangri-La, the welcoming circle of old homes. Some were weathered fieldstone built by settlers clearing the land of deeply rooted trees and back-breaking stones. Others were red brick and built by United Empire Loyalists desperate for sanctuary. And some had the swooping metal roofs of the Québécois home with their intimate gables and broad verandas. And at the far end was Olivier’s Bistro, offering café au lait and fresh-baked croissants, conversation and company and kindness. Once found, Three Pines was never forgotten. But it was only ever found by people lost.

Myrna looked over at her friend Clara Morrow, who was sticking out her tongue. Myrna stuck hers out too. Clara rolled her eyes. Myrna rolled hers, taking a seat beside Clara on the soft sofa facing the fireplace.

‘You weren’t smoking garden mulch again while I was in Montreal, were you?’

‘Not this time,’ Clara laughed. ‘You have something on your nose.’

Myrna felt around, found something and examined it. ‘Mmm, it’s either chocolate, or skin. Only one way to find out.’

She popped it in her mouth.

‘God.’ Clara winced. ‘And you wonder why you’re single.’

‘I don’t wonder.’ Myrna smiled. ‘I don’t need a man to complete me.’

‘Oh really? What about Raoul?’

‘Ah, Raoul,’ said Myrna dreamily. ‘He was a sweet.’

‘He was a gummy bear,’ agreed Clara.

‘He completed me,’ said Myrna. ‘And then some.’ She patted her middle, large and generous, like the woman herself.

‘Look at this.’ A razor voice cut through conversation.

Ruth Zardo stood in the center of the bistro holding aloft a chocolate rabbit as though it were a grenade. It was made of rich dark chocolate, its long ears perky and alert, its face so real Clara half expected it to twitch its delicate candy whiskers. In its paws it held a basket woven from white and milk chocolate, and in that basket sat a dozen candy eggs, beautifully decorated. It was lovely and Clara prayed Ruth wasn’t about to toss it at someone.

‘It’s a bunny rabbit,’ snarled the elderly poet.

‘I eat them too,’ said Gabri to Myrna. ‘It’s a habit. A rabbit habit.’

Myrna laughed and immediately wished she hadn’t. Ruth turned her glare on her.

‘Ruth.’ Clara stood up and approached cautiously, holding her husband Peter’s Scotch as enticement. ‘Let the bunny go.’

It was a sentence she’d never said before.

‘It’s a rabbit,’ Ruth repeated as though to slow children. ‘So what’s it doing with these?’

She pointed to the eggs.

‘Since when do rabbits have eggs?’ Ruth persisted, looking at the bewildered villagers. ‘Never thought of that, eh? Where did it get them? Presumably from chocolate chickens. The bunny must have stolen the eggs from candy chickens who’re searching for their babies. Frantic.’

The funny thing was, as the old poet spoke Clara could actually imagine chocolate chickens running around desperate to find their eggs. Eggs stolen by the Easter bunny.

With that Ruth dropped the chocolate bunny to the floor, shattering it.

‘Oh, God,’ said Gabri, running to pick it up. ‘That was for Olivier.’

‘Really?’ said Olivier, forgetting he himself had bought it.

‘This is a strange holiday,’ said Ruth ominously. ‘I’ve never liked it.’

‘And now it’s mutual,’ said Gabri, holding the fractured rabbit as though an adored and wounded child. He’s so tender, thought Clara not for the first time. Gabri was so big, so overwhelming, it was easy to forget how sensitive he was. Until moments like these when he gently held a dying chocolate bunny.

‘How do we celebrate Easter?’ the old poet demanded, yanking Peter’s Scotch from Clara and downing it. ‘We hunt eggs and eat hot cross buns.’

‘Mais, we go to St Thomas’s too,’ said Monsieur Béliveau.